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gutsby · 4 months

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Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Part 2 | Part 3

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

#NO ONE SPEAK TO ME FOR AT LEAST A WEEK #THIS IS DISGUSTING #I AM DISGUSTING #DO NOT PERCEIVE ME PLEASEJE HAHAHAHAH #brain rot ❤️#joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel

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deadsetobsessions · 5 months

Text

Damian Wayne was like a duckling. A violent, stab-happy, danger-prone duckling, yes, but a duckling all the same. Which means when Danny almost got stabbed by a sleepy, instinct driven Damian, he was able to wave it off with a laugh. Damian, on the other hand, stared in horror at the butter knife firmly lodged in Danny’s arm.

“PENNYWORTH!” Danny jerked back at Damian’s scream. “RICHARD! FATHER!”

God damn, the kid had a pair of lungs on him. Danny’s wince was interpreted as pain to Damian, who gently grabbed his injured arm and started to pull him towards the kitchen’s marble island.

Danny blinked, non plussed as his hearing picked up a thundering of feet as the present family members scrambled towards Damian’s distress call.

“Wait, Damian, I’m fine. It’s-”

“You have been impaled, you imbecile! Had it been any of the other simpletons, they would have-!”

“Ouch.” Danny put his other hand in mock hurt over his slow-beating heart. He literally doesn’t care about the butter knife. He’s just impressed there was enough force in there to impale him. “Are you calling me names now? After- gasp- stabbing me?”

Before Damian could reply, the beginnings of regret, remorse, and guilt on his face, Alfred, Dick, and Bruce burst into the kitchen.

“What happened?!”

“My word, master Danny!”

“What is it?!”

“I’m fine. It’s like a small stab. Not even a big stab. I’m good.”

Dick paled, seeing Danny’s arm clutched in Damian’s hand.

“That’s- that’s a knife. In your arm. How is that ‘fine’?!”

“What happened.” Bruce asked Damian, gently removing Danny’s arm from Damian’s death clutch.

“I- I did not mean to,” Damian starts, guilt coloring his voice.

“He didn’t,” Danny cuts in. “I startled him and got stabbed for being dumb. I won’t fault him for having a defense mechanism like that, ancient knows what I might do if you guys startled me.”

The awkward silence that settled at his words made Danny twitch awkwardly.

“Uh, so, can I add this knife to my collection? Even if I didn’t get mugged?”

“Danny.”

“Bruce.” Danny stared stubbornly back. With his uninsured hand, he patted Damian on the head. He was going to enjoy the fluffiness before Damian’s guilt was no longer enough to hold him back from snapping at Danny’s hand like a grumpy alligator. Bruce loses, obviously. He’s a teenager who was also an ex-vigilante. Batman’s got nothing on a determined halfa.

“Master Danny, I must insist you refrain from getting stabbed. There is only so much gauze and antiseptic cream in the house.” Alfred returned- huh, when did he leave?- with a med kit.

Danny called bullshit because he knows there’s a whole ass medical bay beneath the manor.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Alfred said, promptly beginning the extraction of the butter knife.

“Are you okay?” Dick asked, hovering worriedly. “He- are you…?”

Damian was allowing Danny to ruffle his hair, so…

“Yep, I’m good. This isn’t even on my top thirty most painful stabbings,” and it really wasn’t. That honor was given to the GIW and that one time Jazz accidentally stabbed him with her earrings. “That was pretty impressive, actually. It’s like, a butter knife. The other ones had pointy ends.”

“Do not clump me with those pathetic wastes of spaces. I am naturally superior and would… would never harm you on purpose.” Damian said, getting quiet at the end like he was trying to plead to Danny to believe him.

“Of course not. But- if you want help me keep the knife, you can hit me with a mug, it would technically be a mugging.”

The pun got the desired effect. Damian leaned away with a disgruntled look and Dick stopped hovering as close in order to let out a small cackle.

“Done.”

“You should go get changed, kiddo. We’re going to see Tim’s photography at the Gotham Gallery today.”

“Oh, for real?” Danny patted Damian’s fluffy hair one last time, pushing away from the counter. “Oh, I’ll clean up here first and-”

“That will not be necessary,” Alfred scolded, a mop somehow already in his hands. “Please see to it you are prepared for the day.”

“Thanks, Alfred. Can I keep the knife.”

“Very well.”

“Sweet. See you guys later?” Danny pranced off after seeing the nods.

——

“He’s… he got stabbed a lot. Before us, I mean.” Dick tapped a furious rhythm onto the counter. “Not that we’ve stabbed him until now but even once is concerning for a civilian.”

“He was used to it.” Bruce replied.

“Perhaps we should join Todd in his endeavor and ensure that his worthless tormentors are permanently out of the picture.”

“God, he said top thirty. He was counting.”

Damian silently withdrew a kitchen knife.

“No murder with my quality chef’s knives, Master Damian.”

“Tt.”

“Master Jason follows the same rules. Now, out of the kitchen. I may be old, but I remember the last time master Bruce and master Dick stepped foot in here and I will not have a repeat.”

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bubonickitten · 2 months

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"HB 777 not only would fine libraries and librarians, but it would possibly require hard labor by those found guilty. Read that again: librarians would be sentenced to hard labor for daring to join their largest professional organization.

The bill would also potentially kill one of the largest graduate school programs in the state of Louisiana, Louisiana State University’s Masters of Library and Information Science program. Like all Master of Library and Information Science programs, it is accredited by the ALA and goes through a rigorous process to ensure that the curriculum is up-to-date and aligned with best practices in libraries.

Even if the bill is limited “only” to the use of tax money to support membership or attendance/enrollment in ALA-sponsored professional development, take a moment to look into whether or not police, fire, or other public entities are subject to similar legislation in Louisiana or elsewhere. You probably know the answer–and you probably won’t be surprised that one of the few institutional benefits offered to library workers is such membership.

If you haven’t been paying attention until now or you’ve thought these fears when laid out over the last several years were hyperbole and this is your wakeup call, there’s no time like the present to get to work advocating on behalf of your library. If you live in Louisiana, contact your representatives as soon as possible (here’s a very easy way to do that!). You can also reach out to Kellee Dickerson by phone at (225) 380-4232 and email [email protected].

Then, reach out to your own libraries and offer your support, either by showing up at board meetings and/or running for those board positions when vacancies occur. Go borrow books from the library and get your writing hands going with letters to your local papers.

EveryLibrary also has a petition you can sign related to HB777."

Please take the time to sign the petition, spread the word, and support your local library.

#libraries #library #ala #bookblr #louisiana #u.s. politics

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jayybugg · 2 months

Text

nurse

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Ghost avoids you but it's not what you think.

Warning: Slight Time Skips, Kinda Asshole Ghost?, Smut (18+), Use of Y/N, Language (?).

Word Count: 4.6K

Note: Now, I know in my master list I said that right now I would only be writing for the Slytherin Boys......but I have spiraled back into my Call of Duty, specifically Ghost. Now this is just an experiment, I don't know how this will go over but if you guys like it then maybeeee I'll post my other fandom fics that I have.

Also! This is a birthday gift for my beautiful gem, @slytherinslut0 , so everyone thank her and wish her a happy birthday. As always, @cafekitsune is on the banner.

Taskforce 141 didn’t pay any attention when they were told that they would have a new nurse on the base. They assumed it would be another male, just like everyone who got employed here.

So, only one could imagine their shock when the base’s doctor, Dr. Moscaw, introduced a pretty little thing like you to the team.

“This is Y/N. She will work under me. Your first point of contact for anything medical-wise.” Moscaw spoke, “Don’t go scaring her off, boys.”

There were grumbles and protests as Dr. Moscaw left you with the team. You cleared your throat as you gave them all a nervous smile. All their eyes were on you, surveying you almost like prey. A certain man with a skull mask being the most intense one. “Um, right. You all desperately need an annual check-up. So, whenever you all have a moment, please stop by the medical ward. I would love to update your records and meet you all.”

Before any of them could say anything, you had scurried off.

Over the next few weeks, they all came in one by one. Introducing themselves as you went through updating their records.

First came Captain Price. You liked to think that he came in to lead by example and not to get out of his mountain of paperwork. Then Kyle came in the next day. He begged you to call him “Gaz”, saying that nobody on base ever calls him Kyle.

Not long after Gaz came, Johnny waltzed into your office. He was flirty but overall friendly. Johnny, just like Gaz, begged you to call him Soap like everyone else. He was the one who referred to you as a breath of fresh air amidst the testosterone-filled air. Often, he and Gaz came to your office. They always claimed to be checking up on you, but you knew it was because they were hiding from their duties.

“Where is…. um, Ghost? Or is his name Simon? It’s two first names on this file.” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows at the lack of information in his records. Soap chuckled, glancing up from his phone to you. “Ghost is the name he’s gonna give ‘ya. It’s the name that we all know him by.”

“A field name, I assume?” You asked, looking up from your computer. Gaz and Soap nodded. “Yep. His name for plenty of reasons, but that’s neither here nor there.” Gaz waved his hand dismissively.

“Well, is he going to come in for a check-up? He doesn’t have another doctor or anything listed.” You sighed. “His medical record is empty. There is nothing on here, other than his name and height. No birthday, no past medication history, nothing.”

“Of course, that’s all that’s on there. That’s all anyone knows about him.” Soap laughed. “He’s not gonna come in here for a check-up.”

“What? Why not?” You asked, closing your computer.

“Too much information.” Gaz shrugged. “Nobody knows anything about him. It’s a shocker that he even allowed his real name to be on those records.”

“So, nobody knows if this guy even goes to the doctor?” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “That’s insane.”

“Ya may be right, but that means nothing to Ghost.” Soap said.

“And insane is basically his middle name. The man does whatever he wants.” Gaz added.

“Do you think he will come in if I just ask?” You pondered to the men.

Gaz and Soap glanced at each other before shrugging. “If you bat those pretty eyelashes at any man on this base, they’ll be eating out the palm of your hand,” Soap said.

“But Ghost isn’t like the average man. He’s not easily swayed like most.” Gaz added, “But I mean, it won’t hurt to try.”

With the encouragement from Gaz and Soap to just try to ask him, you spent the next few weeks attempting to track Ghost down. Unfortunately for you, he lived up to his name very well. It was like every time you went looking for him, everyone had “just seen him.”

Eventually, you found him, by pure coincidence. You were walking to your car, getting ready to leave the base for the day when your eyes landed on a 6’4, muscular man who donned a skull balaclava. You hadn’t seen him since the day that Price had introduced you to the team. He seemed bigger and a bit more intimidating than before, but your determination outweighed your nervousness.

You walked up to him, clearing your throat. Ghost stopped fiddling with his motorcycle to drag his eyes up to your face. His eyes were dark and analytical as he scanned your face before tracing down your body. You felt self-conscious of his wondering gaze.

“Whatcha ‘ya want?” His voice was deep, his accent coming out heavier than you thought it was.

“Um, I’m the new nurse.” You squeaked out before clearing your throat.

“I know.”

“Right.” You took a deep breath. “Your medical records are empty and you’re the only one who hasn’t come in for a check-up.”

There was a brief silence between you two as you waited for him to say something, anything. When you got the hint that he wasn’t going to say anything, you decided to just push forward and ask.

“Will you come in for one? And maybe introduce yourself a little more?”

Ghost stared at you a little longer before turning back to his motorcycle. “No.”

Your eyes widened at the blatant refusal. You raised your eyebrow, crossing your arms. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Do ‘ya not know what ‘no’ means? Aren’t ‘ya educated?” Ghost grunted; his back still turned to you.

“You can’t just…. You must fill out these records somehow!”

“No, I don’t.”

You narrowed your eyes at Ghost, huffing slightly. “It’s mandatory to at least get an annual check-up.”

“So, I’ve heard. Don’t care.” He spoke again, throwing one leg over the motorcycle. He started it up, gripping the handles. His eyes focused on your face again as he revved the engine.

“But-”

Before you could even think about responding, Ghost had sped off, leaving you in the dust.

“And he just sped off?” Soap laughed. Gaz smacked his arm, giving you an apologetic look.

“Ignore Soap. He has a terrible sense of humor.” Gaz rolled his eyes. “But we told you he was hard to sway.”

“I just don’t understand why he doesn’t want to come in.” You groaned, “Maybe he just doesn’t want to get to know me?”

“It’s Ghost, you aren’t supposed to understand him.” Gaz shrugged. “But I doubt it’s you that he’s against.”

You let another groan, causing the two men to chuckle.

“Hell, Darlin’, you might just make the man nervous as hell. As you can see, we don’t have many pretty females around here.” Soap leaned back in his chair, grinning at you.

“Me? Make Ghost nervous? Please.” You raised an eyebrow, rolling your eyes. Soap shrugged, “You never know, he could be.”

“You never know,” Gaz said, agreeing with Soap.

“Whatever.” You muttered, ending the conversation.

Weeks had passed and Ghost gave no sign of even considering stepping into the medical ward or trying to talk to you. He evaded you any chance he got. You told Dr. Moscaw and Price about the predicament with Ghost. Both waved it off and said, “He’s Ghost, that’s just how he is.

When your official first three months of working on the base had come around, Soap and Gaz had invited you out to the bar to celebrate.

“It’ll be everyone. Cap, Laswell, König, hell, even Ghost said he would come.” Soap smiled at you. You scoffed slightly at the revelation that Ghost was going to show his masked face at the bar. “Are we sure he’s coming for me, or rather, the drinks?” You asked, your eyes focused on the computer screen in front of you.

Gaz chuckled. “He refused to go until we said it was a celebration for you.”

“Funny that the man that evades me wants to come to my celebration.” You muttered.

“You know, he’s probably around you more than you think,” Soap said, causing you to look up at him with a raised eyebrow. Soap shrugged, continuing, “I mean, he’s known for being around without others knowing, hence the name Ghost.”

