#instead of just repeating the same thing over and over

[0scarp1astr1]

 ˖ 𐔌 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Lando Norris was known for his partying ways, his loud and exciting ways, at least by the media. So, it began to make those close to him wonder what attracted him to a single mother such as you. ||

ᯓ★ Lando Norris x Fem! (Single Mom) Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: This one is longer than the others, so please be aware but hopefully this holds you all over. Much love.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Being a mother wasn’t something you had planned—at least, not this soon. You were in your twenties, the so-called “prime years,” the time for reckless freedom, house parties that turned into sunrise conversations, or spontaneous trips with friends that felt like the world belonged only to you. Your nights were supposed to be lit with fairy lights strung across living room ceilings, wine glasses clinking, and the endless chatter about relationships, careers, and everything in between.

But instead, your twenties became a symphony of lullabies, muffled cartoons, and the quiet creak of a baby monitor in the middle of the night. They were no longer about heels and lipstick but about stepping over rogue LEGO pieces that threatened to take you out with one misstep, about mopping up juice spills and wiping sticky fingers and tired tears. You were reading the same bedtime story three times in a row because your son loved the way you did the voices, checking under the bed for imaginary monsters with the same seriousness you once saved for final exams.

It wasn’t easy. Especially not when people you thought would be there for you—those who once claimed they'd be aunties and uncles in all but blood—began to drift away. Some didn’t understand. Others didn’t try to. The baby shower promises and “I’ll always be here” texts faded like echoes, and in their absence, you carried the weight of motherhood alone. It stung in the quietest way.

But then came Sebastian.

Your beautiful baby boy with soft curls and eyes that held the galaxy. He changed everything. From the moment he was placed in your arms, the chaos didn’t matter. The sleepless nights, the fear, the uncertainty—they all became worth it the second he smiled. He was three now. A tiny tornado of joy and curiosity, who gave your life a sense of grounding and wonder you never knew you needed. Raising him wasn’t always easy, but somewhere in the mix of tantrums and toothy grins, your confidence as a mother began to bloom. You figured things out, step by shaky step, and you were proud of who you were becoming—for him.

Still, late at night, when he was tucked into bed and the silence stretched long between the walls, you wondered if love would ever find you again. The kind that made your chest ache with excitement, the kind that whispered comfort into the hollow places. You had loved before—young love, teenage love, the firsts that shaped you—but now? Now you weren’t the same girl anymore. You were a woman, a mother, and that felt like a world apart from who you used to be. Who would want to step into this life mid-chapter?

But little did you know, love wasn’t far. In fact, it lived just behind the screen you scrolled through at night.

Lando Norris. His name echoed across social media like a song on repeat. A man whose life seemed impossibly full—speeding through cities, smiling on podiums, partying in places you only dreamed of. He was freedom personified. A life in fast motion, captured in highlight reels and championship circuits. To the world, he was laughter and youth and charm, adored by millions, a modern-day rockstar in a race car.

He was everything your life was not.

And yet—somehow, fate was quietly working behind the scenes.

Because what neither of you realized just yet...was that love was about to collide with your life. Not with fireworks or headlines—but with small moments. A conversation. A look. A gesture. Something real, in a world that often felt anything but.

Despite his young age, Sebastian had already found a passion that made his eyes glow with wonder: Formula 1. It started subtly—he’d pad across the floor in his little socks, dragging his blanket behind him, only to stop and stare at the TV whenever fast cars zipped across the screen. The vibrant colors, the roaring engines, the animated commentary—it all lit up something inside him.

You didn’t expect it. After all, he was just three years old. His world should’ve been centered on coloring books and stuffed animals, not tire strategies and pit stops. But every time you flipped past a Formula 1 broadcast, he’d make a sound, a pointed squeal, or a clumsy run toward the screen. It was obvious: he was captivated.

So, naturally, you followed his excitement. You became the mom who ordered F1 merch online late at night, building a miniature racing wardrobe for your son. T-shirts in all colors. Hats far too big for his little head. Plushie cars he’d vroom around the living room. Whatever he showed the slightest interest in—you got it. And soon enough, the drivers became household names not just to the world, but to him.

Sebastian would burst into laughter whenever Max Verstappen gave his famously direct interviews, his young mind not grasping the words but fully recognizing the face. And Yuki—now part of the Red Bull team—became his source of infectious glee. Every time Yuki’s voice rang through a press conference or onboard radio, Sebastian would shriek with laughter, his eyes twinkling. He didn’t need to understand Japanese humor to adore Yuki’s presence.

Charles Leclerc? Sebastian pointed him out like an old friend. Lewis Hamilton? He’d watch him like he was listening to a storybook read aloud. And George Russell, ever graceful in his silver Mercedes, was often mimicked when Sebastian ran around the apartment in circles, pretending he was on a flying lap.

But the real surprise came with Kimi Antonelli—Mercedes' youngest and most buzzed-about addition. Whenever Kimi’s name popped up onscreen, Sebastian’s full body seemed to light up. “Kimi!” he’d shout, over and over, jumping as if the two were best friends. He didn’t care that there was a more famous “Kimi” from before—this one was his. Young, daring, full of raw potential. Sebastian’s toddler heart was loyal in a way adults often forgot how to be.

Yet, through all the teams and drivers he loved—Red Bull, Ferrari, Mercedes—it was always McLaren that stole the biggest piece of his heart. He adored the bold papaya orange livery, the sleek cars, and most of all, the drivers. Every time Lando Norris appeared on screen, Sebastian would clap like he was watching fireworks. And when Oscar Piastri came on, he’d spin in a happy circle, unable to contain his joy.

“Lando! Look, mama, it’s Lando!” he’d shout, tugging your arm with his tiny fingers, eyes wide in awe like he was seeing a superhero. If Lando waved to the camera, Sebastian would wave back, completely convinced it was meant for him.

You watched all of this unfold with warmth blooming in your chest. Parenthood hadn't been something you planned for your twenties—but moments like this made it feel like life had rewritten itself for the better. Amid the mess of snacks on the carpet, bedtime stories, and tiny shoes always misplaced—you found beauty. In Sebastian’s passion, in his smile, in the way he pointed to his heroes like they were friends—you found your peace.

And somehow, in between your world of routines and his world of racing, you both found something else too: hope. Joy. And a shared love for the chaos and color of Formula 1.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The gentle steam curled from your mug as you sat at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, grounding yourself in the stillness of the morning. Across from you, your mother sat with the familiar calm she always brought—an anchor in your often-chaotic days. The soft hum of the TV filled the space between your conversations, and the distant clatter of plastic toys played backup to the soundtrack of your life as a mom.

Every so often, you'd rise from your seat to peek into the living room where Sebastian was busy pushing his toy cars across the rug, his tiny feet kicking in excitement, curls bouncing with each animated laugh. He was three years old, full of energy, and already fascinated by the world of Formula 1—a love you'd discovered through the way he lit up at the sight of the cars, the drivers, the roar of the engines on screen.

You returned to the table, a tired but content smile forming on your lips.

Your mother took a slow sip of her tea before looking up at you gently. “So… has his father called? Checked in at all?”

Your chest sank a little, and you exhaled a sigh that felt like it had been stored up for weeks. “No. Not once,” you said quietly. “He’s never really made the effort. And honestly? I’m done waiting for him to care. Sebastian doesn’t even notice. It’s just been me and him for so long, we’ve got our own rhythm.”

Your mom nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting both pride and sorrow. “I’m sorry, honey. You deserve more support than that. But you’re doing an amazing job. I mean it.”

You gave a soft smile, one that came with both gratitude and a hint of weariness. Your gaze wandered again to the living room. Sebastian was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, practically vibrating with excitement. The race had started, and you could hear his delighted squeals every time a car zoomed across the screen.

“He’s obsessed,” you chuckled. “Formula 1, of all things.”

“I noticed,” your mom said, a twinkle in her eye. “He talks about the cars like they’re superheroes.”

You smiled wider. “Yeah. He has a whole routine. Points at Charles and says, ‘Zoom!’ Every time he sees Kimi or George he claps like he’s at a concert. Don’t even get me started on how excited he gets over Lando and Oscar. It's... it’s kind of adorable.”

There was a pause, the soft kind that usually comes before something unexpected.

“Well,” your mom started, setting her mug down and reaching into her handbag slowly, “since he loves it so much… and since you could really use a little joy, I thought this might help.”

She slid a small envelope across the table toward you.

You blinked, confused, then slowly opened it.

Your heart skipped.

Inside were two glossy, official Formula 1 paddock passes—one adult, one child.

You looked up at her, stunned. “Mom… what is this?”

“It’s for the Grand Prix this weekend,” she said, her voice gentle. “I pulled a few strings. A friend from my old job still does hospitality for events like this. It’s not VIP, but it’s paddock access. You and Sebastian can go. See the cars, the drivers, the team garages… the whole thing. I thought he’d love it. And you, too.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you laughed, a bit breathless from the shock. “Are you serious? Mom… this is too much.”

“It’s not too much,” she said, smiling. “You give that boy the world every day with what little you have. I figured it was time the world gave something back. And who knows? Maybe this is the kind of moment he’ll remember forever.”

From the living room came the unmistakable shriek of joy—Sebastian jumping up and down, arms raised as a car zoomed across the screen. “Mama! It’s Lando!! Look! Orange car!!”

You turned, your heart softening at the sight.

You looked back at the passes, then to your mother, your eyes glossy. “Thank you,” you whispered. “He’s going to lose his little mind.”

She reached across and squeezed your hand. “That’s the plan.”

The two of you chatted between soft laughs and thoughtful silences—the kind that only exist in the presence of someone who has known you your whole life. It was one of those rare, warm moments of peace—something you didn’t get to feel often in your whirlwind life as a single mother.

The conversation drifted between topics: Sebastian’s latest fascination with “Zoom cars,” your job, the things you missed, and the things you learned to live without. It was soft. Safe. Your mother’s voice was a balm, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe everything really would be okay.

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, in a completely different atmosphere, Lando Norris groaned into his pillow.

The curtains of his penthouse suite were drawn tightly shut, but even the tiniest sliver of sunlight that slipped in felt like an attack. His head throbbed in waves, a dull pulsing at his temples that matched the beat of the club music still echoing in his brain. The drinks from the night before had tasted better going down than they did now, swirling in his stomach like regret. His mouth was dry, throat burning faintly from too much liquor and not enough water, and all he could remember was the wild chorus of bass drops, laughter, bodies dancing under neon lights, and a few blurry flashes of cameras aimed directly at him.

Another tabloid moment. Another night added to his growing online image—Lando Norris, the fun-loving party king of Formula 1.

He groaned again and shifted in bed, a pillow dragged over his face. "Never again," he muttered to himself.

“Right,” came a dry, amused voice from the doorway.

Lando peeked one eye open, lifting the pillow just enough to glare at Oscar Piastri, who stood just inside the room, arms crossed, and a disapproving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You look dead, mate,” Oscar said, eyeing the chaos of clothes strewn across the floor, the abandoned shoes by the door, and Lando himself—still in last night’s wrinkled t-shirt, half-draped in his sheets like a child mid-tantrum.

Lando gave a weak thumbs-up, his voice hoarse. “I feel sick.”

Oscar snorted. “Yeah, I wonder why. Maybe the six tequila shots? Or was it the bottle service you insisted on ordering at two in the morning?”

“I was celebrating,” Lando groaned.

“Celebrating what exactly? A hangover?”

Lando flopped onto his back, wincing. “Shut up. I'm mourning my youth.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Exactly,” Lando muttered. “Quarter-life crisis.”

Oscar shook his head, making his way over to pull open the curtains—Lando hissed dramatically as sunlight flooded the room. Oscar rolled his eyes and tossed a bottle of water at him. “You’re lucky your schedule’s clear for once. I should make you go for a run.”

“Run?!” Lando looked offended. “Oscar. I’m dying.”

“You’re hungover. Same thing every time. You act like the world’s ending, and then you’re back on a yacht tomorrow.”

Lando took a long sip of water, the coldness soothing his throat and dulling the nausea just enough. He looked out the window at the skyline—vibrant, alive, and completely removed from any form of normalcy. The contrast between his life and the real world had never been sharper than now.

And though he lived for the thrill, the freedom, the glamor... somewhere, buried under the hangover and the jokes, a part of him wondered what it would be like to wake up in a quiet house.

To the world, Lando Norris lived a dream dipped in neon lights and champagne. He was the poster boy of F1’s nightlife—flashing cameras, velvet ropes, smoke-filled lounges, the glittering pulse of clubs across Monaco, London, Ibiza. His name often trended beside headlines of afterparties and appearances, linked to whispers of flings, mystery women, and flirtatious smirks caught on video.

The “party boy” image clung to him like cologne—loud, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

At first, Lando had laughed it off. He gave the media their smiles, tossed fans a wink, and leaned into the persona. Why not? He was young, rich, successful. The parties were fun, the people lively, the noise almost enough to drown out the emptiness that sometimes followed when he returned home alone.

But the more the world assumed, the harder it became to shake the narrative. Social media only cemented it further—comments under photos speculating who he’d slept with, sarcastic tweets calling him the "Formula 1 Casanova," and fan threads dissecting his every interaction with a woman. At times, the world didn’t seem to believe he was capable of real love—only fleeting fun.

And that started to sting.

Behind the filters and club lights, Lando was still just a twenty-five-year-old guy who sometimes questioned where his life was going. Fame had given him everything, yet it also took so much. Privacy. Trust. Stability.

He'd see posts about Oscar and Lily—his teammate and his long-time girlfriend—and it would stir something unfamiliar in him. They had history. Quiet affection. A love that felt warm and grounding. The kind of relationship fans loved to root for. There was no gossip about Oscar’s loyalty, no speculation over his weekend choices. Instead, there were cute couple pictures, supportive tweets, and heartfelt comments.

The contrast couldn’t have been sharper.

Sometimes, in the silence after a night out, Lando would lie in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, wondering if the path he was on led to something fulfilling—or if he’d just keep spinning in circles. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him craved something deeper. Someone to laugh with on quiet mornings. Someone who didn’t just love him for the spotlight, but in the silence too.

And yet, he wasn’t sure how to find her. Or if he even knew what he was looking for.

His “type,” as people so confidently assumed—tall, stunning models with glossy hair and flawless smiles—was starting to feel like a shallow box he’d been stuffed into. He thought back to past flings—women who were beautiful, yes, but left him feeling emptier than before. Conversations that rarely went past the surface. Nights that blurred into mornings with no plans for the day after.

Was that really love? Was that really what he wanted?

Or was he just playing a role he no longer fit?

The world saw him one way—carefree, reckless, living in luxury. But beneath the surface, Lando was beginning to feel a quiet shift. A question forming in the back of his mind: What if I want more?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

When you told Sebastian that he was going to see Formula 1 in person, it was as if the entire world stood still for him. His little face froze in pure, stunned disbelief—mouth parted, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted in that exaggerated toddler way that could only come from raw joy. Then, in a heartbeat, he was squealing, launching himself into your arms with such excitement that it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Tank you, Mommy! Tank you!” he repeated over and over, voice high with joy, arms wrapped tight around your neck. His mispronounced “thank you” was so pure and sincere that tears threatened to gather in your eyes.

This was it—this was the kind of moment that made every hard day worth it. Every sleepless night, every quiet cry when no one saw you, every sacrifice. Just to give him this joy.

He ran off seconds later, unable to contain his excitement, and started listing the drivers he hoped to meet, barely forming the names in between giddy jumps and giggles. “I gonna see Maxy! And Yuki! And Chawles! And Georgie!” he chanted as he spun around the living room, arms wide like airplane wings. “And Kimi too! And Ockar! Lan’dooo!”

You sat back on the couch, smiling through the wave of emotions. His joy was contagious, a kind of magic that settled deep in your chest.

The days leading up to the paddock visit were filled with a chaos that only love could fuel. You buried yourself in planning, not because you had to, but because you wanted it to be perfect. This wasn’t just a day out—this was a gift, a dream come true for a little boy who’d fallen in love with fast cars and faster drivers without even fully understanding the sport.

You spent evenings scrolling through online shops, adding team merch to your cart, checking sizes twice, and triple-checking the weather forecast. You mapped out packing lists, planned snacks, checked your camera storage space, and googled things like “best ear protection for toddlers at F1 races.”

But the biggest debate of all? Outfits.

You carefully laid out options on your bed—tiny team shirts, pint-sized hats, mini race suits, and soft fleece hoodies. You imagined how he'd look in each one, how his face might light up when he saw someone wearing matching colors.

“Which team should we wear first, Sebastian?” you asked one afternoon, crouching beside him as he built a racetrack out of magnetic tiles and blocks. He paused mid-play, finger on his chin in deep thought.

After a moment, he turned to you with absolute certainty.

“I wear McLah-win. All days,” he said, nodding to confirm his own decision.

“All three days?” you teased.

He nodded more firmly this time, curls bouncing. “Lan’do and Ockar are da best.”

So that was settled.

Day one: his bright papaya hoodie and matching cap—simple, bold, unmistakably McLaren. You paired it with black joggers and white sneakers, letting him choose his favorite little backpack with the lightning bolt keychain.

Day two: his mini Oscar Piastri race suit. It was perfectly tailored for a toddler, down to the stitched belt and sponsor logos. You’d even sewn his name—Sebastian—onto the chest in orange thread. When he saw it, his jaw dropped like he was holding the holy grail. “It me!” he shouted, tracing the letters.

Day three: Lando’s race suit replica. Slightly too big, but in his eyes, it made him look like a real driver. He practiced imaginary starts and finishes, sprinting across the hallway, mimicking Lando’s winning gestures, making vroom-vroom noises until bedtime.

Every night that week, he fell asleep clutching one of his toy cars, his beloved McLaren cap tucked beside his pillow. Some nights, you found him sleep-talking about drivers, whispering garbled names and “I so fast” with a tiny smile.

And you? You watched it all with a full heart.

You weren’t just preparing for a trip—you were making memories. You were giving your son something to remember long after his toddler years had passed. The joy in his eyes, the bounce in his steps, the way he counted down the days like it was Christmas. This wasn’t just about F1. This was about sharing something magical with your little boy.

And in the quiet moments, after Sebastian had fallen asleep, you'd sit in the living room, sometimes staring at the orange hoodie or listening to the faint hum of past races playing from your laptop. You didn’t have every piece of life figured out—but you had this. You had him.

You thought about how far you’d come. A single mom, navigating motherhood without the kind of support others had, building your own traditions, your own life. It hadn’t always been easy, but in these moments, the love made it feel more than enough.

Now, paddock passes in hand, suitcases packed, tiny shoes lined up at the door, it was almost time.

Three days. Three days of noise, excitement, laughter, and a front-row view to something your son loved deeply.

Airports were a world of their own—blaring announcements, rolling suitcases, the blend of perfume and coffee in the air, and the shuffle of people rushing from gate to gate. Among it all, you stood just past the security checkpoint, your carry-on slightly slipping from your shoulder, one hand firmly wrapped around the handle of Sebastian’s tiny suitcase—blue with orange race car stickers he insisted on putting on himself—and the other guiding your excitable three-year-old who was practically vibrating with anticipation.

It was Sebastian’s very first flight, and while you had spent days preparing, no number of travel blogs or TikToks could have truly braced you for the full-body energy your son was currently radiating.

He hopped along the polished tiles in his McLaren hoodie, a stuffed car plushie in one hand, backpack bouncing behind him. “Mommy! We goin’ in da sky! Da sky, da sky, da—!”

“Sebastian,” you called gently but firmly, your tone threading calmness into control. You reached for his shoulder and he paused, looking up at you with that sunshine-smile—one so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. He didn’t speak, just beamed at you like he was keeping a little secret with the clouds he was so eager to meet.

You crouched beside him for a moment, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I know you’re excited, baby, but we have to stay close, okay? No running. There’s too many people here today.”

“Okay, Mommy,” he whispered, slightly breathless, like the airport was a magical maze he was being told not to touch.

You stood again and reached into your tote bag. “Here,” you offered, pulling out the snack bag you’d packed that morning with military precision. “Pick a snack, sit tight.”

Sebastian peeked in, his small fingers rifling through pouches of gummies, crackers, and his ultimate comfort choice—Goldfish. His eyes lit up. “De fishes!”

You tore the bag open and handed it to him, watching the way he cradled it carefully in both hands, like it was treasure. He sat down cross-legged near the window of your gate, Goldfish in hand, gaze drifting to the planes outside.

You took a breath, letting the buzz of the airport fade into the background for a beat. The weight of the moment hit you gently—not heavy, but meaningful. This wasn’t just a trip. This was a first. His first time flying, his first Formula 1 race, his first steps into something that felt big and unforgettable. And you got to be the one by his side, showing him all of it.

You sat next to him, watching him crunch quietly, the reflection of the airplanes gliding along the tarmac gleaming in the wide glass ahead. The clouds above were beginning to part, sun dappling in streaks across the runways.

“Do you think we gonna go super fast like the cars?” he asked, cheeks puffed with snacks.

You laughed softly. “Not quite that fast. But we’ll be up in the clouds soon.”

“Like... where birds go?”

“Exactly where birds go.”

He turned to you, and in a whisper, said, “I hope Lando go there too.”

You chuckled again, heart full. “Maybe not today. But we’ll see him soon.”

It was then that boarding was announced, and the line began to form. You packed up the snack bag, helped Sebastian to his feet, and adjusted his hoodie once more. As you grabbed his hand and headed toward the gate, you felt it again—that quiet sense of rightness.

Despite the chaos of travel, the work of planning, the worries of being enough as a mom—you were here. Together. On an adventure. And that was more than enough.

As you stepped into the jet bridge, your son looked up at you once again, eyes sparkling with wonder. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I gonna fly like Oscar.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The flight buzzed with a quiet hum, the occasional ding of seatbelt signs and the low chatter of passengers blending into a white noise symphony. Yet, in the middle of row 14, two seats near the window were alight with joy.

Sebastian was electric with energy, practically bouncing in his seat, his McLaren hoodie slightly oversized and his cheeks flushed from all the excitement. Every person who met his eyes—even if only in passing—was greeted with an enthusiastic, “Hi! I go see cars! I go see McLaren! I go see Lando!”

You smiled, half-apologetic to the flight attendants who offered polite, knowing chuckles. But none of them seemed to mind. In fact, they leaned into his excitement, letting him help “check” the snack basket, praising his race car backpack, and slipping him extra juice boxes like he was royalty on board.

“He’s adorable,” one attendant whispered to you as she passed, her smile soft. “Reminds me of my nephew.”

You thanked her quietly, watching as Sebastian munched on the little cookies she had offered him. He kicked his legs softly under the seat, recounting every topic under the sun: cartoons, new toys, dinosaurs, his favorite car toys, and somehow even Santa Claus—despite it being months away from Christmas.

You couldn't help but giggle when he whispered, “Santa gonna bring me new tires for my cars.”

“Really?” you played along.

“Yeah, da fast ones. So I can beat Max.”

His logic was flawless.

But all that energy had a price. After a flurry of words and crumbs, your little boy's lids grew heavier. He curled slightly into his seat, and you, ever the prepared mother, pulled out his checkered-flag throw blanket—one he insisted on packing himself. You tucked it around him, brushing a hand over his forehead.

The screen ahead played SpongeBob, flickering softly. His eyes were half-lidded, still trying to focus, but the gentle sway of the plane, the warmth of the blanket, and the comfort of being beside you finally coaxed him into rest.

His lashes fluttered, and then—sleep.

You leaned back into your seat, a peaceful exhale leaving your lips. Looking down at your sleeping son, his cheek resting softly against the seat, arms wrapped around his plushie, you couldn’t help but pull out your phone. One quick snap, the image so sweet and pure it made your chest tighten. You posted it to your story with a caption:

“First flight ever—and he’s already dreaming of podiums 🏁✨ #McLarenFuture #PiastriJunior?”

The replies would come fast. Friends gushing. A few mutuals tagging McLaren. A couple of comments about how cute he looked in the gear. You smiled, tucking the phone away and letting your head rest against the seat as well, your heart warm with pride.

Meanwhile, miles ahead and hours earlier, Lando was nestled in the calm before the chaos.

The drivers’ hospitality suite was abuzz with low conversation. It was one of those rare quiet moments before a race weekend—the lull before the storm of flashing cameras, screaming fans, microphones, and paddock chaos. Drivers lounged on couches, some eating, some gaming, others just catching up.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folded, nursing a bottle of water as Oscar settled beside him, hair still slightly tousled from the heat outside.

“You win in Australia and you’re gonna party?” Carlos asked, amused.

Lando smirked. “Hell yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

Charles chuckled. “I guess it’s deserved.”

“Party responsibly,” Lewis added with a half-smile, giving a small nod toward Max who was currently laughing with Yuki across the room.

Max’s voice drifted over: “At least I don’t party in public every other weekend.”