“Like he sees me, but I don’t see him?” You asked. Soap and Gaz nodded.

“Think of it like he is collecting information on you. The poor guy lives and breathes our missions and the military. It’s all he knows. It works with the idea that you make the man nervous.” Gaz said, patting your back as he and Soap filed out of your office.

Gaz’s and Soap’s words stuck to you. Maybe you had gone about approaching Ghost all wrong. He was quieter than Gaz and Soap and obviously more secretive, given the blank medical record and the mask. Maybe you should let him approach you, let him feel you out to see if you’re trustworthy or not.

When the night of the celebration rolled around, you promised yourself that you would not pester Ghost. Despite the growing need to get to know him and your nursing instincts to make sure he was healthy; you were going to let him come to you.

You walked into the bar, tugging slightly at your dress that rose from sitting in the taxi. Your black mini dress hugged your curves and had a low neckline that showed off your cleavage with your matching strappy heels. Although Soap and Gaz had to you to come dressed up, you debated calling the taxi back and going home to change. You were going to be with your co-workers, who were most likely going to be in jeans.

You sighed, pushing open the door to the bar. Your eyes snapped over to the large table in the back of the bar where all your coworkers sat. “Y/N!” Gaz yelled, jumping up from his seat. He grabbed your arm, escorting you to the table. Everyone shot you a smile, except König and Ghost, who both donned a balaclava. Although, you could tell from the crinkle in König’s eyes that he was smiling at you.

“The guest of honor is finally here.” Laswell smiled at you. “Congratulations on sticking it out at the base for three months. I must admit, I thought these boys would scare you away by now.”

“No, I’m tougher than I look.” You joked, “Plus, everyone is nice. I felt welcomed.”

Gaz and Soap gave Ghost an unmistakable side eye that you caught, and if you caught it, then everyone at the table caught it. You also didn’t miss the narrowed eyes that Ghost gave back to Gaz and Soap.

“A round of shots! For our new family member.” Price winked at you, giving you a warm smile.

That’s how the night went on, chatting and drinks getting passed around. It didn’t take you long to get buzzed. You kept true to your promise to yourself and didn’t go looking for interactions with Ghost.

However, you felt his eyes on you. It was like they never left you, always following your every movement.

It felt familiar.

Ghost stayed quiet the whole night, not cracking a chuckle at any jokes or taking part in the conversations. His eyes wandered the bar as if he was looking for any type of escape. Whenever your eyes met his, he looked away, his eyes hardening in the process.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” You said, feeling the alcohol finally run through you and back up your throat. Although everyone was too occupied with their conversations to hear you. You stumbled your way to the bathroom, pushing open the door. You wasted no time, bending over the toilet and vomiting what little contents that were in your stomach.

“I knew I should’ve eaten before….” You whispered to yourself.

“Yeah, ‘ya should have. Not very nurse of ‘ya.” A deep voice echoed behind you.

You jumped, turning around, clutching your chest as your eyes landed on Ghost. He stood behind you, arms crossed, as he leaned against the stall door.

“God, when the fuck did you get in here?” You asked, your eyes traveling down his figure. This would be the first time that you had ever seen Ghost in civilian clothes. Even on relaxed days on the base, Ghost wore full tactical gear. Tonight, he opted for a compression tee and black sweatpants, as if he was planning to go to the gym after all of this.

Which wouldn’t be surprising for Ghost.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos.” Your eyes landed on his sleeve, which seemed to move as he unconsciously flexed his muscles.

“I know ‘ya didn’t.” Ghost said, offering his hand out to you. You took it gratefully, standing up to your two feet. Ghost handed you some mouthwash and gum, along with your purse.

“Didn’t want nobody shifting through ‘ya stuff.” Ghost said when he saw the look that you gave him, “Also thought ‘ya might want to touch up ‘ya make up.”

“Thank you.” You gave him a small smile. He nodded, turning on his heel to leave out the bathroom. You swigged the mouthwash around, spitting into the sink. You freshen up your makeup before popping the piece of gum in your mouth.

You made your way back to the table, sitting down when a waitress came and dropped a personal pan of pepperoni pizza in front of you with water. “Oh,” You looked up at her, “I didn’t order this.”

“One of your friends ordered it for you. Told me to bring it when you came back to your seat.” She smiled and walked away. You glanced down at the pizza with a smile. Pizza was your favorite greasy food; it matched the rumbling of your drunk stomach perfectly.

You looked up at Soap and Gaz, the only two people who would know about your guilty pleasure food. Soap was leaning against the table flirting with another waitress while Gaz made bets with Price on football games. You decided you would thank one of them later when they weren’t busy.

4 am finally rolled around, causing the night to end. Gaz had called you a cab, walking you out as everyone said their goodbyes. Ghost had already mounted his motorcycle and sped off into the night. Once Gaz got you settled in the backseat, you smiled at him. “Thanks, Gaz. Oh, and thank you for the pizza, too.”

Gaz raised his eyebrow. “What pizza?”

“The pizza you ordered me when I went to the bathroom.” You clarified.

“I didn’t order you a pizza, hell, I didn’t even know you went to the bathroom.” Gaz said before chuckling a bit with a mischievous smirk, “The only person who ordered food was Ghost.”

Before you could ask anything more, Gaz tapped the roof of the car and your taxi pulled off.

You went even longer without seeing Ghost after the bar. It was almost as if he had just disappeared into thin air. You tried to question Gaz and Soap, but they claimed they knew nothing about it. Saying that it was probably a “lucky guess” but if anything they had told you about Ghost was true, nothing he did was just a lucky guess.

You pushed all your questions to the back of your mind, as you knew you weren’t going to get any answers any time soon. You were cleaning up the office as your day was ending. 141 were out on a mission, a relatively relaxed one, so your office was quiet and easy to pack up rather than having to tell Soap to stop touching stuff every 5 minutes.

You hummed to yourself, not taking notice that your office door had swung open.

“You’re terrible at being aware of ‘ya surroundings.”

You jumped, a squeal falling from your mouth. “You have to stop doing that!”

Ghost stood at your door, in sweatpants and a hoodie. His arms crossed as he stared at you through his mask. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. You suddenly felt small like the room was closing in on you due to Ghost’s tall frame.

“What are you doing here?” You asked. Ghost’s eyes seemed to widen, as if he wasn’t sure why he was there either.

“Give me a check-up.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, glancing over at the clock. It was 7:35 pm, and the base was basically empty.

“It can’t wait til tomorrow?” You asked. Ghost took a step closer to you, “I thought you wanted to get to know me?”

“I do but-”

“Then give me the check-up.” Ghost grunted, sitting on the bench. His large frame made the normally large bench look small under him.

You sighed softly, getting out your equipment to start his check-up. You stay silent as you slip on your latex gloves after washing your hands. “So, I’m guessing something happened on the mission.”

Ghost looked over to you, his eyes coated in a small dose of confusion. “What?”

“I mean, you seemed very adamant about not getting a check-up before and now you’re here after a mission. I just assumed maybe something happened.” You clarified as you moved to check his heartbeat.

It took everything in you not to let your hands wander across his chest as you pulled away from him to turn to your computer and record the data.

“Nothing happened. Just built up some confidence.” He said, getting off the bench to stand behind you closely.

“O-oh…. confidence for what?” You took a deep breath, your eyes focusing on the computer screen.

Ghost didn’t answer your question, instead, he grabbed your shoulders and spun you around to face him. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

“What?” Your eyes widened.

“You’re always around, smelling good. In these scrubs that hug your body tighter than any other scrubs I’ve ever seen.” Ghost muttered, “Always laughing at Soap’s stupid jokes. Always getting pizza when you know you aren’t supposed to.”

“I try to avoid you and ignore you, but you just crawl your little ass into my mind anyways. All mission…. just thinking and wondering what you’re doing.” Ghost continued.

“Is this your way of admitting that you’ve been thinking about me?” You asked.

Ghost stayed silent. His eyes stay trained on you, no words or sounds coming from him. His hand moved to take a piece of your hair and twirling it around his finger.

“Um, we should finish the check-up so we can go.” You spoke softly. Ghost ignored you, dipping his face into your neck. He took a deep breath. “God, you smell heavenly.”

“Ghost....”

“I need you.” He grumbled, “I need you all around me. I’ve learned everything I can about you and all I can think about is how I need to feel about you.”

“How I need to ruin you.”

You felt a knot in your stomach at his words, heat pooling inside you. “R-ruin me?”

“Beyond belief.” Ghost confirmed, “Give me the green light.”

You stayed silent as Ghost pushed his knee between your legs, pressing his knees gently against your core, causing a whimper to fall from your mouth. He lifted his mask to reveal his lips, pressing against your neck in soft, wet kisses. “Y/N. Answer me.”

“I….” You gasped for air, “P-please…do it.”

Ghost didn’t need to hear anything else. He lifted you easily, throwing you on the bench. He yanked your top off, groping your breast. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about these since the bar. So soft and plump…” Ghost grumbled, pulling your bra down and latching his mouth to your nipple.

A small moan fell from your mouth at the actions. His tongue swirled around your nipple before he pulled away with a slight “pop”. He left a trail of kisses down your chest to your naval. He tugged down your pants, throwing them in the same direction as your top. He groaned at the sight of the wet spot in your panties.

“So wet and ready for me. Huh, love?” Ghost said, blowing softly on your clothed clit.

You whined softly, nodding your head. He slapped your thigh, his eyes looking up at you. “I want to hear use your words. Let me hear that pretty voice that has been plaguing my mind for these past few months.”

You let out a sigh as Ghost pressed the pad of his tongue to your slit through your panties, teasing you. “Yes…. I’m wet and ready for you.”

“Good fucking girl, Lovie.” Ghost chuckled, moving your panties to the side to latch his mouth to your clit. He sucked and lapped at your clit harshly, your moans becoming uncontrollable as he ate you out like a starved man. His tongue teased your slit, flicking his tongue up and down.

He gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you closer to him. His nose pressed against your clit, stimulating you more and more. “Oh God, fuck, Ghost.” You moaned, your hands reaching out to grip the top of his balaclava.

“That’s right. I want you moaning my name like it’s the only thing that pretty little mind knows.” Ghost muttered, slipping two fingers into you as he kept lapping up all your juices. Your thighs tightened around his face as you felt your climax coming.

Ghost groaned at the action, his cock twitching with anticipation. You tossed your head back as pleasure coursed through your body. “I’m about to cum, fuck, I’m s’close.”

Your words seem to push Ghost further into sending you over the edge. His tongue moved faster against you as his fingers matched his pace. Your mind was blanking from the orgasm that rushed over your body. Ghost pulled his fingers out slowly as he pulled away from your swollen clit. His mouth was covered in your slick as he smirked. “Taste so sweet, Angel.” He spoke.

He pushed his two fingers into your mouth, groaning at the warmth of it. You suck on his fingers, tasting yourself on them as you swirled your tongue around. “Such a good, eager girl. So happy to taste yourself on my fingers.” Ghost whispered, pushing them down your throat so he could hear your gags.

Ghost pulled away, yanking his sweatpants and boxers down. His cock sprang out, revealing its large length. It hit his abdomen; the tip leaking with pre-cum. Your eyes looked down at him, eyes widening at the sight. “My God….” You whispered.

Ghost grabbed the base of his shaft, jerking himself off slightly before pulling you to the edge of the bench and wrapping one of your legs around his waist while propping the other one on his shoulder. “I need this pretty pussy wrapped around my cock, taking every inch of me.” Ghost growled. He rubbed his tip up and down your slick, coating it in it.

“Tell me how much you want this, Lovie. How bad do you want me to fuck you?” Ghost demanded; his eyes focused on you. You let out a whiny moan, looking up at him, “Please fuck me. I want your cock so bad.”

Ghost pushed into you, filling you up slowly but surely. Ghost groaned, sinking into you until he was fully inside you. “S’fucking tight. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt until it’s molded to only take my cock.” Ghost groaned, snapping his hips forward for a forceful thrust. A guttural moan fell from your mouth, as Ghost gripped your throat with both hands, pounding into you at a ruthless pace.

“M’been dreaming of this since the day I laid eyes on your fucking application picture.” Ghost muttered, “Such a pretty fucking girl. Batting your eyelashes at everyone.”

Ghost’s hands moved down to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. Your moans were drowned out by the loud slapping of your skin. If it wasn’t for the way that Ghost was viciously railing you, you would be concerned that someone would walk past and hear you.

“Such a fucking whore. Getting fucked in your office…. you like being railed after work? Hmm?” Ghost hissed out as you clenched around him.

“You look s’pretty being full of my cock.” Ghost muttered, leaning down to kiss and nip your neck. You whined, feeling another knot form in your stomach. You clenched around Ghost, making him groan. “M’close…. s’close…” You spoke in between moans.

“Go ahead and make a mess on my cock, baby. Cum all over this cock like the slut you are.” Ghost demanded. It didn’t take long for your legs to shake and for Ghost’s cock to be drenched in your climax. He slowed his thrusts, pulling out of you. You whimpered at the lost feeling.

“Get up, Lovie. I want to cum all in that pretty mouth of yours.” Ghost said, pulling you off the bench and to your knees. You looked up at him as he pumped himself. Slapping his cock against your lips, you opened your mouth to let him slip in.

“S’fucking warm. Fucking made to take my dick in every fucking hole you have.” Ghost muttered, his hand snaking around the back of your head to shove his dick further down your throat. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you tasted all your juices that drenched his cock. Saliva trailed down your chin as Ghost thrust in and out of your mouth at an unforgiving pace. “A fucking slut you are, taking my dick so well. Fuck.” Ghost groaned as his hip stuttered slightly. His cock twitched in your mouth before ropes of cum shot down your throat.