Lando laughed along with the others, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The banter continued—Lewis talked about Roscoe’s latest spa visit, Max mentioned Kelly and the girls, Carlos shared plans of flying back home to unwind. Everyone had someone. Someone who waited at home. Someone who traveled with them. Someone they could call when the helmets came off.

Lando had always told himself he didn’t need that—not yet. He was 25, living the dream. He had the cars, the spotlight, the money, the fans. But lately, the silence after the adrenaline wore off… it felt a little heavier.

Sure, he had his parents. He loved them deeply, was grateful for their unwavering support. But still, it wasn’t the same. His Instagram tags were flooded with girls fans assumed he was dating, models or influencers caught near him at clubs, the media labeling him “F1’s golden bachelor.”

And yet here he was, scrolling through his phone, staring blankly at filtered stories and half-hearted DMs, wondering what it would feel like to have someone to call after a long day—not just someone to party with, but someone to talk to.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Finally, the sweet relief of the hotel room washed over you like a warm wave. The plush bedding, the crisp air conditioning, and the gentle hum of the city beyond the windows made it feel like a well-earned moment of peace. The journey had been long, and while you were used to doing things alone, the toll of traveling with a toddler wasn't light—especially one who vibrated with joy the entire way here.

But the moment your shoes hit the carpet and the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

Sebastian was already off exploring the room, the smallest adventurer you’d ever met. His tiny feet padded softly over the hotel floor as he opened closet doors and peeked under the table like he was on a treasure hunt.

You smiled, watching him tumble through the pile of travel bags you’d placed near the bed. With delight, he unearthed the small toys you had carefully packed—ones he insisted on bringing because, “I want to show Lando my cars, Mommy!”

The bed looked like heaven, and you longed to collapse into it. Tomorrow would be the first of the three-day Paddock adventure. You'd need to be up early, need time to get Sebastian dressed, fed, and possibly wrangled into his mini McLaren gear without incident. You were sure you’d be chasing him around with a juice box in one hand and sunscreen in the other.

Still, it was worth it. Every bit of effort, every dollar spent, every long hour on your feet… all of it was worth the look on your son’s face. The world hadn’t always been kind to you—but Sebastian was your reason to fight harder, smile bigger, and hope again.

You watched him laugh at nothing in particular, giggling as his cars zipped across the polished hotel floor.

How could anyone not want to be part of this?

That thought crept in again, quietly but painfully. You never said it out loud, but sometimes—when you tucked him in at night or watched him dance around to a cartoon theme song—you wondered how anyone could look at this child and choose not to stay.

But that aching thought was abruptly interrupted by the buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand.

You frowned when you saw the name on the screen. That name. That past. That man.

The one who chose absence over fatherhood.

You stepped away toward the corner of the room, throwing a quick glance over your shoulder to ensure Sebastian was still happily distracted with his toys. He was. You answered.

“Hello?” you said quietly.

There was a pause—then that voice. Tired, lazy, like it hadn’t changed a bit. “Y/n… hey. It’s been a while.”

A scoff built in your throat. You clenched your jaw, already done with the conversation before it truly began.

“‘A while’?” you repeated, voice low and sharp. “It’s been more than a while. It’s been two missed birthdays. It’s been holidays with no call. It’s been me raising a child while you send the occasional drunk text at 2 a.m. about how we should get back together. Which, by the way, is sick. Because let’s be honest—you hated me. And I hated you.”

Your voice trembled—part anger, part exhaustion—but you kept it contained, steady. Because you couldn’t let Sebastian hear this. You wouldn't let his joy be tainted by a man who only called when he remembered he used to be a father.

There was silence on the other end of the line. No apology. No excuse. Just silence. The kind that confirmed what you already knew.

You ended the call without another word, letting your finger hover over the red button for only a second before pressing it.

Then you turned back toward the bed, your chest tight but your expression softening the moment you looked at Sebastian—who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, making car noises and whispering to himself about which driver he was going to talk to first.

And just like that, the ache in your chest shifted. Not gone—but lighter. Because you had him. And he had you.

You walked over and knelt beside him, pulling him close into a warm hug, letting him nuzzle against your shoulder. “I love you, baby,” you whispered.

He looked up at you with that same big smile and messy curls, his arms wrapping around your neck.

“I wuv you too, Mommy.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning felt like a whirlwind dressed as routine chaos — the kind that makes you question every decision leading up to it. It started far too early, in a hotel room that still smelled faintly like fresh linen and room service. The alarm blasted through the soft silence like a siren call from hell. You startled awake, jolting upright with a groggy huff and instinctively smacking the snooze button with more aggression than necessary. Sebastian, curled up under the covers beside you, let out a long, loud whine — the kind of exaggerated noise toddlers save for their biggest complaints — before burying his messy-haired head under the blanket.

You mumbled a curse under your breath — something just strong enough to release the frustration but quiet enough that your three-year-old wouldn't catch on. Or so you thought.

The first words he mumbled were, “Mommy… that noise hurt my ears.”

“I know, baby,” you said softly, brushing hair from his eyes. “Mine too.”

Breakfast came next, which turned into a full-on negotiation. You’d offered a simple, reasonable suggestion — cereal and sliced strawberries — something quick and clean, something you could manage while half-awake and still brushing your teeth. But Sebastian had other plans, declared with all the authority of a Michelin-star critic: “Waffles. Hotel ones. And fruit. And muffins. And orange juice. The big cup.”

You blinked. “All that?”

He nodded solemnly, lips pursed like this was a very serious matter.

You gave in, of course. You always did when he got that specific sparkle in his eyes — wide, hopeful, and full of such raw excitement that saying “no” felt like a crime. Soon, he had a plate overflowing with buttery waffles drizzled in syrup, a rainbow of cut fruit, two muffins (one chocolate chip, one blueberry), and a comically large glass of orange juice that he insisted on holding himself with both tiny hands. He looked far too proud of his breakfast, swinging his legs from the chair and beaming up at you between bites.

You had no idea how such a small person could eat like that. You didn’t even question it anymore.

Then came bath time — your battlefield. You’d hoped maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be too hard today. But the second the tub started filling, he was bouncing with energy, throwing plastic toy cars into the water like a pre-race ritual.

Getting him in wasn’t hard. Getting him to stay still? Impossible.

Water splashed everywhere — the floor, the walls, your shirt. When it came time to wash his hair, the protest began. His face twisted into a dramatic pout the second your fingers touched the shampoo bottle.

“Nooo, it goes in my eyes!”

You kept your tone soft, soothing. “I’ll be careful, sweetheart. Eyes closed like a superhero, okay?”

He whined. Then sniffled. Then let you do it — reluctantly, with some side-eye — as you hummed the theme song to Paw Patrol just to distract him.

After what felt like a small war, he was finally clean, dressed, and smelling faintly of baby lotion and sunblock. You helped him into his outfit for the day — his prized papaya-colored McLaren hoodie, proudly zipped up to his chin, paired with a matching McLaren cap that looked just a little too big and kept sliding down his forehead. His joggers were black, and his tiny white sneakers were spotless… for now.

He looked like a mini superfan ready to storm the paddock with purpose.

You turned to yourself next, slipping into the dress you’d carefully chosen — a soft milkmaid-style dress that flowed like poetry around your calves. The fabric was weightless and cool against your skin, white with delicate blue florals scattered like petals caught in a spring breeze. The bodice was gently structured, the sweetheart neckline adding a touch of softness and femininity that made you feel — for the first time in a while — pretty. Really pretty.

The wide-brimmed straw hat you packed sat perfectly atop your head, giving you just enough shade to guard against the harsh Australian sun you knew would be relentless later. It felt right — the dress, the hat, the moment.

Sebastian slung on his small backpack with the same dramatic flair he used for everything. You grabbed the paddock passes — laminated, bright, and full of promise — and with one last deep breath, you stepped out of the hotel room and into the day.

The paddock was a different world entirely.

The moment you arrived, it swallowed you whole — the sounds, the motion, the life. Fans pressed against barriers, shouting names, waving signs, laughing and crying and reaching. The scent of rubber and heat hung in the air, the low growl of distant engines thundering beneath it all like a heartbeat.

Sebastian’s hand stayed firmly in yours, but his eyes were everywhere. Wide, lit with a pure joy that was impossible to replicate or fake. He looked around like he’d walked into the gates of a dream — and in a way, he had.

Meanwhile, not too far from the chaos, Lando Norris stood in the middle of it all — a sea of movement around him. He was used to this part: the cameras, the fans, the autographs, the media questions that danced on the edge of personal and professional. He gave polite smiles, half-jokes, the occasional wink that sent fans squealing. He did his part, and he did it well.

But then, something — someone — caught his eye.

A woman in a blue and white dress moving slowly through the crowd, careful and calm, with a little boy in McLaren gear walking beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lando’s heart stuttered.

Not because he knew you. He didn’t — not yet.

But in the way her dress moved with the breeze, in the way the little boy held her hand with absolute trust, in the way she looked down at her son with the kind of love that softened even the harshest corners of a place like this… something in Lando shifted.

He didn’t know why, but for the first time all morning, he wasn’t thinking about the race.

He was thinking about them.

Sebastian gasped—audibly and dramatically—the way only a toddler could. His small hands flew up with excitement as he pointed toward a nearby setup, where bright banners and colorful displays celebrated each team with proud fanfare. The McLaren signage, bold and unmistakable, had clearly captured his entire being.

You let out a soft chuckle, reaching down to gently rest a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna get ourselves a tour of the garages, okay?” you explained, crouching slightly to meet his excitement with calm. “We just have to wait for the tour guide.”

Sebastian nodded, eyes still gleaming as he rocked on his heels, the cap on his head slightly tilted from his animated movements. He didn’t say anything else, but his joy was bubbling over — it was in his posture, his wiggling fingers, and the bright way he scanned the paddock like it was an amusement park made just for him.

The buzz of chatter around you was constant — conversations blending into each other, fan voices raised in awe, the faint beat of music pulsing somewhere in the background. It was overwhelming, in that kind of magical way only big, exciting places could be.

And then… he appeared.

Lando Norris, threading his way through the crowd with casual familiarity, a soft “Excuse me,” here, a small nod there, eyes scanning ahead until they landed directly on the small boy in papaya orange. In mere moments, he was in front of Sebastian, lowering himself into a crouch, eyes kind and lit with recognition.

“Hey, little guy,” he greeted warmly, his voice soft in contrast to the buzz of the paddock. “Supporting McLaren today? You’re gonna be our mini driver, yeah?”

Sebastian went completely still.

Not just quiet — frozen. His jaw dropped slightly, arms limp at his sides, as if he had just spotted a dragon, a real one, casually crouched right in front of him. He blinked rapidly, eyes wide and unblinking, unsure whether to cry, run, or explode with happiness. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you — quiet, surprised, utterly endeared. Lando had that effect on fans, sure, but seeing it happen to your own child? Surreal. You fumbled into your small white purse, pulling out your phone and readying it as you approached gently.

“Sebastian?” you asked softly. “Are you gonna pose so I can take a photo of you two?”

Nothing.

He still stood there, stunned and starstruck.

Then — without warning — he let out a high-pitched scream of joy, the kind of shriek that made nearby heads turn, and yours nearly snap off your shoulders. You winced. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—!”

But Lando was already laughing, waving a hand with ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured, glancing up at you with a grin that softened you instantly. “He’s okay. Totally okay.”

His gaze lingered for just a second longer than expected — drawn to your face, your soft expression as you watched your son. Then to the way your dress moved ever so slightly with the breeze, the light catching the delicate floral pattern like a watercolor in motion. Your perfume drifted toward him, subtle and clean with something sweet woven in. It hit him harder than expected, that scent — or maybe it was everything about you, compacted into that single moment of wind and sunlight and childlike joy.

Sebastian flung his arms around Lando in a burst of affection, burying his face against the front of his McLaren zip-up. You watched with your heart in your throat as Lando returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Sebastian without hesitation, effortlessly soft in a way that came so naturally it stunned you.

“Okay!” you said through a smile, stepping back with your phone. “Let me get a cute photo of you two.”

Sebastian and Lando posed — or rather, Lando posed with Sebastian, crouching back down with one knee on the ground, chin resting gently on Sebastian’s small shoulder. Their cheeks touched, curly heads leaning into one another. Lando held up a single finger in a #1 pose, smiling like he meant it. It was perfect.

You snapped a few photos, and as you did, you couldn’t help but notice it — their hair. The curls. The way they framed both of their faces almost identically. You smiled to yourself. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence. After all, when Lando had kept his signature curly mullet look last season, Sebastian had seen a photo online and announced with unwavering confidence: “I want that hair.” He had pointed at Lando like it was gospel. And you? You’d booked the salon the next day.

As the hug ended, you stepped forward, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Thank you so much for taking a photo with him,” you said warmly, genuinely.

Lando stood, brushing the knees of his pants. “It’s no issue at all,” he replied, glancing down at Sebastian once more with fondness. “I think I’ve just met my teammate of the future.”

Sebastian beamed, still too shy to speak.

“You gonna drive for us one day?” Lando added, teasing, nudging the boy gently. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you.”

Your heart tugged at the sight — your son, so young and yet so full of love for a world like this. And Lando, surprisingly sweet and attentive, entirely present in a way that told you he wasn’t just putting on a show for the cameras or fans.

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the paddock around you, then back at them — Sebastian, the driver he idolized, and this unfolding moment you hadn’t expected.

"Come on, we have to let him go now," you said gently, wrapping your fingers around Sebastian’s small hand, trying to coax him away. The toddler let out a soft pout, his eyes still wide with admiration as he looked up at Lando like he was the sun itself. But even with his protest brewing, he gave in with a tiny sigh, slipping his hand into yours.

Lando chuckled, the kind that warmed the air around him. “He’s fine—he’s a cutie,” he replied, his voice light, fond even, as he glanced down at the boy once more.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be sweet with fans, especially kids. He’d always had a soft spot for the younger supporters—their joy was so pure, so unfiltered. But something about Sebastian tugged at a different thread inside him. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just Sebastian who had caught his attention.

His gaze lingered, just for a second longer than it should’ve. Not on the excited toddler now hugging his leg again, but on you.

The subtle curve of your smile as you looked at your son. The soft sweep of hair tucked behind your ear. That floral milkmaid dress—light, ethereal—danced a little in the breeze, brushing gently against your calves, the blue and white print making your skin glow beneath the sunlight. He caught the scent of your perfume again, something sweet but grounded, and it almost made him forget the paddock noise surrounding him.

But then reality nudged him.

He was Lando Norris. And with that name came the constant click of cameras, the headlines that twisted simple kindness into something scandalous, and the ongoing ache of knowing that privacy was a luxury he didn’t own. He couldn’t afford to let curiosity become anything more.

Still, he offered a smile. Genuine. “Thank you for letting us get a photo,” you said, your voice soft with gratitude, and maybe even a hint of admiration tucked behind it.

“It’s no issue at all,” he answered, his voice equally soft now, more personal somehow.

Just then, Sebastian broke free of your hold once more, bouncing with renewed energy. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Lando’s leg in one last goodbye hug. Your lips parted in mild surprise, but you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped.

You already knew what was coming.

“He’s going to ask for Oscar now,” you said knowingly, an amused look on your face as you tucked your phone back into your purse.

Lando laughed, bending slightly so he could meet Sebastian’s gaze again. “Oscar, huh? Can’t blame him. We’ll have to make sure he gets that photo too.”

Your heart swelled at the kindness in his tone. And even if the moment had to end, it left an impression—gentle, fleeting, and maybe more meaningful than either of you could admit.

“We can find Oscar—he’s somewhere around here,” Lando said, crouching slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye again. His voice had that calm, charming tone kids seemed to respond to instinctively, and sure enough, Sebastian’s tiny hand found his with total trust.

You smiled, your heart quietly aching in the best way as you watched the two of them. There was something surreal about it—your son hand-in-hand with a driver he’d looked up to for months, someone whose posters decorated his bedroom walls, whose name he babbled about nonstop. And yet here they were, side by side, like they’d known each other longer than a few minutes.

You followed behind, just a few paces, letting the moment play out in front of you like a movie. The scene looked too perfect: Sebastian looking up, talking animatedly about his toy car collection, while Lando nodded and listened as if each word was of utmost importance.

But even as warmth filled your chest, something inside you whispered not to get carried away. This was Lando Norris. He was always kind to fans, especially to kids. This wasn’t special. It couldn’t be. It was just part of his image, part of the charm that made millions adore him.

And yet… he didn’t let go of Sebastian’s hand.

As the three of you walked deeper into the paddock, the vibrant atmosphere buzzed louder. You could hear the faint hum of tires being rolled out, radios crackling with chatter, distant bursts of laughter from fans lining the barricades. The scent of asphalt, heat, and oil mixed with the soft floral trace of your perfume, which the breeze occasionally carried toward Lando—who didn’t seem to mind at all.

When you finally reached the McLaren garage, it was like walking into the heart of something electric. Engineers paced with purpose, monitors lit up with telemetry, car parts glinted under sharp fluorescent lights. And standing a few feet inside, Oscar Piastri turned just as Sebastian caught sight of him.

There was a beat—a tiny, loaded moment—and then Sebastian let out the kind of squeal only a three-year-old could make, bursting from Lando’s side and sprinting to Oscar like he was reuniting with a long-lost friend.

Oscar laughed, catching him in a half-squat hug, lifting him off the ground a few inches. “Woah! Look who’s here!” he said, clearly charmed.

You stopped just at the threshold of the garage, your feet hesitating for the first time. Cameras lingered near the entrance—journalists, team photographers, random flashes—and for a second, insecurity tried to creep in. You didn’t belong here. This was their world. You were just visiting.

You adjusted your grip on your purse, suddenly more aware of your dress, your posture, your hair. But then Lando turned. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He wasn’t scanning the room. His gaze found you—just you.

And in that second, something in his expression softened.

“This is the garage—McLaren, for all you little fans,” he teased, gesturing toward the bright orange and blue world surrounding you both.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms playfully. “Little fans? Excuse you—I’m not little.”

He laughed, quick and genuine. “Apologies—to you and your little McLaren fan.” His eyes dropped for a brief second, catching your smile.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Better.”

It was an innocent exchange, lighthearted and quick—but it buzzed in the air between you both like a hidden signal, an unspoken something neither of you could fully name. Not yet.

Then came the gentle tug at your heart again—Sebastian. He was still chatting to Oscar, waving his tiny arms, recounting something that involved race cars and dragons, by the sound of it. Your fingers itched for your phone again. These were the moments he’d remember forever. So would you.

And then, just as you reached to adjust the strap of your bag, Sebastian did something that caught you off guard: he ran back, arms wide, and wrapped himself tightly around Lando’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was safe.

You felt something twist inside your chest—something warm and unexpected.

Lando looked down, blinking in surprise, then softened, his hand gently resting on Sebastian’s back. “He’s got a strong grip,” he joked, chuckling.

“He gets attached easily,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry if he’s clingy.”

Lando shook his head. “He’s not. He’s just… cool.” His voice dropped slightly, sincere and quiet. “You’ve got a good kid.”

You smiled—small, but real. “I know.”

Conversation between you and Lando had started off light, naturally flowing like you’d known him longer than a morning. You stood beside him in the garage while Sebastian trailed Oscar, clinging to every word and gesture the older driver made as he proudly led him on his own version of a pit lane tour. From where you stood, you could still hear Sebastian’s tiny giggles echoing through the hum of machinery and distant radio chatter.

Lando leaned against one of the workstations, arms folded, a casual smirk on his lips as you shared a story about how Sebastian once raced his Hot Wheels down the hallway so fast he crashed into the front door and blamed "aerodynamics."

Your laughter blended with his, light and genuine, for a moment making you forget where you were and who you were talking to. For once, it didn’t feel like you were speaking to a world-famous athlete. It felt... easy.

But then, just as you caught your breath mid-laugh, a voice chimed in—clear, curious, and edged with mischief.

“Who are you?”

Your head turned, and your smile faltered just slightly as Carlos Sainz approached. He was dressed in his Williams team gear, looking effortlessly put-together, a water bottle dangling from one hand and a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

You stood a little straighter. “I’m just a fan,” you said lightly, offering a small smile. “With a very enthusiastic mini fan.”

You gestured toward Sebastian, who was now seated on a tire stack as Oscar showed him the wheel gun. He was clearly in heaven.

Carlos raised a brow at your answer, his gaze flicking toward Lando, who remained unusually silent beside you. You caught the way Lando gave the subtlest shake of his head in Carlos's direction—a quiet warning, or perhaps a signal that this wasn’t what it looked like.

Carlos’s lips twitched with amusement. “I see…”

He turned his eyes back to you, sharp yet unreadable. “Any chance that little one over there’s gonna like me too?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, hiding a smirk. “Maybe. He’s got quite the open taste. He’s been known to cheer for at least five teams depending on how cool their cars look.”

Carlos grinned. “Smart kid.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gave you both a mock salute and walked off, passing between you and Lando with the same confident stride he probably used walking to the grid.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you turned back to Lando, who looked amused but a little irritated too. “Next thing you know,” you joked, “they’ll be fighting over who gets his love.”

That broke Lando’s brief tension. He laughed, a soft, low chuckle that felt more personal than anything you’d heard from him before.

“He better stay loyal to McLaren,” Lando joked, glancing toward Sebastian again, his voice tinted with a sort of pride that didn’t quite make sense—unless it wasn’t just about the team anymore.

You smiled, feeling a subtle shift in the air. The kind that left you a little warmer, a little more aware. Of him. Of the way his gaze lingered when he looked at you. Of how close he was standing now, a casual closeness that felt just slightly charged.

Still, you reminded yourself to stay grounded.

Because at the end of the day, this was still the paddock.

This was still Lando Norris.

And this was probably still just part of the charm.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Practice ran smoother than expected, the sound of engines roaring past and tires screeching against the asphalt forming the soundtrack of the afternoon. From the elevated view inside the pit building, where guests and team members could observe from above, you stood with Sebastian tucked securely in your arms. The vantage point gave you a perfect view over the track, the bustling pit lane, and the vibrant, living pulse of the paddock beneath.

The air buzzed with excitement, even as the sun began to dip slightly in the sky. A warm Australian breeze slipped through the open balcony space, tousling your hair and carrying the lingering scent of gasoline, rubber, and fresh grass. Your heart was full—soaking in the atmosphere, the hum of conversation around you, the thrill from the crowd cheering just meters away, and most of all, the joy radiating from your little boy.

Sebastian was a firecracker in your arms—restless, wide-eyed, and utterly consumed by the action. “Go, Lando!” he shouted, his tiny fist pumped in the air. “Oscar! Look, mama, Oscar’s goin’ fast!”

You laughed gently, holding him a little tighter. “I see him, baby,” you said, amused by his commentary. “They’re both doing so good today, huh?”

He was completely immersed, like a sponge absorbing every detail. His enthusiasm didn’t waver, not even as the session neared its end. He clapped wildly when the McLaren cars zoomed past, shouted out names like they were old friends—“George! Kimi! Max! Charles!”—and even pointed with giddy excitement when Lewis appeared on the screen.

“Yuki! Look, mama, Yuki funny!” he giggled, slapping his hand against your arm.

You couldn’t help but smile. Seeing the world through his eyes—full of color and awe—made the chaos of travel, the fatigue from the long day, and even the stress you carried feel a little bit lighter.

But as the final laps came to a close and the cars began trickling back into their garages, the adrenaline began to fade. You felt it first in the way Sebastian slumped slightly against you, his arms slowly wrapping around your neck, his cheek brushing your shoulder. The spark of excitement still lingered in his little heart, but the rest of him—well, it was giving in.

He fought sleep like a warrior.

His lashes fluttered, his eyes red and heavy, but still he insisted, “No nap, mama.”

“I know, I know,” you said softly, brushing your hand over his curls. “Just a break, right? Just rest your eyes for a minute.”

But he wasn’t done yet. With a sudden jolt of energy, he shifted in your arms and pointed toward the paddock area just below. “Kimi, mama! Me see Kimi!”

His voice cracked from all the yelling he’d done, but the determination in his tone was still strong. He wiggled, trying to slide down from your hold.

“Kimi’s probably doing interviews right now,” you murmured, trying not to laugh at his stubbornness. “We’ll find him later, okay? Maybe he’ll even say hi if we’re lucky.”

He squinted into the distance as if willing the Mercedes driver to materialize on command. “Him wave me. Kimi wave me!” he insisted, rubbing his eyes and stamping his little foot down as if that would summon Kimi by pure toddler force alone.

You took a breath, your heart full to bursting. This was everything to him—the drivers weren’t just names or faces. They were superheroes. They were friends. And in his world, seeing one more of them—just one—before the day ended felt like the most important mission ever.

You leaned down and kissed his temple. “I believe you,” you whispered. “And I promise, we’ll try to find him. But you need to be strong for me, okay? Can you be strong, just for a little while longer?”

He nodded with all the gravity a three-year-old could muster, despite the way his thumb crept into his mouth and he tucked his head under your chin.