Your eyes screwed shut as Ghost stayed deep in your throat, making sure you swallowed all his cum. He pulled out, bending down to level as you looked up at him. “So, this was going through your mind all this time.” You spoke breathlessly.

“Shocked, Lovie?” Ghost smirked, lifting you back to your feet.

“A little.” You nodded. Ghost tilted your head back to press a rough but gentle kiss to your lips. “Well, I suggest you get used to it because there will be more of that.”

“So, you made your move, huh?” Soap grinned wickedly at Ghost, who sat further down the table. Ghost’s eyes shot to Soap’s as he narrowed them at the man.

“Don’t even try to deny it, LT.” Gaz said, his eyes staying trained on his phone. “All the talk around the base is how a certain skull mask-wearing lieutenant is attached to the hip of the pretty little nurse.”

“She must’ve really made you nervous if it took you almost three months to make a move on her.” Soap teased.

“I did more than make a move on her, Sergeant.” Ghost spoke, “That pretty little nurse is now my pretty little nurse.”

Ghost smirked underneath his mask as he looked between Gaz and Soap. “So, it would do you both good to watch your hands the next to you hug her. Would hate to have to break your fingers off for wandering too far for your own good.”

Without another word, Ghost sauntered out of the meeting room, leaving Soap and Gaz dumbfounded.

“Hm, I was wondering when that boy was going to make a move.” Price hummed from his spot, “All that begging to hire her to this base and took nearly four months to even talk to her.”

“Wait, what? Ghost knew about her before she even got to base?” Gaz asked.

“Ghost was the one who pulled her application.” Price said, “Said ‘his future girl’ had applied, and I needed to get her on base.”

Gaz and Soap looked at each other before sighing. Of course, Ghost knew you before you knew him.

Because it wouldn’t be Ghost if he didn’t.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #modern warfare #simon riley #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod x reader

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yuujispinkhair · 3 months

Text

Boxer!Sukuna headcanons

Inspired by this lovely ask. Thank you so much for sending me that and making me lose my mind over Boxer!Sukuna.

Pairing: Boxer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: fluff + smut Word Count: 1.5k Warnings: 18+, modern AU, smut, squirting. Mentions of boxing injuries, biting, blood. I know that boxers usually wear a groin protector, but I chose to ignore this for this AU because I wanted to write a sexy detail lol. Sukuna + Reader are in a relationship. Minors don't interact. Divider @/benkeibear

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who always wants you by his side backstage until it's time for him to enter the arena. You are his good luck charm and the only one who is allowed to wrap the bandages around his hands before he slips into his gloves. Not that he needs any luck with the skills he has, but he loves seeing you press your sweet kisses on his boxing gloves and smile at him before you hug him tightly and tell him to please be careful.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who gets a warm feeling in his heart when he sees how worried you always are. Much more nervous before his fights than he is. But he always reassures you, wrapping his muscular tattooed arms tightly around you and hugging you to his firm body while he tells you, "Don't worry, princess. You know I never lose."

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who smiles while you help him get dressed before a fight, helping him slip into the white silk kimono he wears for his ring entrance show. He can clear his mind the best when he feels your gentle hands caressing over his broad back.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who gives you his most charming smile before he grabs your chin and asks you for a good luck kiss, not just on his boxing gloves but also on his lips.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who always tells you he loves you before he leaves the backstage area. And hearing your "I love you, too" in return gives him another surge of motivation.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, whose ring-entrance show always makes the crowd go wild. The whole arena is bathed in blood-red light. A picture of an ancient shrine in a sea of blood gets projected onto the large screens. Dramatic classical music starts playing as a huge throne of skulls emerges from the fog, with Sukuna lounging casually on it, his head resting on the back of his hand. He's wearing the snow-white kimono and a crown on his pink hair, presenting himself as The King of Curses, which is his stage name.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, whose stage name fits him perfectly. One look at him and his powerful body and that dangerous and ambitious glint in his eyes, and everyone knows this guy is truly a King in the boxing ring.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who gracefully walks towards the ring with an arrogant look on his tattooed face, only accompanied by his assistant Uraume, who walks a few steps behind him as if they are a loyal shrine servant who follows their master obediently. They take off Sukuna's kimono for him and bow respectfully while the crowd cheers loudly.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who looks intimidating but beautiful as he stands there with a posture like a God while the white silk slips off his broad shoulders and reveals all the firm muscles and the sexy tattoos on his tall, athletic body.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who drops his serious act the moment he climbs into the ring and instead smirks his most charming smirk and lifts a hand to casually wave at his fans, letting them celebrate him as if he already won.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, whose last glance before every match belongs to you, though. As much as he enjoys the attention and worship from his fans, he always loves your gaze on him the most. You are the one who grounds him before a fight, the one who gives him the strength and the right mindset to lead him to victory.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, whose maroon eyes look directly into yours while he kisses his boxing gloves, at the same spot where your lips left their kisses a few minutes ago backstage. And right before he turns around to face the referee and his opponent, he winks at you and mouths, "I'll win this fight for you, baby".

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who already mocks his opponent before the fight even starts. Smiling tauntingly at him and asking him if he is scared. "You know, you can still run, little boy."

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who looks so sexy during his fights. All of his attacks are powerful and well-planned. He moves gracefully through the ring, like a big cat on the prowl, beautiful and deadly. Everyone can see that he isn't someone who just relies on his brute strength. Sukuna is intelligent, and he uses his mind to win his fights.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who is both hated and loved by the judges. They hate how cocky he is but admire his skills and respect him for how well-prepared he is for his matches.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who wins most of his fights with a knockout, laughing triumphantly when the referee counts down the seconds.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who only loses fights when he gets disqualified for committing a foul. Sometimes, he bites his opponents, drawing blood with his sharp teeth and laughing as he licks the blood off his lips. You know that this is also part of Sukuna's strategy. He is too controlled to let himself get carried away during a fight, but he loves the reputation those bloody attacks give him, basking in the fear he sees in his opponents' eyes when he whispers to them before a fight, "Did you see the guy I bit last month? Let's see how your blood tastes on my tongue."

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who is brilliant at blocking punches but also cannot be stopped if he gets hit. You used to be worried sick when you saw him receiving blows to the head until Sukuna reassured you that he is allowing it on purpose. It's all for the show. And sometimes, because he craves the pain since, it will spur him on even more.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who laughs after every punch his opponent lands, smirking cat-like as he licks the blood off his cracked lip, and his wild maroon eyes glitter amusedly at the other guy: "Aww, was that all you can do, brat? Gimme more, come on! Punch me! Make me bleed for real, you coward!"

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who looks so sexy with his tattooed skin all sweaty, every muscle in his tall, strong body taut. His veins standing out, and his broad chest rising and sinking as he breathes deeply. The outline of his long, thick cock visible through his dark red boxing shorts, making you want him so much.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who wears a sexy smirk on his beautiful tattooed face when he gets declared winner. He looks deeply into your eyes when the referee yanks his hand into the air to signal his win. This first moment is always for you alone, mesmerizing maroon eyes silently telling you that Sukuna dedicates this win to you.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who then punches his fist into the air and does a little round in the ring to let the crowd celebrate him like the King that he is. He is a professional, giving his fans what they crave, even while he craves something very different at that moment after a match.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who expects you to wait for him in his private locker room backstage, naked and wet, with your legs spread, ready to get taken by him.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who takes you rough and hard. He needs to fuck you to come down again after being so pumped up during his fight. His tall, muscular body is still dripping with sweat, smelling so sexy, a mix of sweat and musk and his expensive cologne. His breath is loud and harsh in your ear, turning into low, hoarse groans as he pounds your cunt with his cock and his heavy balls, just like he pounded his opponent with his fists.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who rubs your swollen clit firmly and whispers dirty things in your ear, making sure you give him your everything and squirt all over him when you cum on his fat cock.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who coos at you and calls you his good girl, his love, as he chases his own orgasm, finally allowing himself to let go, fucking you with hard erratic thrusts, his face buried in your neck, moaning loudly until he captures your lips in a heated kiss when he shoots his hot cum into your cunt.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who cuddles you afterward, pressing himself tightly against you while he is still buried balls-deep inside you, resting his forehead against yours and thanking you for being his lucky charm and the one who gives him strength. He stays like that, pressing you down with his heavy body, kissing you tenderly until his breathing finally calms down and the sweat on his body begins to dry.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who picks you up and murmurs to you, "Hold on to me, princess," before he carries you to the shower, not letting go of you even for a second, needing his princess on his cock and in his arms.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who showers with you and lets you wash him, sighing when you massage shower gel into his taut muscles, caressing him, and cleaning him, easing the tension in his body.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who returns the favor and lets his large, calloused hands wander gently over your naked and soaped-up body while he kisses you nonstop. Who caresses another orgasm out of you while you stroke his long thick cock slowly, making him spill his seed all over your hand.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who isn't the famous boxer, The King of Curses, anymore, when he is here under the shower with you. Here he is just Sukuna, your fiancé, who is joking around with you, all playful again, grinning that sexy grin and kissing you so sweetly, whispering against your skin how much you mean to him, and asking you where you want to have a late dinner tonight.

++ Boxer!Sukuna, who fucks you once more, this time against the shower wall with your legs wrapped tightly around his hips and your hands in his pink hair. But this time, it is slow, sensual lovemaking. Slow, deep thrusts and tender French kisses until you both find completion at the same time and moan into each other's mouth. The perfect finish for a successful match.

HE IS SO SEXY 😭😭 I didn't know I would write so much for Boxer!Sukuna, but I enjoyed it so much to think of his dramatic ring-entrance show and the way he boxes, etc. I hope you enjoyed it too!!

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #sukuna x y/n #jjk x y/n

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florencemtrash · 25 days

Text

He Feels Safe With You — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's sleeping habits begin to worry you, but after a conversation with Cassian, you realize you've misinterpreted the entire situation.

Warnings: Major fluff. Like tooth-rotting sweetness. Sleepy Az.

Author's note: I should be sleeping because I have work tomorrow but instead I've chosen to write this oneshot and I have no regrets.

It was starting to become a problem now.

You cocked your head to the side, cradling a cup of tea in your hands and watching Azriel as he continued to sleep soundly in your bed. You had the windows cracked open and the early Autumn breeze swirled indoors with the scent of lavender, bergamot, and the strawberry jam you’d slathered over your toast. You checked the time once again on the glossy marble clock face. The arrow-shaped hour hand clicked ever closer to 11am, the minute hand close to overtaking its competitor.

10:55am and Azriel was still asleep.

The sheets clustered loose and low around his waist, mimicking the curling of his shadows up and down the ridges of his spine and across the delicate membrane of his wings. His wings hung loose and relaxed, stretching off the edges of your bed and caressing the floor with a lover’s touch. You blushed at the sight. When you and Azriel had first started courting each other three years ago, you’d thought through the mechanics of housing an Illyrian warrior in your bed — should you buy a new bed frame and mattress? Did you even have space for it in your apartment? The answer had been no to both, and yet Azriel loved when your daytime activities ended here instead of at the townhouse. If he cared about having to walk sideways to avoid the bookshelves in the halls or having to crouch to avoid the overhang above the staircase, he didn’t mention it.

Three hours ago you’d woken up beneath the gentle weight of his wings, untangled yourself from Azriel’s greedy limbs, and crept down the stairs to your kitchen, bleary eyed but well rested. But that was three hours ago! Since then you’d brushed your teeth, washed your face, and eaten breakfast, and still the Shadowsinger hadn’t stirred. You were beginning to question whether he truly was the Spymaster of the Night Court as you sat in your velvet chair and admired your lover. You traced all the subtle movements of his body as he muddled through dreams you could only wonder at — the creasing of his brow, the slack line of his lips as he breathed, the twitching of his fingertips as he reached for some phantom object.

The clock struck eleven and you sighed, gathering your plates but leaving Azriel’s pile of toast, butter, and honey alone. You also left the teapot and its mismatched cup, blowing magic over its lid in a silent command to keep its contents hot until Azriel awoke.

“I’ll be down in the shop,” you whispered to his shadows, trusting that they would relay the message when their master finally decided to grace the daytime with his presence.

One by one, shadows slipped off Azriel’s skin, curling around your ankles and wrists in a silent plea to stay. You shook them off like one might a needy child, promising you’d only be two floors down.

The artists’ corner in Velaris was an eclectic array of compact townhouses, each outwardly dressed in their unique, dazzling finery. Your townhouse was squished between a painting studio and a luthier’s. The painting studio’s owner seemed intent on changing the color of the wooden sidings every other day and the drawings scribbled over the windows every other week. Today it was periwinkle blue to match the hydrangeas overflowing from the window boxes.

You nodded in approval as you flipped the apothecary sign over from “Much apologies, please try another time” to “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” The blue would match your tulip yellow sidings and the clean white accents of the luthier’s. Last week it had been red and that had looked gods-awful.

You busied yourself in the shop, crushing up lavender and herbs and boiling mugwort in fire-stained glassware in between flurries of customers until the medicinal stench in the air grew thick and strong. You were used to it by now. It smelled clean. Like home.

You were finishing tying up a bundle of teabags when Cassian came in carrying a sturdy wooden box under one arm like it weighed five pounds instead of fifty. You snapped out the wrinkles of a cloth bag, dropping the teabags and five vials of sleep serum for the nightingale-winged nymph in front of you.

“Four feathers and three strands of hair, as we bargained for,” you said, sliding the bag across the counter.

The nymph nodded in approval, extending out a wing and shoving her fingers into the pillowy softness. She tested for loose feathers ready to pull.

“You’re a godsend, Y/n, has anyone ever told you that?” She pulled out three feathers, closed her wing, and started testing the feathers on the other side. “Finnigan’s was asking me for ten. Ten! Can you believe that? If I hadn’t found you in time I’d have been reduced to a plucked chicken.” She was much less precious about her mousey brown hair and yanked out three strands at random. “Oops, you get an extra strand today,” she sang, dropping the feathers and hair into the jars you held out.