You shifted your weight, gently rocking him side to side, taking in the fading light on the horizon. The practice was done. The paddock buzz was quieter now, people trickling away, laughter floating from somewhere below, mechanics wheeling tires and boxes past in a practiced rhythm. The day had been long, but good. There was a softness in the air that hadn’t been there this morning. A calm.

And as you stood there, swaying slowly with your child in your arms, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Right here, in this in-between moment, holding the person you loved most in a place he already adored.

Sebastian let out a soft sigh, curling closer into your chest. His voice, thick with exhaustion but still clinging to hope, came again in a sleepy murmur.

“Mama... Kimi come back?”

You kissed his cheek, tucking the blanket from your bag around his shoulders.

“We’ll see, baby. I promise. You rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

And with that, his tiny body finally relaxed, sleep pulling him into a peaceful slumber, the sounds of the paddock slowly fading into the background.

You didn’t want to wait much longer — the day had worn you down, and Sebastian had finally dozed off in your arms, his head resting against your shoulder, lips parted in soft snores. But despite your fatigue, a small flame of hope flickered inside you. Maybe, just maybe, if you held on a little longer, Kimi would appear. You knew how much it meant to Sebastian.

The paddock had finally begun to settle. The blinding flashes of cameras, the swarming fans, the echoing voices of reporters — all of it had died down to a hum. And somewhere in that calm, Lando spotted you again. For once, he wasn’t surrounded by media demands or tugged in different directions by obligations. It was just him now. And his eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

He approached with that familiar casual stride, a chuckle slipping from his lips as he glanced at the boy cradled in your arms. “He’s out,” he said gently, almost amused, as if the excitement had finally caught up to the little one.

You smiled in return, the kind of tired but warm smile only a parent could offer. With care, you took off Sebastian’s slightly tilted McLaren cap, brushing his curls away from his damp forehead. “He’s been holding out just to see Kimi,” you murmured, almost apologetically.

Lando nodded with sincerity. “I’ll make sure Kimi stops by. He won’t miss this,” he promised. There was something earnest in his voice — not performative, not the usual ‘fan-service’ charm — but genuine, like he wanted to make it happen for Sebastian. For you.

You shrugged a bit, not wanting to impose. “If not, it’s okay. We’ll be back tomorrow. Got ourselves the full three-day access.” You hadn’t meant for it to be anything special when you said it, but it lit something quietly inside Lando. You were coming back — that meant more chances to see you. Maybe talk. Maybe… something more.

“In the span of just a few hours,” you added with a faint chuckle, “he managed to get photos with Charles, Lewis, Carlos, Alex — even Liam and Isack. Now all that’s left on his dream list is Kimi, George, Yuki, and Max.”

Lando smiled at that. “He’s ambitious. I like it. And he’ll get them — I’ll make sure of it,” he said firmly. He wasn’t just saying it to be nice — he meant it. Maybe it was the way Sebastian lit up around them, or maybe it was how you looked at your son like he was your whole world. Either way, Lando found himself caring a little too much.

A lull in the conversation opened a new window — a chance to ask more. To know more. And he took it.

“So… earlier you were saying a bit about the little guy and yourself. Dad didn’t come along?” Lando’s voice softened, carefully treading that line between curiosity and respect.

You looked down at Sebastian’s sleeping face, brushing a hand gently along his back. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms,” you said, voice low. “We’re not together. Haven’t been in a while.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, just honest.

And then the words spilled — maybe because Lando was easy to talk to, or maybe because you were just so tired of keeping it all inside. You told him how your ex had missed both of Sebastian’s birthdays. How the only contact came in the form of late-night, drunken texts that always circled back to the same twisted narrative: “Let’s try again,” followed by declarations you’d long stopped believing in.

You didn’t notice, but Lando’s expression shifted — a quiet intensity in his gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something deeper. He hated it for you. Hated that someone had been foolish enough to walk away from a life with you and Sebastian. And worse, that someone had left you to handle it all on your own.

But then, that guilt crept up his spine — uninvited and sharp. He was Lando Norris. He didn’t do strings. His world was fast and fleeting. Privacy was a myth. Relationships were speculation fodder. And the idea of being involved with someone — someone who came as a package deal — was overwhelming. Terrifying, even.

Still… he couldn’t ignore how naturally it all felt just then. You, him, and Sebastian.

For a second, he wondered what it might be like if things were different.

And that scared him.

So, instead of speaking his thoughts, he simply nodded, offering the kind of half-smile that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “He’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly.

And even though he didn’t say more, even though he buried whatever stirring he felt, the way he looked at you lingered longer than it should’ve.

Just as you were preparing to gently excuse yourself from Lando and finally head out with Sebastian asleep in your arms, a small wave of movement caught your attention. You looked up — and sighed in sheer relief.

Kimi had appeared at last.

He strolled in with a calm, almost unreadable expression, still in his race suit, hair slightly tousled from removing his helmet, and a bottle of water in hand. He hadn’t even fully stepped into the area before his eyes landed on you and Lando. He tilted his head slightly, brows pulling together in mild confusion as if trying to place the scene — a woman holding a sleeping child, standing with Lando Norris.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” you began gently, stepping forward just enough without jostling Sebastian. You didn’t want to startle him awake. “But you’re here and— I know I don’t have anything Mercedes for you to sign, but… signing his backpack would mean a lot.”

You offered a small, hopeful smile, holding out a black marker and the tiny, well-loved backpack that was slung over your shoulder. Its fabric was soft from use, and one of the zipper pulls had a keychain shaped like a Formula 1 car.

Lando gave a small, encouraging nod, his expression warm. “They’ll be back tomorrow,” he added, his voice casual but his tone protective. “Kid’s been waiting just to see you.”

At that, Kimi's face softened. Something about the sincerity in your voice, and perhaps the tone Lando had taken on — almost like it was his job to make sure this moment happened — made Kimi nod without hesitation.

He reached forward and gently took the backpack from you, uncapping the marker in one hand and holding the fabric taut in the other. “How old is he?” Kimi asked, his voice quiet but curious, eyes glancing at Sebastian’s sleeping face.

Before you could even open your mouth to respond, Lando beat you to it — his voice calm and full of a surprising kind of certainty.

“He’s three. His name is Sebastian.”

Your gaze flicked to Lando, eyes softening as a small lump formed in your throat. The way he said it — like he’d memorized it — made your chest feel tight. You hadn’t expected him to remember. Not when he’d been bombarded by faces and questions all day, caught in flashes of cameras and interviews. You assumed you and Sebastian would be forgotten as quickly as you appeared — just another moment in a long blur of fan interactions.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

He remembered your son’s name. His age. The way he fought sleep just to see Kimi. And it wasn’t just that he remembered — it was the way he cared. Lando said it like it mattered.

Kimi hummed thoughtfully as he signed his name across the backpack in neat, bold letters. Then, handing it back, he gave a small nod toward you. “He’s got good taste in drivers.”

You chuckled quietly, adjusting Sebastian in your arms. “He thinks all of you are superheroes,” you replied, voice hushed with affection. “Each time he sees a car or hears a name, it’s like the whole world lights up for him.”

Kimi offered a rare, faint smile before giving a polite nod and stepping away, blending back into the quiet shuffle of drivers finishing up their day. You watched him go, grateful — but it was the man standing beside you that still held your attention.

You turned your gaze to Lando. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his race suit, curls still a little damp with sweat from earlier, eyes on you like he hadn’t stopped watching you since Kimi arrived. There was something calm in his face now. Thoughtful. Open.

You exhaled slowly, shifting Sebastian’s weight against your shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Lando tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “For what?”

“For remembering,” you answered simply.

And for a moment, nothing else needed to be said.

There you stood — you, a tired mother clutching her dreaming son, and Lando Norris, not the F1 star, but the guy who remembered a little boy’s name and helped him chase down a dream. And as the last rays of sunlight poured in from behind the pit building, painting the garage windows in a honey-gold glow, you felt something warm settle in your chest.

Bidding Lando a bye, you carried Sebastian, his now signed backpack, and his McLaren hat to the car, with Lando on your mind and a busy day ahead tomorrow.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Day Two arrived with a quiet stillness, the kind that promised potential before the world fully woke up. You stirred before the soft alarm had a chance to sound, quickly silencing it so Sebastian could remain curled up, blissfully asleep in the warmth of the hotel bed. He was tangled in the covers, one arm flopped dramatically over the stuffed car he’d won yesterday, the other hand loosely holding a toy McLaren.

You stole a moment to just watch him—his chest rising in slow, peaceful breaths—and then slipped away for a shower. The water felt grounding, warm against your skin, helping you wash away the exhaustion of travel and the high emotions of yesterday. You reminded yourself that today was supposed to be simple: enjoy the second day, support Sebastian’s little dream, and keep things… uncomplicated.

But then, there was Lando.

You knew better than to entertain anything. Yet his laugh, the way he’d remembered Sebastian’s name, the ease in his voice when talking to you… it all lingered heavier than you expected.

Once dressed, you stood before the mirror. You’d chosen the outfit intentionally—something that felt bold, fun, and just the right amount of spirited McLaren energy. A vivid orange halter top hugged your figure with flattering ruching, tied delicately at the back of your neck in a neat bow. It matched Sebastian’s bright Oscar Piastri race suit with near-perfect coordination. Paired with light wash high-waisted jeans that sculpted your shape and ended in a relaxed straight leg, the look balanced sleek and casual effortlessly.

You slid on a pair of orange braided heels, the square toe giving it a modern edge, and completed the outfit with stacked bangles in shades of ivory and burnt orange. A McLaren cap sat nestled on the hotel dresser—Sebastian’s idea for you to wear it today. “So we match!” he’d squealed yesterday. And of course, you’d promised you would.

You turned to gently wake Sebastian, who stirred the moment you whispered his name. His tiny brows furrowed sleepily at first, but when you pulled out the miniature Oscar suit, he shot upright like a rocket. “Today is Ows-cah day!” he cheered, bouncing on the bed in his onesie.

You got him dressed with a bit of effort and a lot of giggles, and once his race suit was zipped, name stitched proudly over his chest in orange thread, he did a full spin in front of the mirror. “We look like twins!” he declared.

Meanwhile, Lando was stirring in a completely different world.

He sat upright in the plush, oversized bed of his penthouse suite, the muted morning light trickling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His room felt too pristine, too still. He rubbed a hand over his face, his curls messy, and let out a low breath. The first thing he did was grab his phone, swiping through headlines and Instagram notifications. Race prep, news alerts, tagged posts, and—

Rumors.

He knew they were coming. Media always got wind of the smallest things: a photo, a glance, a conversation held just a second too long. And yesterday had definitely given them fuel. A few posts had already surfaced—pictures of him crouched next to Sebastian, you laughing beside him, a blurred shot that captured the spark in your eye mid-conversation.

Oscar caught him just as he made his way into the hotel lobby. “Did you check the media?”

“Yeah,” Lando said flatly, already bracing.

Oscar raised a brow. “They’re spinning stuff already. You and that girl—”

“Her name is Y/n,” Lando snapped back, more sharply than he intended. “And I know. I’m just not dealing with it right now.”

Oscar held his hands up, not pushing it further. But the look in his eye said it all. There was something different in the way Lando spoke about you. He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t even hiding it well.

And Lando knew it too.

Because while his eyes scrolled past the usual stream of bikini models and car edits, it wasn’t them he was thinking about this morning. It was the way you’d tucked Sebastian’s curls under his cap. The way your smile flickered with hesitation at first, but then warmed once Lando said your son’s name.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

But he was starting to.

And that… scared the hell out of him.

The paddock was alive, electrified with the kind of energy only sprint day could summon. The air buzzed with adrenaline, fan chants echoing between the walls of garages, reporters weaving through mechanics and engineers, and flags fluttering like excited hearts. Today was qualifying, high-stakes, no time to breathe—yet somehow, you found a pocket of peace.

Oscar stood beside you, grinning as Sebastian—dressed in his perfectly tailored mini Oscar Piastri race suit, complete with his name stitched proudly in orange thread—hugged his leg. You held up your phone to capture the moment, crouching just enough to get the perfect shot: the contrast of the little boy’s bright orange suit against the sharp navy of Oscar’s own, and the pure smile they shared.

A few fans and even paddock staff paused to admire the adorable sight, some snapping their own pictures, others simply smiling and whispering to one another. Sebastian basked in the attention like it was his own victory lap. The moment felt so light—so warm.

And the day only got better.

With the help of Lando, Oscar, and even a few kind PR team members, Sebastian managed to meet the last of his dream list—Yuki gave him a high five and posed with an exaggerated grin; Max knelt for a photo and ruffled his curls; George crouched beside him with a thumbs up; Kimi gave a rare soft smile while crouching to sign Sebastian’s cap, and Charles even pulled him into another hug for one more picture.

You couldn't stop smiling. Everything had fallen into place—Sebastian had met his heroes, and their kindness brought out a glow in him that made every early morning and long walk worth it.

Until it didn’t.

You had barely turned to look toward the walkway when the buzz of conversation around you shifted, energy twisting from joyful to alert. The media had spotted something—or someone—and they were closing in fast. You looked up, confused by the sudden interest. The camera flashes began before the questions did.

“Can I help?” you asked softly, arms instinctively wrapping tighter around Sebastian’s small form as he clung to your hip, sensing the change.

“I’m with Sky Sports,” the man said smoothly, flashing a press pass like a shield. “Just need you to confirm or deny some rumors—”

His gaze dropped from your face to Sebastian. That subtle implication in his eyes made your stomach turn. Was this about Lando? Your fingers curled protectively into Sebastian’s back.

“I’m just a guest. We’re fans, we’re not—” you began, but the man didn’t seem to hear. He stepped forward again, camera crew behind him, mics angled toward your face like accusations.

Before your heart could even pound harder, before you could form words to push back—he was there.

Lando.

He moved with sharpness, unhesitating, stepping between you and the cameras like a shield. His shoulders squared, his jaw clenched tight as his hand subtly moved back, nudging you behind him.

“We’re here to talk about qualifying and the race, not harass the fans,” Lando said, voice low but laced with command, a warning hidden beneath the smile he didn’t wear.

The reporter hesitated, startled. “I—I apologize,” he stammered, backing off slightly as Lando’s gaze stayed fixed.

The air shifted again—awkward tension bleeding out slowly as the media retreated, their interest deflated by the firm dismissal. You didn’t even realize your hand had clenched Lando’s sleeve until he turned slightly, checking on you and Sebastian.

You nodded, still stunned. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the renewed hum of paddock life.

Lando’s expression softened when his eyes met yours. “Anytime,” he said simply. Then his eyes dropped to Sebastian, who was now blinking up at him from your arms.

“You okay, buddy?” Lando asked, letting a small smile return.

Sebastian gave a tiny nod before curling into your shoulder, thumb in his mouth—exhausted again, the rush of attention too much.

You looked back at Lando, still a little shaken, still trying to process the way he stepped in like that. It wasn’t just fan service.

It felt like care. Like protection. Like something more than it was supposed to be.

And that terrified you—because for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t sure you wanted it to be less.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

For the rest of the event, the tension that had rattled your nerves earlier melted away, replaced by an unexpected calm that settled around you like a warm blanket. You and Sebastian stayed nestled in the rhythm of McLaren’s world—cheering, watching, laughing, and sharing quiet moments behind the velvet ropes of paddock life. Despite the constant whirl of noise, camera clicks, and mechanics shouting over engine whines, you felt at peace.

And it wasn’t just you. Sebastian was glowing with energy, his little race suit slightly rumpled now from running about, his curls springing up with every bounce of excitement. He cheered loudly when the McLaren team passed, and when Oscar or Lando appeared on the screens, he clapped as though they were superheroes instead of real men in fireproof suits.

You didn’t realize it until the day had almost ended—but you felt like you belonged there.

You didn’t feel like an outsider anymore, not just some guest with a pass, not just a mother of a young fan. Somehow, between the knowing smiles from engineers, the high-fives from Oscar, and even the nods from other teams, it felt like you were part of something. Like you fit.

Lando felt it too. Though he’d never admit it out loud, the thought had slipped in more than once during the day, threading through his mind between practice runs and interviews. Every time he spotted you in the distance, chatting with a team member or crouching to fix Sebastian’s laces, it hit him harder—this felt right. Too right. Too fast.

Too soon, he told himself. And yet, he kept looking anyway.

After qualifying—an intense battle that left him finishing a proud P2—Lando was spent. His body ached from the push, his skin glistened with sweat under his race suit, but his thoughts weren’t on lap times or team briefings.

They were on you.

He barely waited until he was out of the post-race huddle before nodding to a McLaren staffer. “Can you bring them to the garage?”

Within minutes, you were walking in—Sebastian clinging to your hand, wide-eyed at the inner sanctum of the McLaren team. Lando saw you and immediately crouched, his face lighting up despite his exhaustion.

“Sebastian! Hey buddy!” he called with a grin.

The three-year-old didn’t hesitate, sprinting the short distance into Lando’s open arms, giggling as he was scooped up in a warm, sweaty hug. You followed behind, letting out a soft chuckle as you watched them.

Lando laughed as he pulled back just slightly, eyebrows lifting when he caught sight of the small smudges dotting Sebastian’s cheeks and the suspicious trail of crumbs on his suit.

“What is on your face?” he asked with mock horror, trying to bite back another grin.

Sebastian flashed a proud, sugar-fueled smile. Before he could respond, you chimed in with a hum, arms folded loosely as you leaned slightly on one foot.

“Cookie crumbs,” you said, amused. “One of the drivers—pretty sure it was Fernando—had a secret cookie stash. He gave him two, and now he’s on a full sugar rush.”

Lando looked at Sebastian with a mix of disbelief and adoration. “You bribed Alonso? I’ve been trying to get a cookie from him all season,” he teased.

Sebastian giggled, holding up three fingers instead of two. “Three cookies,” he corrected proudly.

You and Lando burst out laughing, and for a beat, the world outside the garage didn't matter. It didn’t matter what had been said or what rumors had started to swirl. It didn’t matter how complicated things might get.

Lando had barely caught his breath from qualifying, the adrenaline still running faintly through his veins when the words slipped from his mouth like they’d been waiting all day for a place to land.

“Do you and Sebastian want to�� go to the aquarium?” he asked casually—though his tone was careful, soft in a way that didn’t quite match the high-energy buzz of the McLaren garage around you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Us?” you asked, your voice small, uncertain.

He nodded, brushing a loose curl from his damp forehead. “Yeah. I’ll head back to my hotel, clean up, and then I can swing by wherever you two are staying. We’ll head over together.”

Before you could process your reply, Sebastian practically burst with excitement, jumping in place. “YES! Fishies, Mama! Can we go see the sharks?!”

Lando chuckled, clearly entertained by the sheer enthusiasm bursting from the tiny human now bouncing beside him. Your eyes darted toward him again, cautious and conflicted.

Part of you wanted to go. God, you wanted to go.

But another part—the part that had learned how cruel the world could be when it noticed something good—whispered a thousand hesitations into your mind. The media. The cameras. The attention.

You looked away, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But the media…” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the team still moving about the garage.

Lando tilted his head, as though hearing your fear and meeting it without judgment. He took a step closer, and his voice dropped lower, quieter.

“I’m human too,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. My team will push back as much as they can. I promise.”

His eyes were sincere—none of the typical charm or cheeky arrogance people expected from Lando Norris. Just truth. Just softness.

“So?” he added, a flicker of hope curling around the question.

You stood still for a moment, unsure what to do with the comfort that suddenly wrapped around you like a familiar coat. It was crazy, impulsive, dangerous even—but above all… it felt safe. Safe with Lando.

And real.

You glanced down at Sebastian, who was now hugging your leg, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes.

“Sure,” you said at last, and the word felt like stepping into sunlight.

“We’ll go.”

Sebastian squealed in delight, nearly tripping over himself as he ran in a circle. “YAY!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, loud enough to make a few heads turn and laugh nearby.

Lando grinned, flashing you a look that made your heart skip just a beat too fast. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way,” he said, reaching down to ruffle Sebastian’s hair gently. “Sharks beware—this kid’s coming for them.”

You laughed—full, open—and suddenly, the weight that had been pressing on your chest all day lifted just a little.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The aquarium was quiet—softly lit by the glow of gently moving water and illuminated tanks, casting a subtle shimmer onto the smooth floors. It was a far cry from the earlier frenzy of the paddock. Peaceful. Settling. A rare pocket of calm where, for a moment, life could breathe without pressure.

You walked alongside Lando, with Sebastian happily toddling between the two of you, his small hands occasionally brushing yours or Lando’s as he pointed with wide eyes at stingrays and reef sharks gliding overhead through the tunnel of glass.

You wore a warm brown, body-hugging one-shoulder dress that fell down to your ankles like liquid silk. A soft, beige duster cardigan hung off your arms like a gentle frame, catching the light as it swayed with each step. A sleek black crossbody bag rested snugly at your hip, golden hardware catching the occasional shimmer from the glowing tanks. Simple, elegant—but comfortable enough to chase after a toddler if needed. You hadn’t planned to end up on a spontaneous evening out, but somehow, the moment welcomed you.

Sebastian was a walking ball of color and softness. He wore a playful vintage cartoon T-shirt, vibrant with reds and blues, tucked slightly into wide-legged beige corduroy pants that made his tiny legs look even tinier as he waddled forward. A chunky, lavender knit cardigan was draped over his shoulders—one sleeve constantly slipping down as he chased after his thoughts. His shoes, little white sneakers, already scuffed from adventure, squeaked lightly with each step.

Lando, walking beside you, looked comfortably cool in an oversized navy and white striped rugby shirt with “Quad” embroidered across the chest. The sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing a few friendship bracelets that danced slightly as he moved. His jeans were baggy, worn in the right ways, and his white sneakers were casual but clean. There was an effortlessness to him—a contrast to his usual track-ready look.

“So... is it true?” you asked, glancing up at him as the three of you strolled past a glowing blue jellyfish exhibit. “You’re a party boy?���

He looked down at you, one brow lifting in curiosity before he grinned. “Depends... how curious are you?” he teased.

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just wanted to know what I’m getting into.”

Lando chuckled, nodding slowly. “I am, yeah. Was. Still am sometimes. Comes with being twenty-five, I guess.”

You smiled softly. “Twenty-five and still going strong? God, I need your energy.”

He glanced over at you again, this time his gaze lingering a little longer. “It’s fun sometimes. But... it gets boring. All of it. It’s loud. Flashy. Temporary.”

You nodded in understanding. “Too much stimulation. No peace.”

That was all that needed to be said. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. A shared understanding that there was something quieter, something softer, in the simplicity of this moment.

You and Lando watched as Sebastian ran up to a floor-to-ceiling tank. His hands smacked against the glass, face lit up in awe as a school of colorful fish darted past. Lando instinctively crouched beside him, resting his arms on his knees.

“They look cool, huh?” he said softly.

Sebastian nodded furiously. “They’re swimming really fast!”

You slowly approached, ignoring the buzzing of your phone deep in your pocket. You didn’t need to check to know who it was—reality could wait. For now, you lowered yourself beside Lando, the soft fabric of your cardigan pooling on the ground. All three of you sat together, faces bathed in aquatic blue light. Lando smelled faintly of clean cologne and sun-drenched grass, while your perfume lingered lightly in the air between you.

No flashing lights. No rumors. No curated stories or whispered headlines.

Just you, Lando, and Sebastian—laughing gently over the shapes of fish and the stories Sebastian made up about them. For a second, it looked like a little family portrait frozen in time. You caught Lando’s gaze and looked away quickly, your cheeks warming. He didn’t say anything—but the way he looked at you, like you were already something more, said enough.

The rest of the evening moved like a lullaby—soft, smooth, and glowing with the quiet joy only shared moments could bring. Between the tanks and tunnels, you and Lando took turns capturing fleeting snapshots and short videos—Sebastian pointing excitedly, or giggling mid-run, or narrating his own marine documentary with impressive confidence for a three-year-old.

“Fish!” he shouted, his voice echoing gently in the cavernous tunnel as Lando lifted him up, effortlessly resting him on his hip so he could get a better look.

You stood close—closer than you realized—shoulder brushing his, warmth shared through fabric. Your head came to rest lightly on Lando’s shoulder, your laughter bubbling softly as you pointed at the glass.

“That would be a pufferfish,” you said, lips quirking as the spiny little creature floated past. “They get all bloated like a balloon, and their faces go—” You puffed out your cheeks dramatically and crossed your eyes.

Sebastian let out a full laugh, tilting backward slightly in Lando’s arms as he mirrored you with his tiny face puffed like a marshmallow. “You’re right, Mommy!”

Lando hummed in amusement. “She’s pretty smart, huh?” he said, casting you a sideways glance, playfully nudging you with his shoulder. “Should we give her some credit?”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he considered. “Hmm… Can I drive da car?”

Lando crinkled his nose and gasped like the question was dangerous. “Oof… You might need a few more years of training, mate.”

Sebastian huffed in disappointment, only for Lando to lean in. “But after that? Formula 1. Full speed. Number one racer in the world.”