“Well it’s a good thing you found me then, Moricka.”

“Honestly! I understand he’s got a large studio space he’s renting in the thick of the Palace, and even I will admit the ambiance is rather professional—”

Cassian raised his brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred lips as he continued to stand motionless in the doorway. It was true your space was more… homey than Finnigan’s, but your expertise shined in intimate spaces. You liked the control and the familiarity that came from running a smaller business and you wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“But I do think the success is getting to his head. You both studied under Lady Madja so I don’t see why—”

You nodded absentmindedly. It was always like this with Moricka. The songbird in her made it difficult for her to stop talking, but at least her voice was pleasant.

She threw her hands up in the air before finally catching wind of another presence in the room. Cassian waved at her with a wink and an orange blush creeped onto her full cheeks. He tended to have that effect on fae with his towering size and the wild beauty of his chiseled jaw and smattering of scars over his cheeks and brow.

“Oh… oh dear, I didn’t realize you had another customer. Oh my goodness I’ve been talking your ear off all this time and you’ve been too kind to say anything. You’re a godsend, Y/n. A godsend! I don’t know what I would do without you, although I should really be letting you go now.” She grabbed her things and sidestepped the range of Cassian’s wings, trying and failing now to gawk. “I’ll see you soon enough again I’m sure.”

“I’ll be here.” You sighed in relief when the doorbell rang behind her petite frame, the inoffensive smile you offered all your customers sliding off your face like oil on water. Cassian chuckled, dropping the box onto the countertop with a dull thud.

“Long day?”

You pulled out a stepstool and began rummaging around through the box, pulling out jars of squid ink, bark trimmings, buttons, and one particularly nasty jar containing a large eye suspended in yellow goo. “It’s not even three.”

“Did I stutter?”

You tapped the glass and the eye swiveled around to look at you, pupil enlarging and constricting with a stutter. “Yes, yes very good,” you muttered your praise and Cassian fought hard not to shiver. He had a stomach for a great many things, but some of the specimens you handled tested his resilience.

“Thank you for bringing all of this. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Perhaps you could do the same for me and tell me where my brother is? I’ve been looking for him all day.” Cassian leaned forward on the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you holding him hostage, Y/n? Are you using your feminine powers to bring the poor male to his knees? I must admit, I didn’t imagine you as the kind capable of kidnapping. Or shadow-napping, shall we say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly holding him hostage.” You gestured down the hallway past the bookshelves and the cases of empty glassware where the light from the staircase glowed like an iron eye. “He’s upstairs sleeping.”

Cassian furrowed his brows, stepping around and past you. He kept his wings tucked closer to his shoulder blades, careful not to upset the cramped organization you maintained in your shop.

He smirked. “Still? Are you sure you didn't work your feminine powers last night?”

You glanced out the store window. A few fae lingered outside the coffee shop across the street clutching takeaway boxes against their chest as they chatted and sipped their drinks. The street was otherwise empty. For now, you wouldn’t have to deal with any customers.

You looked back at Cassian. “I actually wanted to ask you about that.”

His brows furrowed. “About feminine powers?” He'd meant that as a joke.

“Gods, Cassian let that go.” You wrung your hands. “I wanted to ask if Azriel was alright? Has he seemed… normal to you?”

“I don’t know, has he?” Cassian lowered his voice, sinking into one of the stools by the clear glass medicine cabinet. “From what I can tell he seems well. Happy.”

Although happy was an understatement. Ever since you’d stumbled into their lives with Madja’s accolades and your wry humor, Azriel had been a goner. You’d pulled emotions from him as deftly as a spinster with a pile of wool, reduced him to a reverential, lovesick mess, and imbued his existence with a color not even Feyre could mix up. Which made it all the more confusing why you looked so nervous.

“You’ve seen more of him than I have, Y/n.” Cassian said. He braced his elbows against his knees, turning serious. The faint bags under his hazel eyes hinted at sleepless nights spent fussing over Neera. It was their fault really, any daughter of Nesta and Cassian was destined to be restless and particular.

“He just… he’s been sleeping more. Falling into bed early, but waking up late. Sometimes we’ll be reading together or just existing side by side and when I turn to face him, he’s dead asleep on the couch.”

Cassian’s lips twitched, slowly stretching into a smile. You plucked a hemp bag off one of the wall shelves at random, tossing its contents into a mortar and beginning to grind just so you could have something to do with your hands.

“At first I brushed it off, but it’s gotten to a point where I’ll be talking to him — mindless things, but regardless — and I’ll catch him dozing off. He’s always very apologetic after but I…” The mortar and pestle clattered to a stop. “I worry that he’s growing bored of me. Or that he’s sick in a way I can’t help.”

“Y/n.” There was a smile in Cassian’s voice, and indeed when you looked at him, his teeth were glistening in the soft afternoon haze. His eyes shined knowingly, as if the answer were obvious.

You paused. “Yes?”

“He feels safe with you.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“Pardon?”

Cassian tipped back in his seat, knocking his head against the cabinet with a rattle of jars and glass as he laughed. “He’s sleeping so much because he feels safe with you. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time here instead of at the townhouse and why he’s still dead asleep while we’re sitting here gossiping about him. Three years ago you couldn’t even whisper his name in a crowded room without him appearing from the shadows as if summoned.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh... I see.”

Cassian was grinning. “Y/n, I promise you he’s not bored of you. Azriel sleeping is a good thing. The gods know he could use more rest. I think he might be the worst of us when it comes to taking care of ourselves.”

Something about Cassian’s words had a crack splintering in your chest. You knew about his past. You knew of the horrors burned into the ruined skin of his hands and the weight his duties deposited on his shoulders.

And here you’d been worried over him sleeping past noon.

Shadows slipped down the stairs, pooling around your feet in a neat circle and kissing the exposed skin of your ankles. Azriel followed closely behind, still wearing his rumpled hair and pants and a shirt he’d hastily shoved his neck and arms into. He hadn’t even buttoned up the slits below his wings, opting to let the fabric swing free and loose and expose flashes of skin as he walked.

He jutted his chin out in acknowledgement of Cassian and then folded himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and dropping his face into the crook of your neck where he breathed in the scent of lemon and lavender and medicine.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, frowning. There was a slur to his words.

“It’s past three, brother.”

Azriel snapped his head up in surprise, squinting at the window and the afternoon sunlight streaking in. The pale cobblestones shone like they’d been drenched in honey.

“What?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, patting Azriel’s back fondly and mussing up your hair before walking towards the door. He flipped the sign from “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” to “Much apologies, please try another time.”

“Goodnight, you two!" He called from over his back. "Remember we’re meeting at Rhys’s for dinner tonight.” He turned, bracing his arms against the top of the doorway and leaning forward like he meant to share a secret. “8pm sharp. Don’t be too late or we’ll get the wrong idea about what you two are up to.” He winked, then whistled down the street, letting the door close on its own behind him.

Azriel sighed, going back to nuzzling his face in your neck. He peppered the sensitive skin there with kisses.

“Will you be coming back upstairs then?” He murmured hopefully. "Now that you're finished with work?"

You bit your lip and decided rather quickly that the world would not end because you closed a few hours early.

You led him up the stairs, past the kitchen and living room on the second floor, and then up to the third floor — your bedroom. The window was still open, the hustle and bustle of the city and the smell of coffee from across the street wafting in. Steam no longer poured from the lip of the teapot, so you knew Azriel had had something to drink, and where you’d left toast on his plate this morning lay only crumbs.

Azriel dropped to his knees, untying your laces and helping you out of your boots. Then he straightened and tugged at the belt loops of your trousers, silently asking for permission before unbuttoning them and sliding them off your legs. Your shirt, then his shirt, and then his trousers joined the pile of crumpled clothing on the floor.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, falling face first after you with a sigh. This was his favorite position to sleep in — you comfortable on your back and him laying with his hips slotted in between your legs and his head resting over your heart.

You sank your fingers into his velvety, black hair. His hums of satisfaction flowed through your body, lighting every nerve with a comforting buzz.

“Azriel?” You asked him, before sleep could finally claim him once more.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you feel safe with me?”

He pressed his face further into the soft flesh of your chest, bringing his arms up and around your waist before allowing his wings to do the same. The thin membranes glowed red as hot coals, blocking out the most offensive rays of light from outside.

“When I am with you, I forget that I was ever that boy whose hands got burned. When I am with you, the hundreds of years I spent feeling alone and worthless in this world melt away into nothing. When I am with you — when I am in this place that smells and feels so strongly of you — I can imagine a future that is good and pure and perfect.” He sighed deeply, seemingly ignorant to the pounding of your heart and the waves of feeling flooding your system. “So yes, my love — my Y/n — I do feel safe with you.”

“I feel safe with you too,” you murmured. “I love you, Azriel.”

You kissed the crown of his head, earning one last smile and a slurred, “I love you, Y/n,” before his jaw went slack and the room went silent save for the mixing of your breaths and the stirring of shadows.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #fluff #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #sleepy azriel is the best azriel #i swear i just need a man who wants to sleep with me all hours of the day and is a living furnace #is that too much to ask?

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pucksandpower · 3 months

Text

The Princess and the Piastri

Oscar Piastri x Princess of Denmark!Reader

Summary: in which you follow the time-honored tradition of Danish royalty falling in love with Australians

Note: dedicated to my favorite Dane, @struggling-with-drivers, who had to put up with me taking months to finally get the proper inspiration to write this

“And if you’ll just follow me, Your Majesty and Your Royal Highnesses, I’ll take you to meet Kevin now,” the overly peppy Haas PR representative says as she gestures down the garage.

You force a smile, trying not to physically recoil as you take in the assault of garish Haas branding surrounding you. The white, red, and black color scheme is far too harsh on the eyes this early on a Saturday morning.

“Oh goody,” your younger sister Josephine says flatly, eliciting a snort from your younger brother Vincent.

Your mother, Queen Mary, shoots the two a reproachful look before turning back to the PR rep with a polished smile. “We’re very excited to meet Kevin and support Denmark’s driver.”

The PR rep beams and starts leading you further into the Haas garage, rattling on about Haas’ ambitious goals for the season as you pass mechanics in matching black Haas polos barely paying you any mind.

You internally groan, already dreading the interaction ahead. As the Crown Princess, you’ve long perfected the art of feigning interest, but this weekend has tested even your limits.

“And I know meeting the future queen will just make Kevin’s day!” The rep continues enthusiastically. “He was so honored when King Frederik reached out about you all coming this weekend to support him.”

You resist the urge to snort. More like the royal communications secretary reached out when they realized the Australian Grand Prix overlapped with your visit to your mother’s family in Australia. Nothing like conveniently timing a royal appearance to drum up positive press.

Your younger sister, Isabella, sidles up next to you, linking her arm through yours commiseratingly. At 16, she’s already mastered your family’s signature skill — conveying boredom through a pleasant facial expression.

“I have some fresh sets of Haas merch we would love for you to wear when you meet Kevin,” the rep says, holding out stacks of Haas emblazoned caps and shirts insistently. “It would mean so much to the team for you to showcase your support.”

You force a smile, already shaking your head. “Oh, I’m afraid we can’t wear anything with advertisements or sponsors per royal protocol.”

The PR rep’s face falls slightly before she plasters the smile back on. “Of course, Your Royal Highness, I understand. Shall we?”

She gestures further down the garage to where the Haas drivers are standing with team personnel. Kevin Magnussen spots your approach, nudging his teammate before they turn towards you.

As you reach them, Kevin steps forward first, offering a short bow. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, it’s an honor to meet you.”

You offer your hand, which he takes, bowing again as he brushes his lips over your knuckles. “The honor is ours, Mr. Magnussen. Denmark is proud to have you representing us in Formula 1.”

Kevin smiles bashfully as you drop his hand. “Please, call me Kevin.”

You return his smile politely. “Very well, Kevin it is.”

The rest of your family exchanges pleasantries with Kevin before the PR rep guides you towards the pit wall to observe the action on track. Practice is getting underway, and you’re grateful for any chance to extract yourself from the oppressive Haas environment.

As you exit the garage into the sunlight, you breathe a sigh of relief. Two bodyguards fall smoothly in step behind you as you start down the paddock, taking in the buzz of activity.

You smile softly, the excitement infectious despite your general disinterest in motorsports. There’s something about the frenetic energy at a race that gets your blood pumping.

Your eyes light up as you spot the unmistakable papaya motorhome of McLaren up ahead. Now that’s a team you can get behind. Cool retro appeal and a driver line-up you’ve heard is full of young talent — what’s not to love?

You pick up your pace, eager to get a closer look at the iconic livery, when suddenly you collide headlong into a firm, muscular body.

You gasp as strong arms wrap around you, stopping your momentum abruptly. Your hands brace against a solid chest as you glance up, prepared to stammer out an apology.

But the words die on your lips as you find yourself staring into warm brown eyes set in an unfairly handsome face. The eyes widen in surprise, clearly not having expected the Crown Princess of Denmark to go careening into his arms.

His mouth opens, no doubt to ask if you’re okay, but you stand frozen as the hustle of the paddock fades into background noise.

In this moment, it’s just you and this beautiful stranger. A stranger who hasn’t let go of you yet, one hand still pressed gently against your back.

You know you should pull away, apologize for your clumsiness and be on your way. But something about his eyes makes you want to stay right here, wrapped safely in his arms.

You stand frozen, lost in the stranger’s mesmerizing brown eyes. You vaguely register your bodyguards stepping forward on either side of you.

“Your Royal Highness, are you alright?” Henrik, your lead bodyguard, asks urgently.

You blink, the spell broken as Henrik’s hand lands on your shoulder, gently tugging you back.

The stranger’s eyes widen further as understanding seems to dawn. His eyes flick over the royal crest on Henrik’s suit jacket before moving back to your face, a hint of panic in his gaze.

Before you can offer any reassurance, a voice calls out sharply from behind the man.

“Oscar! What are you doing, mate? We’ve got the strategy briefing in five!”

You watch as the man — Oscar, apparently — glances reluctantly over his shoulder to where a thin harried man bearing a McLaren team pass stands tapping his foot impatiently.

Oscar’s hands slip from your waist as he takes a small step back. “Sorry, I—”

But whatever he was going to say gets lost as the man strides forward, clapping a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s go. No time for chatting up fans when we’ve got quali coming up.”

Oscar allows himself to be steered away, casting one last, almost wistful look back at you before the brisk man hustles him around the corner.

You stare after them for a long moment before Henrik’s voice breaks through your daze once more.

“Your Highness, are you injured at all? Shall I call for a medic?”

You blink, shaking your head quickly as heat floods your cheeks. Honestly, they must think you a simpleton, standing here gaping after a man you collided with.

“No, no, I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “Just a bit clumsy this morning it seems.”

You force out a breathy laugh, hoping your flaming cheeks can be explained away as embarrassment from your blunder.

Henrik eyes you skeptically for a moment before nodding. “Very well. But please be more careful, Your Highness. Next time we may not be so lucky.”

You nod contritely before allowing Henrik to usher you back towards the Haas garage, your other bodyguard falling smoothly back in step behind you.

As you near the garage, you spot your family gathered by the pit wall, watching as a group of track marshals examines a particularly suspicious drain cover. Your younger siblings all turn as one to look at you, eerily in sync.

The knowing looks on their faces make you shudder. Of the many curses of growing up in a big family, the inability to keep secrets ranks near the top. You’re sure they’ll have the truth out of you before long.

“Nice of you to join us, Y/N,” your younger brother Christian remarks wryly as you reach them. “Have a nice stroll?”

You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him. Barely.

“Lovely, thank you,” you reply breezily instead, moving to stand between your mother and Isabella.

You determinedly avoid meeting any of your siblings’ gazes, focusing on the timing sheets instead. But you can feel their curious stares boring into you.

“You look a bit flushed, darling. Are you feeling quite alright?” Your mother murmurs, pressing a hand to your forehead in concern.

“Just peachy!” You chirp in response, internally cringing at the unnatural brightness in your tone.

From your other side, Isabella leans in, voice sly. “You do seem rather … distracted. Anything you want to share with the class?”

You glance at her sharply, taking in her knowing smirk. You narrow your eyes in warning, but Isabella just smiles innocently.

“Oh leave your sister be,” your mother chides. “I’m sure Y/N is just overwhelmed by the excitement of experiencing her first Grand Prix.”

You make a noncommittal noise of agreement, turning your focus back to the timing sheets. Isabella elbows you subtly and you pointedly ignore her, keeping your gaze fixed ahead.

You’re immensely thankful when the Haas PR rep appears again, ushering you towards the back to “give the team space to prepare for qualifying,” and drawing your family’s attention away from you.

You trail after your family to the cordoned off hospitality area, gratefully accepting a bottle of water from the proffered cooler.

As the mechanics spring into action around you, Isabella sidles up next to you again, playful smile still in place.

“Soooo,” she drawls, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Who’s got you all flustered then?”

You nearly choke on your water, whipping your head to face her. “What? No one! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even to your own ears, the denial sounds feeble. Isabella merely arches one perfect brow, clearly not buying it.

You huff out a breath, scanning the room quickly to ensure none of your other family members are in earshot before hissing under your breath. “I may have accidentally careened into a McLaren crew member during my walk.”

Isabella’s grin turns positively feline. “Oh, do tell ...”

“There’s nothing to tell!” you insist, face flaming once more. “We collided and his reflexes were quick enough to catch me before I fell. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm, I’m sure that blush is just because you’re so very embarrassed by your clumsiness and nothing else.”

You scowl and take a long swig of your water.

Isabella chuckles. “So was this mystery McLaren man at least handsome?”

You nearly choke again. “Isabella!” You admonish under your breath.

She holds up both hands innocently, still grinning. “What? It’s a perfectly reasonable question. No judgment here, promise.”

You narrow your eyes, considering her carefully. Before you can think better of it, you mutter reluctantly, “He … wasn’t entirely unfortunate looking.”

“Aha!” Isabella crows triumphantly. “I knew it!”

You shush her frantically, glancing around to make sure her outburst didn’t draw any unwanted attention.

“Do you know his name at least?” Isabella asks, slightly more quietly this time.

You hesitate before admitting, "... Oscar, I think. His colleague called him that.”

Isabella hums thoughtfully. “Very mysterious ...”

You roll your eyes, shoving her shoulder. “Oh stop it. Can we please just drop this?”

“Of course, of course,” Isabella relents, though the impish twinkle remains in her eye.

You’re prevented from further interrogation by the start of qualifying. You rejoin your family, studiously keeping your gaze away from your siblings’ knowing looks.

You determinedly put the morning’s events from your mind, focusing on Kevin’s qualifying efforts. Though you can’t help the occasional wish that the handsome stranger from McLaren — Oscar — was the one flying around the track instead.

The session proceeds fairly predictably, with the top teams claiming the top spots and the backmarkers bringing up the rear.

As Kevin pulls into the garage after qualifying 17th, you paste on an encouraging smile.

“Excellent job out there, Kevin! You and the team should be very proud.”

Kevin smiles wryly back at you. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. But I think we all know 17th is nothing to celebrate for a team with our aspirations.”

You nod sympathetically. “Of course, there’s always room for improvement. But you showed admirable pace given the circumstances.”

Kevin inclines his head gratefully at your measured response. “You have a bright future ahead as queen with such judicious words.”

You thank him sincerely for the compliment before your family takes their leave, the day’s obligations finally complete.

As you all pile into the waiting cars, Isabella leans over and whispers, “Do you think Kevin would’ve qualified higher if Haas wasn’t so slow?”

You have to smother your snort of laughter into your hand.

“Without question,” you whisper back. “I think a snail could qualify ahead of Haas at this point.”

Isabella dissolves into muffled giggles next to you as the cars pull away from the circuit, leaving the chaotic world of Formula 1 behind. At least until tomorrow.

***

You stare contemplatively out the car window as the city lights of Melbourne streak by in the darkness. Despite your family’s teasing, you can’t seem to remove a certain McLaren crew member from your thoughts.

Oscar. Even his name sends a flutter through your stomach.

You know it’s foolish to get caught up over a brief collision with a stranger. And yet … those eyes. You can’t shake the connection you felt in that moment, however fleeting.

The car slows to a stop outside your hotel and you make a split-second decision. Turning to your mother, you adopt your most winsome tone.

“Mor, I was hoping you might allow me to go out for the evening. To experience the Melbourne nightlife before we depart.”

Your mother’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Go out? Alone?”

You rush to reassure her. “Oh no, I’ll take Henrik and Simone with me of course. I would just love the chance to explore the city a bit, like a normal young woman.”

You see a flash of understanding on your mother’s face and press your advantage. “In fact, didn’t you and Far meet during a pub crawl?”

Pink stains your mother’s cheeks but her lips quirk up. “I suppose we did. But those were different times ...”

“Please Mor?” You plead. “When will I have a chance like this again?”

Your mother regards you shrewdly for a long moment before sighing. “Oh very well. But Henrik and Simone must accompany you at all times. And I want you back by midnight at the latest.”

You beam, leaning over to smack a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, thank you! I promise I’ll stay safe.”

As you exit the car, your younger brother Christian pipes up from behind you. “Hey, can I come too?”

“Absolutely not,” your mother shuts him down swiftly, leveling a quelling look at his crestfallen face.

You hide a smile as you sweep into the hotel to change, giddiness rising in your chest. A night out is just what you need to clear your head from a certain handsome distraction.

An hour later you slide into the backseat of one of the discreet royal security vehicles, now wearing jeans, heels, and a silky camisole, your long hair spilling over your shoulders.

Henrik raises his eyebrows at your outfit but doesn’t comment as he pulls away from the hotel, heading for the club district.

When you arrive, the bouncer’s eyes widen at the royal crests adorning your bodyguards’ suits. But a few quick words from Henrik and you’re granted access without a fuss.

The heavy beat of the music washes over you as you enter the fashionable club. Bright lights flash hypnotically over the crowded dance floor. You glance back at Henrik and Simone stationed near the entrance, allowing the music to carry you further inside.

You weave your way to the bar, excitement simmering in your veins. Tonight you’re just Y/N, anonymous clubgoer. No titles, no expectations, no watching eyes judging your every move.

Well, except for your bodyguards of course. But they’re discreet enough to give you space.

You’re so lost in the heady freedom of anonymity that you don’t notice the nearby figure doing a double take. But as you step up to the bar, waiting to order, a now familiar voice sounds behind you.

“Y-Your Highness!” He stammers, nearly dropping the drinks he just received. “I mean, Princess, uh Crown Princess? Sorry, I’m not actually sure—”

You whirl around to see Oscar standing there, looking devastatingly handsome in a button-down and jeans.

“Oscar!” You gasp, a smile breaking across your face unbidden. “What are you doing here?”

Pink stains Oscar’s tanned cheeks. “Ah, well my mates from the team wanted to go out and blow off some steam before the race tomorrow.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “But what brings Denmark’s future queen out to the clubs?”

You shrug lightly, grin turning impish. “Can’t a girl just want to dance and have some fun?”

Oscar’s eyes gleam with understanding. “Suppose she can. Well then, may I get you a drink … er ...”

He trails off, clearly unsure how to address you in this unusual context.

You take pity on him and lean in conspiratorially. “Tonight, I’m just Y/N. No need for fancy titles.”

Relief flashes across Oscar’s face and he smiles. “Y/N it is.”

Soon you’ve got drinks in hand and are chatting easily at a tall table beside the dance floor. Oscar is witty and charming, and laughs freely at your sarcastic commentary about Formula 1.

You’re amazed by how at ease you feel in his presence, the crown’s ever-present weight lifted from your shoulders. With Oscar, you’re not an heiress apparent, but just a girl talking to a boy she really really likes.

When he asks what you think of McLaren, you perk up eagerly. “Oh yes, what is it exactly that you do there? Are you an engineer or mechanic of some sort?”

Oscar’s eyes shutter briefly and he clears his throat. “Ah, something like that. Mostly just tinkering to try and make the car faster.”

He steers the conversation to safer waters before you can inquire further. You make a mental note to look up the full McLaren staff list later and figure out his specific role.

The night flies by in a blur of laughter and stolen glances. Oscar gamely joins you on the dance floor, his hands resting lightly on your waist as you sway together.

When at last you note the time, disappointment sinks heavy in your gut. Oscar’s face mirrors your own regret as he insists on walking you to meet your bodyguards.

Outside the club, you turn to him reluctantly. “I wish this didn’t have to end. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

Oscar shuffles his feet, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Would … would you want to meet up again tomorrow? Maybe outside the McLaren garage before the race?”

Your face lights up. “I’d love that.” Overcome by boldness, you lean in and brush a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

Oscar’s hand drifts up to his cheek, eyes dazed. “Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You bid him goodnight before allowing Henrik and Simone to usher you into the waiting car, unable to keep the giddy smile from your face the entire ride back.

***

The next morning, you awake with a smile stretching across your face. The memory of Oscar’s brown eyes gazing into yours as you swayed together in the club fills you with warmth.

As you dress and prepare to head to the circuit, an idea strikes. There’s no rule saying you have to spend the entire pre-race hours cooped up in the Haas garage after all.

You slip into the hotel dining room, grabbing a piece of toast. “I’m afraid the petrol fumes in the garage were giving me a dreadful headache yesterday. I think I’ll take a walk around the paddock this morning for some fresh air before the race.”

Your mother’s brows furrow in concern. “Oh dear, that won’t do at all! Yes, a nice walk sounds wise.”

You thank her profusely on your way out, hiding your triumphant smile until the door closes behind you. Phase one complete.

You hold yourself back from rushing through the paddock once at the circuit, maintaining a sedate royal pace. But inside, excitement bubbles through your veins at the thought of seeing Oscar again.

As you make your way to the McLaren garage, your steps falter at the larger-than-life image emblazoned on the wall. Oscar beams back at you, brown hair just barely poking out from under his McLaren cap. The block letters beside the photo proclaim OSCAR PIASTRI #81.

You press a hand to your mouth to smother your gasp. Oscar is a driver? Your Oscar?

Speak of the devil, you spot him emerging from the garage, already dressed in fireproofs with his race suit half hanging around his waist. His face lights up when he sees you, lips curving into that boyish grin that makes your knees weak.

“Good morning!” He chirps, moving in for a brief hug.

You return the hug distractedly, still grappling with this new discovery. As you pull back, you arch a questioning brow at him.

“So … you’re a driver. Funny, I don’t recall you mentioning that last night.”

Pink stains Oscar’s cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, right. I may have omitted certain details about my role here.” His eyes turn pleading. “I hope you can forgive me? I just liked talking to someone who didn’t already know everything about me for once.”

You regard him thoughtfully before allowing a teasing grin to emerge. “Well, I suppose I can understand the appeal of a fresh slate. And it’s not as if I was fully forthcoming either.”

Oscar’s shoulders sag in relief. “Too right. Quite the pair we make, Princess.” His eyes dance playfully.

You open your mouth to respond but are interrupted by a shout from the garage. “Oscar! Debrief in two minutes, let’s go!”

Oscar smiles apologetically. “Duty calls. But let’s continue this later?”

At your nod, he squeezes your hand briefly before jogging back inside. You make your way back to Haas, butterflies still fluttering wildly.