Sebastian’s eyes went wide. “Really?!”

You smiled, your heart tugging as you watched them—how naturally Lando folded into these moments with him, not a trace of forced charm. It wasn’t performative. It was just… who he was. You looked ahead and noticed something through a wide arched entrance.

“They have a gift shop,” you said casually, pointing.

Sebastian’s head whipped toward you like you’d just offered him the moon. “Can we go?! Please, please, pleaaaase?”

You giggled, eyes still on the small sign and bright display lights beyond the glass tunnel. “Eventually.”

Lando nudged Sebastian with a knowing grin. “We will. But first,” he paused and pointed to another glowing section, “I have to take you to see the turtles.”

You gasped, perhaps louder than necessary, clasping your hands together in exaggerated excitement. “Turtles?! Oh no, I love turtles!”

Sebastian mimicked you perfectly—hands clapped, mouth agape. “Let’s goooo!”

With that, Lando gently set him down and took his hand, the two of them walking ahead with energy, you trailing close beside. When they reached the next room, the ceiling curved above like a dome, casting light down onto the huge, gentle creatures that moved with ancient grace through their tank.

Sebastian was mesmerized, standing completely still for a moment before he started talking. Asking questions. Making up names. Pretending one of the turtles winked at him.

You leaned quietly against the railing next to Lando, your arms folding across your chest, watching your son point and babble beside the glass.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” you said under your breath, just loud enough for Lando to hear. “If someone had told me a year ago I’d be at an aquarium in Australia... with Lando Norris and my three-year-old son... I’d have laughed in their face.”

Lando smiled, just slightly. “I think I would’ve laughed too.”

You stood there for a long while, close enough that you could feel the space between you buzz—something soft and thrilling that hadn’t quite found its voice yet.

Eventually, Sebastian—never one to hide his needs—rubbed at his eyes and laid his head against Lando’s shoulder.

“Hungry,” he murmured.

You and Lando both glanced down, and then up at each other, exchanging the same silent question and answer.

“Gift shop, then dinner?” you asked softly.

Sebastian nodded sleepily, already perking up again at the idea of shopping. You smiled and brushed a hand over his curls.

The gift shop was bright and playful, a sudden burst of color after the ambient blues of the aquarium. Sebastian was back to full energy, dashing toward shelves of plush animals and glittery keychains. His eyes sparkled at everything—but then, they stopped.

“That!” he shouted, pointing with such conviction you and Lando both turned to follow his finger.

A massive, soft, gray shark plush towered over the others, nearly the size of Sebastian himself. It was outrageously big, comical even—but the awe in his voice made it impossible to resist.

“I want that!”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He reached up, grabbed the plush by its fin, and brought it down into Sebastian’s arms, where it nearly swallowed him whole. Sebastian gave a muffled “yes!” and hugged it like it was the best gift he’d ever received.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “That thing is bigger than his carry-on.”

Lando laughed. “Yeah, well... he loves it. Besides,” he plucked a shark tooth necklace from a nearby display, handing it to you, “a souvenir for Mom too.”

You blinked. “Lando—”

“Don’t even,” he said gently, his voice calm and sure. “I want to.”

You didn’t argue. Maybe because you knew he meant it. Maybe because it felt nice to let someone else take care of things, just for a moment.

At the register, Sebastian was trying to hoist the shark up by himself, only for Lando to step in and help. You watched them—man and child, natural in step, smiles matching. And maybe, just maybe, your heart tugged in a way that scared you a little. Because it felt like something real.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That evening, the three of you found your way into the quiet warmth of a refined little restaurant tucked beneath the pulse of the city—a place with dim lights that danced like soft candle flames against crystal glasses, white linen napkins folded like paper birds, and the gentle clink of silverware marking a chorus of elegant chatter. The ambiance was calm, inviting, the kind of place made for connection and quiet reflection.

You and Lando sat opposite one another, your chairs turned inward toward Sebastian, who had been nestled in the middle like the radiant center of your shared universe. A glass of chilled apple juice sat in front of him—his ‘grown-up’ drink—its amber tone glistening like gold under the glow of the table's candle. Earlier, he'd asked for "what Mommy and Lando are having," curious about the tall glasses of red wine swirling in both of your hands. Lando had leaned down, voice patient and warm, explaining that apple juice was the exact same thing, only better for superheroes like him. Sebastian had accepted that logic instantly, nodding proudly before lifting his glass and declaring a soft “cheers.”

Now, menu in hand, Sebastian squinted at the words like they were ancient texts.

“I want this,” he declared, pointing with conviction to a line near the middle of the kids’ section.

You leaned over and read the item aloud with a hum. “Chicken tenders… classic. And some fries to go with it?”

Sebastian nodded with all the confidence in the world. “Fancy dinner,” he grinned.

Lando chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. “Feeling fancy tonight, huh?”

Sebastian nodded proudly. “Yup. Like you.”

When the waitress approached, Lando took the initiative, smoothly placing your orders. “Two pasta dishes—one with extra parmesan, please—and the chicken tenders and fries for the little gentleman. Oh, and we’ll take a side of roasted vegetables too,” he added, giving you a quick, almost playful glance.

You arched a brow knowingly. “The vegetables? Bold move.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” he said, smirking.

As the waitress disappeared with a promise that dinner would be quick, Sebastian received a coloring page and a small packet of crayons. Instantly absorbed in his artwork, his little brows furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of his mouth.

It gave you and Lando a moment. A bubble of stillness inside the restaurant’s soft symphony. A moment to just talk, without the world demanding too much.

“So…” Lando began, voice quiet and cautious. “Have you heard from his—”

He gestured slightly, not needing to say more. You knew who he meant. The shadow. The absentee. The person who helped create Sebastian but somehow forgot what it meant to stay.

You shook your head, your fingers tightening slightly around your wine glass. “Only when he feels it’ll benefit him,” you said, the bitterness hidden behind a composed tone. “Usually to ask for something. Or to argue about things that don’t matter.”

Lando leaned back slightly, frowning. “I don’t see how he can just… pretend you two don’t exist. Like, how do you walk away from someone like Sebastian?”

You looked down, exhaling softly. You didn’t have an answer. You never really had.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’ve come to terms with it. I don’t think Sebastian’s missing anything by not having him around. He’s happy. He’s loved. And if I’m being honest… I’m at peace with it too.”

Lando studied you, his gaze holding something more complex than sympathy. Admiration, maybe. Or something even deeper. There was a strength in you that tugged at something tender in him—how fiercely you loved, how steady you were despite the storm life had thrown your way. It made him think about things. About you.

About settling down.

Why now? Why you? He didn’t know yet. But he felt it. Gnawing and blooming all at once. He took a sip of wine to distract himself.

“Tell me more about you two,” he said, tone lighter now, the weight shifting off both your shoulders.

You smiled, turning your chair just slightly toward him.

“Well, Sebastian’s a big fan of Formula 1… obviously,” you started, throwing him a playful glance. “But aside from that, he’s obsessed with SpongeBob, Paw Patrol, and lately, Tom and Jerry. I think the slapstick makes him feel like he’s getting away with something.”

Lando grinned. “Classic. I loved Tom and Jerry as a kid too.”

“Same,” you said. “And as for me? I’m into dramas, comedies, a little romance. Occasionally cartoons—especially when someone insists I join movie night in a blanket fort.”

Lando smiled at the mental image.

“He’s a waffle lover,” you continued, “but he’ll also go through phases of fruit and muffins in the morning. Grilled cheese sandwiches are his go-to lunch—sometimes crustless, depending on his mood—and for dinner, if it’s not pasta or chicken tenders, you’re in for a battle.”

Lando laughed, leaning forward on his elbows. “Veggies?”

“Oh, those are the enemy,” you confirmed, laughing softly. “We’ve tried dinosaurs made out of broccoli. Spaceships shaped from carrots. I think I once made a full-on zoo with cucumbers and celery. He’s not impressed.”

Lando’s laugh was a little louder this time, catching the attention of a nearby couple.

“He loves bath time, though,” you added, “but hates getting his hair washed. Kicks and squeals every time. Orange is his favorite color—if the McLaren merch didn’t give it away. He says he wants to drive one day, and I believe him.”

Your voice softened as you looked down at Sebastian, still happily scribbling blue stars onto his coloring sheet.

“And I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen for him,” you said. “If that means working extra jobs, if that means staying up late or missing sleep or giving up things I love… I’ll do it. No question.”

Lando’s heart twisted a little in his chest. The kind of twist that comes when something clicks. When you realize you’re watching someone love unconditionally. Fiercely. Gently. And without an ounce of bitterness.

He reached out, lightly brushing the back of your hand with his fingers. It was a small gesture—one that said more than he had words for just yet.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” he said, voice quiet, sincere.

You looked at him, your eyes soft with both gratitude and caution. But in that moment, something unspoken passed between you.

Time moved differently at that table.

It melted between soft glances and shared laughter, weaving through your quiet conversations and the gentle jazz notes that glided in the background like a lullaby. It wasn't just the food or the ambiance. It was the feeling—a rare kind of comfort, like sitting at a table that had always been meant for the three of you.

Dinner had long become more than a meal. It was connection in the purest form.

Plates of steaming pasta were placed in front of you and Lando, the scents of garlic, basil, and cream-rich sauces curling upward in soft waves. Sebastian’s plate of golden, crispy chicken tenders and perfectly salted fries sat in front of him like a crown jewel. His little eyes sparkled with delight, his fork diving in immediately.

Lando, as cheeky as ever, held out a forkful of his pasta toward you. “Try it,” he said, wiggling the fork slightly with an encouraging smirk.

You leaned forward, taking the bite, eyes fluttering shut at the rich burst of flavor. “Mmm… that’s so good,” you hummed in satisfaction.

“Alright, your turn.” You scooped some of yours up and offered it to him.

Lando accepted, eyes on yours as he took the bite. He mirrored your hum, grinning as he swallowed. “Okay, yeah. That’s unreal. We should’ve split both from the beginning.”

Sebastian, never one to be left out, giggled and mimicked you both. “Try mine!” He held out a small piece of his chicken tender between his fingers.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lando said, dramatically leaning in for the bite, followed by you, both of you giving the little boy a grand thumbs up after tasting it.

“This is so good, I might have to order it myself next time,” Lando said, acting genuinely impressed, making Sebastian beam with pride.

With your glasses empty and plates dusted with crumbs and sauces, dessert arrived—a decadent sundae set in a glass bowl, the kind made for sharing. The vanilla was creamy and cold, the chocolate thick and rich, with warm caramel drizzled across the top like golden ribbon. Bits of brownie and nuts rested like treasure at the bottom.

Three spoons. One sundae. One perfect ending.

Sebastian was the first to dive in. “So good!” he declared through a mouthful of ice cream, chocolate smudging at the corner of his lip.

You leaned over and gently wiped it away with a napkin, smiling at him. “You’ve got a little sweet mustache, sir.”

Lando chuckled beside you. “I don’t blame him—it’s amazing,” he said, scooping some for himself, then dramatically dabbing the spoon along his bottom lip. “Oops.”

You arched a brow at him, grinning. “You too?” you teased, reaching over with your napkin, your fingers brushing gently against the stubble at the corner of his mouth as you wiped the chocolate from his skin.

The touch lingered just long enough to feel something.

Something unsaid, soft and magnetic.

Laughter filled the silence that followed, but in those moments between the bites of shared sundae and easy conversation, something had shifted. It wasn't just dinner anymore. It was the idea of something whole. Something healing. Something that felt like it might just last.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lando had offered to carry Sebastian, who had dozed off in the car almost immediately, his little hands still clutching his new, oversized grey shark plushie like it was a treasure chest. The plush, comically large in Lando’s other arm, bobbed gently with every step as they made their way through the lobby and toward the elevators.

You trailed just beside him, glancing at the way Lando carried your son—not with strain or awkwardness, but like he’d done it a thousand times before. One arm cradling the sleeping boy, the other balancing a plush shark nearly half his size. And somehow, it suited him. All of it did.

The elevator dinged softly as it opened, and the ride up was wordless, only the soft rise and fall of Sebastian’s breathing between you and Lando. When the doors parted again, it was just a short walk to the room. You fished out the keycard with one hand, the other gently brushing Sebastian’s back as Lando stood still, waiting.

Inside, the room welcomed you with that familiar dim hotel glow—soft lights above the bed casting a golden warmth over the tidy, lived-in space. The bed was unmade from earlier, pillows fluffed messily, blankets a bit rumpled, still marked by your shared laughter and rest from the afternoon.

“Here,” you whispered, stepping aside so Lando could carry him in.