Once the race starts, you have to work to restrain your enthusiasm as Oscar quickly moves up the field. More than once, you catch your lips curving upward as he deftly overtakes a competitor, and have to rearrange them into careful neutrality.

A discreet glance sideways shows your family members focused intently on Kevin’s efforts in the Haas. You allow yourself a small smile. Watching Oscar race with no one the wiser feels like getting away with something deliciously secretive.

The checkered flag finally waves after 58 intense laps. Your heart leaps as the McLaren crew begins celebrating Oscar’s podium finish. You have to force yourself not to join the applause as he climbs from his car, settling for clasping your hands tightly to contain your glee.

Meanwhile, Kevin finishes in 18th position while his teammate Nico suffered a mechanical retirement. You paste on an encouraging smile, tamping down your excitement over Oscar’s podium.

“Nice recovery there at the end, Kevin. Surely the team can build on this result in the next race.”

Privately, you think Haas would be lucky to keep a wheel attached long enough to make it to the end of a full race, let alone fight for points. But you keep that thought to yourself for now.

As your family rises to congratulate a dejected Kevin on completing the race, Isabella leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Not a great showing, I dare say. Perhaps you are considering transferring allegiance to a certain papaya team instead?”

You press your lips together to contain your smile. Trust Isabella to have guessed your conflicted loyalties.

“Indeed,” you murmur back. “One must be open to supporting all teams in the spirit of global unity.”

Isabella’s eyes dance with mirth, but she simply links her arm through yours, giving a sage nod. “Spoken like a true diplomat.”

As the celebrations kick off for Oscar’s first home race podium, you sneak glances over your shoulder, hoping for another glimpse of him through the chaos.

Someday soon, perhaps you’ll be able to cheer for him openly. For now, you hold the image of his smiling face in your mind as you reluctantly follow your family back out of the disappointing Haas garage.

If nothing else, this surprise-filled weekend has shown you that your heart will not be so easily commanded. And it seems to have rather fixated itself on a certain charismatic McLaren driver.

***

You hover near the paddock exit, half hoping to catch one last glimpse of Oscar before your departure. Your family made their polite farewells to the Haas team and you seized the opportunity to slip away.

You’ve just resigned yourself to missing him when hurried footsteps sound behind you.

“Princess! Wait up!”

You whirl around to see Oscar jogging towards you, face freshly showered but still flushed with elation. He draws up before you, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

“I’m so glad I caught you before I had to leave,” you smile brightly. “I had to come say a proper congratulations for your podium first!”

Oscar ducks his head bashfully even as his eyes shine. “And, well, I hoped maybe you were cheering me on out there today?”

Heat floods your cheeks as you let out an embarrassed laugh. “You know I can’t answer that. But I will say you drove brilliantly and I’m so pleased for your result.”

Oscar’s grin widens, clearly reading between the lines of your diplomatic answer.

“Well I’m glad I could end your weekend on a high note after the woeful introduction to Formula 1 from Haas.”

You groan good-naturedly. “Ugh yes, I think Kevin was grateful when I finally made myself scarce from that garage of doom.”

Oscar chuckles before his expression turns wistful. “I suppose this means you’ll be heading back to Denmark now though?”

You shake your head, curls spilling over your shoulders. “Oh no, we’re spending a few more weeks visiting my mother’s family in Tasmania first.”

At Oscar’s look of surprise, you elaborate, “My mother is originally Australian. Her family is from Tasmania.”

Understanding dawns on Oscar’s face. “Well how about that! Danish royalty certainly seems to have a taste for us Aussies.” He winks playfully.

Heat blooms in your cheeks but you rally to return his banter. “I suppose we do. Though from what I hear, McLaren seemed rather keen on Danes once upon a time as well.”

A rather in-depth Google search earlier that day taught you that Kevin Magnussen once raced for the papaya team. You rather wish he never left, if only so you did not have to suffer through the tedium of being in the Haas garage for the past two days.

Oscar barks out a laugh, eyes dancing with mirth. “Too right, you’ve got me there.” His laughter fades to a soft smile. “But I can’t say I blame my predecessors in the slightest.”

The tender look in his eyes makes your breath catch. Before you lose your nerve, you hurriedly dig out your phone.

“I should give you my number. So we can keep in touch.”

Oscar’s face lights up as he scrambles for his own phone. You quickly swap devices, inputting your contact info and trying not to notice how his name looks lighting up your screen.

Once you’ve traded phones again, an awkward silence descends. You clutch your phone tightly, unsure how to say goodbye when this thing between you feels so new and delicate.

Oscar clears his throat, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “Well, I suppose I should let you get on your way ...”

“Right, yes ...” You trail off, searching for the right words. Because as silly as it sounds, the thought of not seeing Oscar’s smile for who knows how long makes your chest unexpectedly tight.

Acting on impulse, you step forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug. Oscar’s arms immediately curl around your back, clutching you close.

You breathe him in, imprinting this moment in your memory. The noise of the paddock fades away until it’s just this — the two of you suspended in time.

Far too soon, Oscar pulls back reluctantly. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“Travel safely, Princess. I’ll see you soon.” His voice holds a promise.

You nod, not trusting your voice. With a final squeeze of his hand, you turn and walk steadily towards the exit. Your bodyguards fall in step behind you.

You don’t look back, though you can feel Oscar’s gaze on you until you disappear from view. As your car pulls away, you finally chance a glance backwards, just in time to see Oscar still watching wistfully after you.

Your breath escapes in a shaky exhale and you clutch your phone like a lifeline. Everywhere else suddenly feels much too far away.

***

You collapse back onto your bed, phone already pressed to your ear before the first ring even finishes. Oscar picks up on the second, voice warm and teasing as always.

“Eager today, are we Princess?”

You roll your eyes even as your lips quirk up. “Oh hush, you know you wait just as anxiously for my calls.”

Oscar’s answering chuckle makes your heart skip a beat. “Guilty. I’ll gladly admit your voice is the highlight of my day.”

Warmth floods your cheeks as you get comfortable against the pillows. “Flatterer. Now distract me from the drudgery of royal life with some F1 gossip. How go things in the glamorous world of racing?”

“Oh where to even start!” Oscar launches eagerly into the latest paddock drama — teammate clashes, contract disputes, and salacious hookups. You listen eagerly, living vicariously through his tales.

“Meanwhile Lando has been his usual chaos gremlin self ...” Oscar continues, recounting his teammate’s latest antics.

You laugh until your sides ache, picturing the outrageous scenes. “Honestly, I don’t know how McLaren copes with you two!”

“We keep things lively, that’s for sure,” Oscar agrees, audibly grinning. “Although we’d love an even livelier paddock with a certain Danish princess around again ...”

He leaves the statement hanging tentatively. You chew your lip, heart racing as you gather your courage.

“Funny you should mention that … I’ve been thinking lately that it would be nice to attend a race again soon.”

Oscar’s sharp inhale crackles through the phone. “Really? You’d come to another race?” His voice turns playful. “Any particular reason for the sudden interest?”

You laugh, hoping he can’t hear the breathlessness in it. “Oh you know, miss the atmosphere, the excitement ...” You pause before adding softly, “Getting to see a certain Aussie driver again.”

Oscar makes a pleased little noise that sends butterflies swirling wildly. “Well I’m sure that driver would be absolutely thrilled to see your face in the paddock again.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, emboldening you further. “As it happens, my godmother is the Queen of Belgium. So it should be easy enough to arrange an appearance at the Belgian Grand Prix.”

“That’s perfect!” Oscar enthuses. “Spa is one of my favorite circuits too. Say you’ll be there?”

His boyish eagerness melts your heart. “I’ll speak to our communications secretary this week. I’m sure they can make it happen.”

“Brilliant.” The tender hope in Oscar’s voice finds its mirror in your own thudding heart. A new chapter is beginning.

You chat longer about lighter topics until Oscar reluctantly says he should get some rest before practice tomorrow.

“I suppose I should let you go then ...” He trails off reluctantly, neither wanting to be the one to end the call.

You clutch the phone tighter, casting wildly for an excuse to keep him on the line. “Wait, you haven’t told me what ridiculous outfit Lando is wearing today!”

Oscar huffs out a laugh. “Trust me, words don’t do justice to the monstrosity. I’ll send pictures so you can experience it fully.”

“It’s a deal.” You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, but the thought of hanging up is unbearable.

Just then, the bedroom door crashes open and your younger brother Christian strolls in.

“Hey Y/N, Mor wants to know if … is that Oscar you’re talking to?” He raises his eyebrows knowingly.

You frantically shoo him away but Christian swoops in and plucks the phone from your hand. “Sorry mate, gotta steal my sister back. Royal duties call and all that. But great chatting, bye now!”

Before you can wrestle the phone away, Christian ends the call with a cheeky grin.

You smack his shoulder indignantly. “You little brat! I was right in the middle of important diplomatic relations!”

Christian just cackles gleefully. “Oh yeah, I could tell. Your dopey romantic sighing was a big clue.” He laughs harder at your outraged stammers.

“Just you wait until you’re madly pining over someone, I’ll get my revenge,” you threaten.

But inside, not even Christian’s teasing can diminish your euphoria. The promise of seeing Oscar again soon eclipses all else.

***

Your heels click rapidly over the pavement as you sweep through the Spa paddock gates. Bodyguards trail discreetly behind but you barely notice them, eyes scanning the bustling crowd for one face.

And then you see him. Oscar stands just ahead, back turned as he bounces on his toes, head swiveling in search of you.

Joy bubbles up in your chest. You break into a run, calling his name. “Oscar!”

He whips around, eyes lighting up when they land on you. His arms open wide and you launch yourself into them with a breathless laugh.

Strong hands grip your waist, swinging you in an enthusiastic circle before setting you back on your feet. Neither of you make any move to step back, standing tangled together.

“You came,” Oscar murmurs, voice awed like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lean into him, his warmth chasing away the months spent missing him. “Of course. After all, I made a promise to a certain driver.”

Oscar’s answering smile outshines the sun. Reluctantly, he loosens his hold, keeping one hand entwined with yours.

“Well then, allow me to escort you inside properly.” He presses a quick kiss to your knuckles before leading you towards the paddock entrance.

After scanning your VIP guest pass, courtesy of Oscar, you pass through security hand-in-hand, giddy smiles fixed in place.

The paddock buzzes with activity but you only have eyes for Oscar as he guides you straight to the McLaren garage.

Mechanics glance up curiously as you enter behind Oscar. He squeezes your hand, leaning in close.

“Ready to meet the team, Princess?” At your answering nod, he steers you confidently through the organized chaos.

You run a suddenly nervous hand over your hair as Oscar approaches a genial looking man conversing with a slimmer bearded man.

“Zak, Andrea — there’s someone special I want you both to meet.”

The two men turn, eyebrows raising in polite expectation. Oscar gently tugs you forward.

“This is Crown Princess Y/N of Denmark. Y/N, meet Zak Brown, our CEO, and Andrea Stella, team principal.”

Zak’s eyebrows climb higher but he recovers smoothly, extending a hand. “Your Royal Highness, welcome. We’re honored to host you in our garage.”

You return his firm handshake. “The honor is mine, thank you. Your team has been so welcoming.”

After greeting Andrea as well, Oscar steers you further inside just as a mop of fluffy brown hair zooms by.

“Oscar, mate! There you are, I’ve been ...” The words die on his lips as he spots you, mouth falling open comically. His eyes dart between you and Oscar rapidly.

“Lando, come meet the princess!” Oscar calls out cheekily.

Lando snaps his jaw shut, looking utterly bewildered but offering you a hasty bow. “Your Highness! I mean, lovely to meet you, really.”

Amusement flickers through you at his gobsmacked expression. Oscar shoots you a playful wink over Lando’s shoulder as he scrambles to regain composure.

“But, wait.” Lando glances between you again in confusion. “You mean all those times you cooed ’good morning, Princess’ over the phone … you were talking to an actual princess!”

Oscar bursts out laughing while you press a hand to your mouth to smother your own giggles. Lando flushes but eventually joins in your laughter.

After extracting a promise to explain everything later, Oscar steers you away so they can focus on final prep.

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of during the race before I have to suit up,” he promises, getting you settled with refreshments.

The anticipation builds until finally the cars are screaming away from the grid in a blur of color. Your nails dig into your palms as positions shuffle wildly on the first lap.

But soon Oscar settles into a rhythm, battling wheel to wheel with Lewis Hamilton. You’re on your feet with every overtake, yelling yourself hoarse.

The final laps loom with Oscar still fighting for a podium finish. But suddenly disaster strikes for the leaders. Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc collide attempting to lap a backmarker on the Kemmel Straight.

You watch in disbelief as both the Red Bull and Ferrari limp to a stop off the track, clearing the path for Oscar to sweep through into the lead.

The McLaren garage roars in elation as Oscar maintains the gap and finally, finally crosses the line to claim his maiden Grand Prix win.

Chaos erupts as a stampede of papaya uniforms makes its way towards parc fermé but Oscar’s performance coach Kim grasps your arm urgently. “Quickly, he’ll want you there for this!”

Kim rushes you down towards the area where Oscar guides his car to a stop. He vaults out, pumping both fists and clambering atop the chassis in triumph.

Your breath catches at the sight of his windswept hair and exultant grin. As McLaren swarms Oscar, his gaze catches on you at the barrier, pressed close by Kim.

In two strides Oscar is right there, joy and adrenaline shining in his eyes. His hand cups your cheek … and then his lips find yours.

The roar around you fades away. For one perfect, suspended moment, your world narrows down to Oscar’s lips slanted over yours, his fingers tangled in your hair.

When you break apart, eyes flying open, the full reality crashes back in. But with Oscar’s breathless laugh warming your skin, the rest of the world no longer matters.

***

You pace the plush hotel carpet, nerves jangling as you await the imminent video call with your family. Since Oscar’s podium kiss yesterday, you’ve been hyper aware of your phone blowing up with notifications but too anxious to check them.

A brisk knock precedes your royal secretary poking his head in. “The call is ready whenever you are, Your Highness.”

Squaring your shoulders, you take a seat at the polished desk as the large monitor springs to life. Your family’s faces fill the screen, ranging from sympathetic (Isabella) to highly amused (Christian).

Before you can get a word in, the royal PR advisors elbow into view, expressions like thunderclouds.

“Your Royal Highness, might we have a word about this … incident from the race?” The chief advisor’s tone drips disapproval.

Ice trickles down your spine but you keep your face neutral. “Of course.”

“I trust you’ve seen the coverage?” At your hesitant nod, the advisor continues, “Then you understand what an embarrassment this is, how damaging to the dignity of the crown.”

You clench your jaw, anger rising. But he barrels on, “Such scandalous behavior, and broadcast globally! You must see how this recklessness reflects poorly on Denmark.”

The rest of the advisors murmur emphatic agreement. Your cheeks burn in humiliation even as you desperately blink back furious tears.

“The narrative has already spiraled out of control. Such associations cannot be tolerated from the future queen.”

The scorn in his tone ignites your temper. But before you can spit out a scathing retort, a commanding voice interrupts.

“Enough!” Your father’s stern face fills the screen, pinning the advisors with an icy glare. They recoil, mouths snapping shut.

Satisfied, your father turns to you, expression softening. “My dear, you’ve done nothing wrong. What matters most is that you’re happy.”

Hope flickers tentatively inside you as the advisors gape. But your father silences them with another quelling look.

“I know a thing or two about duty versus matters of the heart.” His eyes soften, finding your mother. “I’ll not see my daughter denied the same chance at love that brought me such joy.”

Your mother smiles gently, affection shining through the screen. On her other side, Isabella squeezes her shoulder in solidarity.

The fight drains from the advisors under your father’s resolute gaze. With a few grumbled concessions, they disconnect from the call.

Your muscles uncoil in relief as your attention returns fully to your family. Isabella waggles her eyebrows.

“Soooo … looks like someone had an eventful race!”

Heat floods your cheeks but you can’t suppress a giddy smile. “It just sort of happened in the heat of the moment.”

“This Oscar must be something special,” your mother remarks kindly.

Your insides turn to mush at the memory of Oscar’s kiss. “He really is. I can’t explain it, but it feels … right with him.”

Your normally stoic mother looks touched. “Then he has my blessing.”

On her other side, Christian smirks. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re in looooove.” He exaggerates a swoon, cackling when you stick your tongue out at him.

“Hush dear, let your sister be happy,” your mother chides, swatting his shoulder before smiling indulgently. “Reminds me of another young prince long ago, besotted with an Australian girl ...”

Your father laughs, eyes crinkling. “Too right, darling. Clearly our Y/N takes after me.” He winks at you. “We Danes do seem to have a weakness for Aussies.”

You groan good-naturedly at the gentle teasing, buoyed by your family’s support. With their love behind you, the rest no longer matters.

You conclude the call with hugs blown through the screen and a heart full to bursting. No matter what the coming days hold, you won’t be facing them alone.

Later, a hesitant knock interrupts your contented musings. You open the door to find Oscar, eyebrows pinched anxiously.

But at the sight of your radiant smile, the tension melts from his frame. His hands settle comfortably on your waist like coming home.

“So ...” he begins, nose scrunching up adorably, “Think your family will let you keep me around?”

You answer by pulling him down into a long, sweet kiss. When you finally separate, foreheads pressed together, Oscar sighs out, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Your answering laugh fills the space between you as he lifts you effortlessly into a spinning embrace. The setting sun gilds the hotel room in amber, basking you both in warmth and promise.

Let the world say what they will. You’ve made your choice, the only one your heart would allow. And with Oscar’s arms encircling you now, you know you’re right where you belong.

***

“Come on, it’ll be great! When’s the next chance you’ll get to come down under?”

Oscar’s pleading face fills your laptop screen, bottom lip poking out beseechingly. You try to stand firm, but your resolve is crumbling.

“I don’t know … won’t I be imposing on your family time?”

Oscar waves a hand breezily. “Nah, Mum and Dad have been hassling me nonstop to bring you for a visit. Trust me, they’ll smother you with Aussie hospitality.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully. A trip together does sound tempting. And you’re endlessly curious to see where Oscar grew up.

Sensing your wavering, Oscar presses his advantage. “There’s so much I want to show you! The beach I learned to surf at, my favorite cafes and shops ...”

His voice turns coaxing. “And just think, falling asleep under the southern stars ...”

Your heart flutters traitorously. Oscar knows your weakness for astronomy. With a defeated huff, you nod.

“Oh alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll see if I can clear my schedule for next month.”

Oscar whoops, pumping a victorious fist. “Yes! You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

The rest of the call passes in eager planning until Oscar reluctantly disconnects to start his day. As the screen goes dark, butterflies swell in your stomach. A whole trip together!

The weeks crawl by agonizingly until finally you’re boarding the royal jet bound for Melbourne, giddiness rising with each mile.

Oscar is waiting when you deplane, sweeping you up joyfully the second your feet hit the tarmac. You cling to him, breathing in the scent of home you’ve missed so much.

As the hug extends well past proper etiquette, your bodyguard Henrik pointedly clears his throat. You spring apart, blushing when you meet his knowing gaze.

Oscar just grins unrepentantly, grabbing your hand to lead you towards where his parents are waiting.

You spot them immediately — Oscar’s smile mirrored on his mother’s face and his kind eyes reflected in his father’s crinkled gaze. They hurry over, clasping your hands warmly.

“Your Royal Highness, we’re so honored to finally meet you!” His mother gushes. “Oscar’s told us so much, I feel as if we know you already.”

You smile, charmed by her easy manner. “The honor is mine, Mrs. Piastri. Please, call me Y/N.”

She pats your hand merrily. “Of course, dear! And you must call me Nicole. Now come, let’s get you home and settled.”

The ride to Oscar’s childhood home passes quickly, filled with lively conversation. His parents’ sweet banter reminds you so much of your own.

When you arrive, Nicole loops her arm through yours, bustling you inside. “We’ve freshened up Oscar’s old room for you, I do hope it’s comfortable.”

You take in the posters of racing legends and cricketers adorning the walls, the cluttered bookshelves full of well-loved texts. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Excellent!” Nicole claps her hands. “Now, you two get settled. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

She disappears down the hall with a parting wink that makes Oscar flush beet red. You stifle a laugh and let him tug you further inside.

Dinner passes in a blur of delicious food and easy laughter. Chris’ eyes twinkle knowingly as he refills your wine.

“We’re just delighted to finally meet the girl who’s made our Oscar so happy.”

Oscar covers his face in exaggerated mortification, but his fingers squeeze yours under the table. You lift your joined hands to brush a kiss over his knuckles when his parents aren’t looking.

The peaceful mood continues as Nicole breaks out photo albums. You coo over baby pictures of Oscar, smothering laughter at his gap-toothed grin and wild hair.

Yawns eventually take over and everyone reluctantly shuffles off to bed. In Oscar’s room, you borrow his old karting club shirt to sleep in.

Oscar looks up from turning down the duvet, eyes darkening as he takes you in. “This was a terrible idea, you looking so cute in my clothes.”

You giggle and kiss the tip of his nose before climbing into bed and patting the space next to you. Oscar obliges, pulling you close and nuzzling into your hair.

Outside the window, the infinity of the southern skies beckons. But here in Oscar’s arms, you have everything you need.

Oscar hums contentedly, dropping a kiss to your hair as your eyes drift closed.

“Sweet dreams, my princess,” he whispers. You float off cradled in his warmth, perfectly at peace.

The rest of the trip passes in blissful domesticity — lazy beach days, intimate dinners, long talks under the stars. Meeting Oscar’s family feels like coming to a second home.

On your last night, you creep outside to sit curled against him on the back porch, committing every detail to memory.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whisper into the quiet night.

Oscar presses a lingering kiss below your ear. “It’s only the start for us.”

And basking in his touch, the infinite potential of the future unfolding before you, you know he’s right. This is just the beginning.

***

You smooth your hands over your dress, peering anxiously out the palace window overlooking the winding driveway. Any moment now, the car bringing Oscar should pull through the gates.

It’s his first time visiting the palace and meeting your family officially as your boyfriend. You know they’ll love him, but nerves still flutter in your chest.

The crunch of tires on gravel draws your gaze back outside. You watch Oscar emerge from the car, craning his head back to take in the towering palace facade.

Unable to wait any longer, you gather your skirts and hurry downstairs just as he steps inside the grand entryway.

Oscar turns at the click of your heels, face melting into a smile. In a few quick strides, he sweeps you into his arms, spinning you joyfully.

You cling to him, breathing in the soothing scent of home you’ve missed. When he sets you down, hands come up to frame your face tenderly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“There’s my beautiful girl. I’ve missed you so much, Princess.”

Heart swelling, you lean in to capture his lips in a kiss that conveys weeks of longing. Oscar responds urgently, fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close.

A pointed cough interrupts your reunion. You pull back to see your brother Christian smirking knowingly.

“Well now I see why you were so eager for Oscar’s visit. Should I come back later?”

You stick your tongue out at him even as a blush stains your cheeks. Taking Oscar’s hand, you lead him towards the family wing.

“Come on, everyone’s excited to finally meet you properly.”

Voices carry from the dining room as you approach. Inside, your family looks up, faces alight with warmth and curiosity.

Your father strides forward first, clasping Oscar’s hand firmly. “Oscar, welcome. We’re delighted to have you here.”

Oscar returns the handshake graciously. “The honor is mine, Your Majesty. Thank you for the invitation.”

More greetings follow before your mother guides everyone to the table. Oscar pulls out your chair, pressing a discreet kiss to your temple as you sit. Happiness bubbles up inside at having him here with your family.

Dinner passes enjoyably, conversation flowing. Oscar charms them all effortlessly with his quick wit and humor. Laughter fills the room, the atmosphere light and intimate.

With dessert finished, your siblings seize their chance to grill Oscar playfully.

“Sooo tell us,” Isabella begins, propping her chin on her hands. “What exactly are your intentions with our dear sister?”

Oscar just grins, unfazed. “Why, to make her happy every single day, of course.”

You melt at his simple sincerity, grasping his hand under the table.

“Good answer!” Christian crows. “But know if you ever hurt her, you’ll have the entire Danish army to answer to.”

Despite his teasing tone, you know Christian means every word. Oscar inclines his head solemnly.

“You have my word such a day will never come. Her happiness means everything to me.”

Your siblings appear satisfied, moving on to pepper Oscar with questions about his career and interests. He takes their antics in stride, witty comebacks drawing fond laughter from your parents.

The relaxed family atmosphere reminds you so much of that first dinner at Oscar’s childhood home. Your heart swells with quiet joy at how seamlessly he fits here too.

Eventually Oscar politely extracts you both, citing early flights in the morning. Alone in the hall, he sags against the wall in exaggerated relief.

“Whew, your family is something else! I think that interrogation was more intense than any press conference.”

You laugh and swat his shoulder before lifting on your toes to kiss him sweetly. “You were wonderful. I’m so happy you’re here.”

Oscar’s eyes soften. “Me too, Princess. Being here with you feels like home.”

Heedless of any lingering eyes, you kiss him again under the twinkling chandelier.

A loud retching sound interrupts you. “Ugh, get a room you two!” Christian complains, dodging your swat.

Oscar just tugs you closer with a chuckle. “Don’t worry mate, I plan to.”

He silences Christian’s protests with another searing kiss. And surrounded by Oscar’s warmth, you can’t bring yourself to care who sees.

***

Moonlight filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow. You lay curled against Oscar’s chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his heart.

The steady rhythm soothes you, but your own heart feels anything but calm. There’s something you need to discuss, but nerves stall your tongue.

Sensing your tension, Oscar’s hand comes up to sift gently through your hair. “Penny for your thoughts, love?”

You lean into his touch, gathering courage. “I was just thinking about the future. Our future.” You twist to meet his gaze. “I know it’s still early days for us, but if this continues to get more serious ...”

You trail off uncertainly, but Oscar’s eyes are warm with encouragement. Bolstered, you continue.

“There are certain expectations that come with being attached to the heir to the throne. Traditions and duties to learn.”

You watch Oscar’s face closely, but he simply nods thoughtfully. “Of course, that makes sense. I’m happy to learn whatever I need to.”

Relief trickles through you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, smiling softly down at him.

“For example, even before my mother was engaged to my father, she decided to learn Danish. The protocol and duties, the public role … it was a massive life change.”

You take a bracing breath. “I don’t expect you to make such changes overnight. But someday, if this continues on the path we hope ...”

You trail off meaningfully. Oscar’s hand comes up to cradle your face. “Hey, if being with you means learning Danish, or attending stuffy banquets, or anything else, I’m in this 100%.”

His eyes bore into yours. “I’ll do whatever it takes to build a life together.”

Emotion clogs your throat. You have to swallow thickly before responding. “Well, maybe we start small then. How about I teach you a few phrases?”

Oscar grins, pulling you back down against him. “Ja, det lyder perfekt.”

You jerk back in surprise, swatting his chest. “You brat, have you been practicing without telling me?”

Oscar’s eyes dance with laughter. “Maybe just a few key phrases. Wanted to surprise you.”

His smile turns tender. “I’d love nothing more than for you to teach me, sweetheart.”

Happiness bubbles up inside you. You snuggle closer, thinking. “Alright, let’s start simple. Like hej simply means hello.”

Oscar repeats the phrase dutifully, brow furrowing in concentration. You cover his hand with yours.

“Jeg elsker dig,” you murmur, gazing into his eyes.

“Jeg elsker dig,” Oscar echoes. “What does it mean?”

Sudden shyness has you ducking your head. “It means I love you.”

Oscar’s sharp inhale lifts your head. He grasps both of your hands, staring deeply into your eyes.

“Jeg elsker dig,” he repeats reverently.

Emotion clogs your throat. You lean in, whispering against his lips, “Jeg elsker dig, Oscar.”

The kiss starts soft and unhurried, a confirmation of feelings conveyed best without words. Oscar’s arms wrap securely around you as the kiss deepens, pouring every ounce of love and promise into it.

When you eventually break apart, Oscar keeps you cradled close, dropping kisses into your hair. “What else can you teach me?”

Happiness bubbles up at his tentative Danish endearment. You settle back against him, whispering translations as his steady heartbeat lulls you towards sleep.

But too soon, Oscar is reluctantly packing to leave, both clinging to these last private hours before he has to set off for the next race.

You wind yourself around him, unwilling to let go. Oscar holds you close, murmuring promises of next visits and calls into your hair.

As you finally part at the airport, his whispered “jeg elsker dig” warms you from the inside out. No matter the miles between you, your hearts remain entwined.

***

You adjust the diamond clips in your elegantly twisted updo, scanning your reflection critically. The deep blue gown hugs your frame perfectly, but nerves still flutter in your stomach.

Because tonight, Oscar will be attending his first official function as your partner — a lavish gala in honor of the new children’s hospital bearing your mother’s name.

A knock precedes Oscar peeking his head in, hands clapped over his eyes. “Safe to look?”

You smooth your skirt with a shaky exhale. “Yes, come in.”

Oscar drops his hands, mouth falling open. “Wow. You look absolutely stunning tonight, my love.”

He takes your hands, eyes roving appreciatively over you. “Going to have to beat all the envious blokes away with a stick.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “Oh hush. You look rather dashing yourself, Mr. Piastri.”

And he does in his impeccably tailored tuxedo, hair swept back neatly. You brush a piece of imaginary lint from his lapel, nerves melting away under his warm gaze.

“Shall we?” He offers his arm gallantly. You lay your hand atop it, spine straightening.

“We shall.”

The ballroom glitters under fairy lights as you make your entrance, immediately garnering interested looks and murmurs. On your arm, Oscar draws admiring glances of his own with his rakish good looks and easy confidence.

You greet various dignitaries and philanthropists, Oscar a steady, charming presence at your side. As you speak with the hospital’s key figures, his hand at the small of your back anchors you.

But as the speeches drag on, Oscar leans in subtly. “Is it terrible I’m already bored senseless? I’d rather actually meet these kids we’re meant to be helping.”

You hide a smile behind your wine glass. The same restlessness plagues you as schmoozing patrons preen and prattle.

As dessert wraps up, an idea strikes you. You catch Oscar’s eye, tilting your head meaningfully at a side exit before excusing yourself discretely.

Understanding dawns on his face and he trails casually after you. In the entry hall, you hurry to a secluded alcove, grabbing his hand.

“Quick, while we won’t be missed. Let’s actually go see the children.”

Excitement flashes across Oscar’s face. “Brilliant thinking. Lead the way, Princess.”

Adrenaline courses through you as you sneak out to the waiting car, bodyguards eyeing you curiously.

“Rigshospitalet, please. Quickly.”

At the children’s hospital, you sweep inside, Oscar at your heels. The receptionist gapes as you approach.

“So sorry to drop by unannounced. We were hoping there might be a chance for us to visit with some of the patients?”

The receptionist’s mouth opens and closes before she stutters, “O-of course, Your Highness, right away!” Clearly your boldness has paid off.

You exchange exhilarated looks with Oscar as she pages a nurse to escort you up. On the cheery pediatric ward, you peek into rooms, greeting curious families.

At one doorway, a gasp stops you short. A little girl sits up in bed, pointing.

“Mama, it’s the princess! And her boyfriend!”

You glance at Oscar to find him rubbing his neck bashfully. Clearly his fame extends beyond the F1 sphere here.

You laugh and enter slowly. “We were hoping we might visit you, if that’s alright?”

The girl — Else — nods eagerly, blond braids bouncing. Her mother rises to curtsy but you wave her off kindly as Oscar produces a small plush racecar from his pocket, to Else’s delight.

As you chat and play with Else, joy lights up her face. For a short time, she’s just a normal girl again. Your chest aches at her bright spirit despite her poor health.

All too soon, a nurse taps her watch. As you make your goodbyes, Else throws her thin arms around your waist.

“Thank you! This was like a fairytale.” Over her head, her mother mouths a tearful thank you of her own.

You hug Else gently before kneeling down. “It was our honor. You stay strong, little one.”

Her returning whisper warms your heart. “Don’t worry, I will!”

Similar scenes play out in room after room. Your cheeks ache from smiling but it’s a welcome ache. The children’s awed joy makes the real reason for tonight crystal clear.

Watching Oscar kneel patiently as a shy boy shows him a prized toy car, your heart clenches with love. Catching your gaze, Oscar’s eyes mirror the same emotion.

Far too soon, your bodyguards notify you it’s time to return before your absence draws notice. A chorus of disappointed groans follows you out.

Back at the gala, you slip in just in time for closing toasts. No one seems the wiser about your little detour.

Under the table, Oscar squeezes your hand. The contact says it all — this is what truly matters. Not accolades or commendations, but joy brought to hurting hearts.

You know you’ll be back. Both of you. Not for galas or acclaim, but for the chance to see young faces light up, if only for a moment.

Late that night, you slow dance alone in the empty ballroom, music and laughter faded. Oscar’s arms circle you from behind, chin tucking onto your shoulder.

“I think tonight was the most important royal function I’ve ever attended,” he murmurs.

You cover his hands with yours, leaning back into him with a contented sigh. No more words need be said.

The rest of the world may see events like tonight as social currency and networking. But you hold the truth in your heart — the only currency that counts can’t be bought, only given freely through love.

***

Two Years Later

You smooth your hands over your dress, pulse thrumming as you await the imminent news conference. Just hours ago, the palace formally announced your engagement to Oscar, sending the public into a frenzy.

Now, you’re about to face the media together for the first time as an engaged couple. Press stands crowd the palace gardens, cameras poised and ready.

At your side, Oscar seems calm and collected, fingers threaded loosely with yours. But you sense the storm brewing beneath his tranquil surface.

You reach up and gently adjust his suit collar, fingers lingering on the lapels as you meet his eyes. He gives you a small, grateful smile before you both turn to face the expectant crowd.

Because today also brings another announcement — one that will upend Oscar’s world irreversibly.

Your father steps forward first to formally confirm the engagement and expound on Oscar’s character. As he returns to your side, Oscar squeezes your hand and you nod in encouragement.

Oscar clears his throat, stepping closer to the microphones. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Y/N and I are over the moon at the chance to spend our lives together.”

He gazes at you softly before continuing. “I’m truly the luckiest man in the world to have won the heart of Denmark’s lovely princess.”

You have to resist the urge to kiss him senseless then and there. Cameras flash brightly as Oscar details your romantic (and heavily abridged) love story, punctuated with charming wit.

But gradually, his mirth fades. With another fortifying hand squeeze, he steels himself for the harder part.

“While I’m elated at this new chapter ahead, it also brings difficult changes. I’m announcing my retirement from Formula 1 following this season’s conclusion.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Oscar’s grip tightens as he pushes forward.

“As a member of the royal family, I will no longer be able to continue racing competitively. I am grateful to have achieved my dream this year of winning the championship.”

His voice falters briefly and your heart clenches. Racing is Oscar’s passion — having to walk away is unimaginably hard.

Oscar visibly gathers himself. “But as difficult as this is, marrying Y/N is worth any sacrifice. She is my true dream now.”

He turns to you then, eyes glistening. “The honor of being your husband eclipses any trophy or medal. You are my greatest victory.”

Emotion clogs your throat and without thinking, you wrap him in a fierce embrace. The rules of propriety fade away, only your pride and love for Oscar remain.

His arms clutch you close as flashes erupt around you. But in this moment, you see only each other.

Eventually you separate and Oscar takes your hand once more, gracing you with a tender smile. He turns back to the microphones for one last address.

“Til Danmark og det danske folk. Jeg lover at tjene jer med ære, respekt og kærlighed.”

The Danish press reacts first, visibly surprised and impressed at Oscar’s speech in their native tongue.

You blink back a fresh wave of tears at his poignant promise — to serve Denmark with honor, respect, and love.

Overcome with emotion, you step forward to the microphones as well.

“Oscar’s love for me and Denmark is clear to all who meet him. I am truly blessed to have found such a selfless, caring partner.”

Your voice wavers with feeling. “Though it grieves me to see his racing career ended prematurely, I could not be more proud of the man he is.”

You reach for Oscar’s hand, gazing at him through tear-filled eyes. “He gives up much out of love for me. I only hope I can bring him a fraction of the joy in return.”

Oscar’s fingers tighten around yours, eyes shining with affection. Cameras flash furiously at your raw display of love and emotion.

But you remain lost in Oscar’s eyes, the rest of the world fading away. In this moment, all that matters is your shared devotion and the bright future stretching before you.

Questions start flying from the excited press corps but Oscar politely extracts you both, ceding the floor to the waiting palace officials.

Alone inside once more, Oscar sags against the wall in clear emotional exhaustion. You wrap him in your arms, heart aching for the pain this transition causes.

Oscar clings to you tightly, face pressed into your hair. “I meant every word,” he whispers fiercely. “You are my whole world now.”

You draw back just far enough to meet his eyes, hoping he can see the depths of your love reflected there.

“I know, min kæreste. We’ll face this new future together.”

The answering kiss speaks what words cannot. No matter what comes, your love remains constant.

A new path lies ahead now, one you will walk hand in hand, till the end of your days.

***

Five Years Later

The roar of engines draws nearer as your car nears the Copenhagen street circuit. In the seat beside you, Oscar bounces his leg restlessly, face alight with anticipation.

In the backseat, your three-year-old daughter, Margrethe (affectionately called Maise for short), mimics her father’s excitement, chattering cheerfully about anything and everything.

You reach over to still Oscar’s jostling knee, smiling indulgently. “Easy there, we’ve barely arrived and you’re already wound up.”

Oscar shoots you a boyish grin. “Can you blame me? It’s been so long since I was last in the paddock. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

Your heart swells with quiet awe once more at the sacrifices Oscar has made for your future together. While racing still runs through his veins, his duties as Crown Prince of Denmark now take precedence.

But today offers a joyous reunion, with Oscar instrumental in bringing Formula 1 racing back to Danish soil for the first time since 1962.

As the car pulls through the paddock entrance, Oscar cranes his neck eagerly, drinking in the familiar organized chaos. Before the door even opens, you hear a familiar voice shouting.

“He lives! The prodigal prince returns!” A blur of McLaren papaya hurtles towards Oscar as he steps out.

Oscar just manages to brace himself before Lando Norris tackles him in an exuberant hug. Laughter bubbles out of Oscar as he returns the embrace.

“Good to see you too, mate. It’s been way too long.”

You round the car to find Oscar’s former team already swarming him, clapping his back and jostling each other good-naturedly to greet their long-lost driver.

Oscar’s eyes shine as he falls back into easy banter, trading inside jokes and reminiscing. With Maise balanced on your hip, you hang back contentedly, letting Oscar have this moment.

As the reunion finally winds down, Lando gestures to you and Maise. “And who do we have here? Don’t tell me this little beauty is your daughter?”

Oscar beams, waving you both over. “She is indeed! Lando, meet my little girl.”

Lando pretends to stagger back in shock. “No way, our little Oscar is all grown up and domesticated now!”

Oscar shoves him playfully before sweeping Maise into his arms. “What can I say, my fast living days are behind me now.” He kisses Maise’s wavy hair, eyes finding yours. “I’ve got all I need right here.”

Your insides turn mushy at the adoration in his voice. The years have only deepened your love further.

More drivers trickle over to greet Oscar, ribbing him good-naturedly about his new royal status. But the obvious affection underlying the teasing is clear.

Zak Brown claps Oscar on the back. “It’s so good to have you back, even just for a day. You and your family should stay, watch the race from the garage!”

For a fleeting moment, naked longing flashes across Oscar’s face at the thought of experiencing race day excitement again up close.

But reality settles back in quickly, his expression turning regretful. “That’s a lovely offer, truly. But I’m afraid we’ll have to make our way to the royal box.”

He bounces Maise gently, tone wry. “Some of us have a job to do handing out trophies later.” Maise giggles and tugs at his ear happily, blissfully unaware of the wistfulness simmering beneath her father’s smile.

You slip your arm through Oscar’s, offering a comforting squeeze. His answering smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

After more fond farewells, you exit the nostalgic bubble of the garage. Oscar pauses, taking a moment to just breathe and gather himself.

You shift Maise to your other hip, wrapping your free arm around his waist. Oscar leans into you gratefully, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Can’t believe it’s been five years already,” he murmurs. “Feels like another lifetime.”

You smile up at him sadly. “I know, my love. But look at everything you’ve accomplished for Denmark in that time. This race wouldn’t even be happening without you.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “Too right. Who needs driving when I’ve got you two anyway?”

He tickles Maise playfully, eliciting delighted giggles. The melancholy edge has left his eyes now, replaced by contentment.

Hand in hand, with Maise toddling happily between you, the three of you set off together towards the royal box. The Danish Grand Prix awaits, along with the bright future you continue building as a family.

This may no longer be Oscar’s world, but he now shapes the path for future generations of drivers. After the race, as Oscar graciously awards the beaming winner while Maise excitedly cheers from the side of the podium, you know this is precisely where he’s meant to be.

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