Careful, like every movement held meaning, Lando walked over to the bed and gently laid Sebastian down, easing the shark plushie beside him so it tucked perfectly against the boy’s side. Sebastian stirred only slightly, lips parting with a sigh before his small hand instinctively reached for the shark, pulling it close in his sleep.

You knelt beside the bed, brushing back a few curls from his forehead. “Goodnight, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

Lando stood back, watching in silence. He had never seen something so stilling. So complete.

After a moment, you rose, standing beside him in the quiet glow of the room. You both looked down at Sebastian, tucked in between hotel sheets and a plush shark almost as long as he was.

“He really knocked out,” Lando said quietly, his voice just above a whisper, as if anything louder might break the spell.

“He always does after a full day like this,” you murmured, wrapping your arms gently around yourself. “He gets so excited, burns through every ounce of energy, and then…” You smiled. “Out like a light.”

Lando chuckled softly, his gaze still fixed on the sleeping boy. “It’s kind of amazing. The way you just… have it all handled.”

You shrugged gently, your voice low and thoughtful. “I try. Some days feel easier than others. But when I see him like this… it’s worth everything.”

You looked up at Lando then, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, really looked—like he was seeing every piece of you that had gone unnoticed for too long. Not the mother, not the friend, but the woman. The one who loved deeply, gave endlessly, and somehow still had space for more.

His voice broke the silence gently. “Can I stay? Just for a bit.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And so you sat together at the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound filling the room. Sebastian’s breathing stayed steady. The shark plush sat like a sentry beside him. And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you weren’t carrying everything alone.

Both you and Lando held a conversation, quiet enough for just you two, getting to know him more, and you more.

And just like that, an hour struck back when Lando signaled he had to leave, he had to get up early for the grand prix tomorrow, something you and Sebastian would be able to witness thanks to your 3-day paddock club passes.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun had barely kissed the track, and already the paddock buzzed with energy—media personnel weaving through, mechanics checking and re-checking, fans beginning to trickle in with banners, merch, and wide-eyed anticipation. But all eyes briefly shifted when you and Sebastian stepped through the paddock gates.

You, dressed in a sleek, body-hugging white ruched dress that shimmered in the sunlight like liquid porcelain, turned more heads than you intended. The dress, simple yet impossibly elegant, contrasted playfully with the bold orange McLaren cap atop your head and the matching McLaren racing jacket draped effortlessly over your shoulders. The crispness of the white Air Force 1s on your feet gave the look a relaxed finish—fashion meeting fandom in perfect balance.

At your side, Sebastian practically radiated pride, striding confidently in his mini Lando Norris race suit. The suit clung just right to his tiny frame, complete with patches, sponsor logos, and even the little McLaren emblem on the chest. His messy curls poked out from beneath a pint-sized matching orange cap, and his face lit up anytime someone complimented him or gave a high-five.

He gripped your hand excitedly, his other arm wrapped tightly around the jumbo grey shark plushie he refused to leave behind. "I want Lando to see me like this," he said proudly, giving a small tug to your hand as he looked up at you with sparkling eyes. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

You looked down at him with a soft smile, brushing a curl off his forehead. “He’s going to love it, baby. You look like his number one fan.”

Sebastian beamed, his small boots clunking lightly as he walked. “That’s because I am!”

Your Christian Dior tote bag rested in the crook of your arm, holding all the little essentials a mother might need—snacks, wipes, sunscreen, and of course, a sharpie, just in case Sebastian wanted another autograph. The handmade beaded bracelets around your wrist—one reading "Norris", the other "Piastri"—were Sebastian's latest paddock project, and you wore them with pride.

The two of you made your way deeper into the paddock, receiving nods, warm smiles, and a few amused looks at the sight of your fashion-forward fit paired with your tiny race-suited shadow.

Cameras flashed subtly. Whispers of “That’s her—Lando’s…” didn’t faze you. If anything, they added a quiet confidence to your stride.

Sebastian looked up at you again, eyes wide with anticipation. “Do you think he’s here already?”

You smiled knowingly, tightening your grip on his hand. “I’ve got a feeling today’s going to be a really good one.”

The entrance to McLaren hospitality was buzzing with activity—team members moving briskly with radios clipped to their belts, PR assistants glancing over schedules, and cameras from F1TV floating by to capture glimpses of the drivers’ pre-race routines. You adjusted your cap slightly, offering a polite smile to someone who gave Sebastian a thumbs-up.

Before you could step inside, a familiar voice called out.

“Well, look who’s ready for race day,” Oscar Piastri said with a grin, walking toward you in full race kit, a McLaren water bottle in one hand and a relaxed ease in his walk. “That suit might be a little better than Lando’s, to be honest,” he added, squatting slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye level.

Sebastian beamed. “Thanks! I’m his biggest fan today. I brought Sharky too!” He held up the oversized plush with both arms, causing Oscar to laugh.

“Strong choice,” Oscar nodded approvingly. Then his eyes flicked to you. “And you—definitely win best-dressed in the paddock today. You sure you’re not the one about to race?”

You smiled, cheeks warming lightly. “If I were, I'd be aiming for champagne.”

Oscar smirked. “Spoken like a winner. Come in—Lando’s somewhere inside, probably eating his tenth pancake.”

You and Sebastian followed him into the hospitality suite, a wave of cool air greeting you as the bustle of the outside paddock melted into a more private space. The orange and black interiors were bright, clean, filled with quiet team chatter and the soft clinks of silverware from the breakfast spread.

And then—there he was.

Lando, standing near the buffet with his back partially turned, chatting with two engineers and a trainer. His hair still slightly tousled, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the relaxed smile on his face faltered slightly when he turned and spotted you.

You could see it—the brief flicker in his eyes, soft and surprised. And then, the warmest grin tugged at his lips.

“There he is!” Sebastian shouted, breaking into a run, nearly dragging Sharky behind him. Lando bent instantly, arms wide as Sebastian jumped into him, and Lando caught him with a practiced ease, spinning him in a playful half-circle before hugging him close.

“Well, if it isn’t my lucky charm!” he said into Sebastian’s ear, before glancing up at you. His gaze held for a moment too long—just enough to make your heart squeeze.

“You guys came,” he said, softer now.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, matching his smile even though something about the whole thing tugged deep under your skin.

Lando set Sebastian down, his hand gently ruffling the boy’s curls. Then, as a few team members came up behind him, he motioned toward the two of you casually.

“Oh—uh, this is my friend Y/N,” he said, glancing at you before adding, “and this is Sebastian.”

Friend. Just a word. Harmless. Simple. But it sank somewhere heavy inside your chest. Not because he was wrong—but because, for a moment, you forgot that this wasn't something more. And maybe you’d let yourself believe otherwise.

Still, you smiled, your voice gentle. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”

The team greeted you both warmly—one even joking with Sebastian about being the team’s new mascot. Lando, meanwhile, had knelt down to adjust the strap on Sebastian’s mini race suit, talking to him about pit strategies like he was part of the crew.

You stayed quiet, watching them. You could’ve let it sting longer. But you knew the truth—there were no promises made, no titles given. Just shared moments, private smiles, and one night at an aquarium that left your heart hoping.

So instead, you brushed it off. Like you always did.

Because if today was about supporting Lando, then you’d do just that.

Even if he only called you a friend.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting golden flares across the asphalt as the pre-race grid walk commenced. The tension in the air was thick with adrenaline—crew members moving swiftly around the cars, broadcasters weaving through interviews, and fans leaning against the barriers for a glimpse of their favorites.

You held Sebastian’s hand tightly, navigating the chaos beside one of the most recognizable orange cars on the grid. The roar of engines testing systems vibrated under your shoes, and the smell of hot tires and fuel clung to the air. It was a world unlike any other—and Sebastian's eyes were wide with wonder.

“There he is,” you murmured, pointing as Lando stood next to his car, helmet off for now, laughing with a mechanic as a camera hovered nearby.

Sebastian tugged at your hand. “Can I go say good luck?” His voice was almost shy, though you could tell he was trying to be brave.

You gave a small nod. “Go on, buddy. Just stay where I can see you.”

The moment Sebastian let go of your hand, he marched with purpose through the buzzing grid. His little race suit was slightly rumpled from the excitement of the day, the McLaren logo and "4" on his back catching Lando's eye just before he turned fully.

Lando’s expression instantly softened when he saw him.

“Hey, mate,” he said, crouching down as Sebastian reached him. “You look like you're about to start this race with me.”

Sebastian grinned wide. “I just wanted to tell you good luck.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up briefly to find you watching nearby. You gave him a gentle smile, mouthing go get ‘em.

Back down to Sebastian, Lando said, “Thank you, buddy. Means a lot. I’ve got you cheering for me, so I think we’ve already got the edge.”

Sebastian held up his palm for a high five, and Lando met it without hesitation, then pulled him in for a quick hug. “This one’s for you,” he whispered, gently tapping his forehead to Sebastian’s helmeted head.

As Lando stood back up, he nodded toward you, walking over with a slow exhale. You could tell his mind was starting to flip into race mode—but still, there was a softness in his eyes as they met yours.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, voice low beneath the noise around you. “Both of you.”

“We’re always rooting for you,” you replied, meaning it more than you could say.

He hesitated for a second—like he wanted to say something more—but instead just smiled and backed away as one of the engineers handed him his helmet. He slid it on, the reflective visor clicking into place like a final shield.

Sebastian gave a little wave as Lando turned toward his car, stepping into the cockpit like it was second nature.

You placed a hand over your chest, watching him settle into the machine, surrounded by people—but somehow, still feeling like the only one on the grid.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself, hand finding Sebastian’s shoulder as the grid began to clear. “Let’s watch him fly.”

The lights would go out soon.

And whatever the outcome, you knew this moment—this quiet, private piece of his very public world—would stay with you forever.

The atmosphere in the grandstands was electric. Fans in every direction waved orange flags, their cheers rising in a crescendo as the lights above the grid turned red one by one. The engines screamed in perfect harmony—then silence.

Lights out.

Twenty cars exploded off the line, tires gripping the asphalt as smoke trailed behind them. You and Sebastian sat just above the pit wall in a McLaren viewing box, hearts pounding as you watched Lando’s car surge forward, fighting for position into Turn 1.

“He’s in second!” Sebastian shouted, clutching your arm as Lando tucked behind the leading Red Bull car, timing his move.

Lap after lap, the field spread, then compacted again like a slingshot. Strategy came into play. Rain clouds loomed for a moment before disappearing. Pit stops became a test of perfect precision. McLaren nailed it—Lando out in clean air on Lap 32, tires fresh and focused.

Radio: “Alright Lando, we’re racing for the win here. Let’s push.”

And push he did.

Lap 41: He was closing the gap—half a second behind P1, DRS enabled. You leaned forward, barely blinking as the tension crackled through your bones.

“He’s gonna do it, Mommy!” Sebastian whispered, wide-eyed.

Lap 45: On the main straight, Lando darted left, then right—then made a daring lunge down the inside at Turn 4. Rubber screeched. His rival tried to hold on, but Lando was relentless, using every inch of the track, claiming the corner with the precision of someone who wanted this more than anything.

He was through.

The grandstand erupted. McLaren crew members leapt to their feet. You stood too, hands over your mouth in disbelief as Lando flew ahead.

Lap 48. Lap 52. Lap 56.

Every second stretched like eternity. But Lando held his line, controlled the pace, fought the wind, the pressure, the world.

Final lap.

You and Sebastian were on your feet, cheering, voices hoarse with anticipation. The McLaren pit wall was already half-standing in wait. Lando rounded the final corner, and with the checkered flag waving wildly in the air—

He crossed the line.

P1. Lando Norris wins the Grand Prix.

Tears flooded your eyes without warning, the emotions crashing over you like waves. Sebastian jumped up and down, shouting, “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”

“YES, HE DID!” you laughed through your tears, sweeping him into your arms.

Radio: “Lando, you are a Grand Prix winner! P1, mate. You did it!”

His voice cracked through the radio, raw and overwhelmed: “Oh my god, finally. Finally. Thank you, team. That one was for all of you... and for someone watching up there too.”

You knew that "someone" was closer than he realized.

In the cool-down lap, he swerved left and right, waving at fans, helmet still on—but you could feel his smile. He stopped on the grid, climbed onto his car, raised his fists into the air, and the world lost its mind.

Trophies, champagne, confetti—those moments came next.

But nothing compared to the instant he saw you and Sebastian outside the garage afterward.

Helmet off, eyes scanning through the haze of celebration, his gaze landed on you both—and that’s when it hit him.

The roar of the crowd had softened into the background now—cheering still echoed in waves, but inside the back corner of the McLaren motorhome, it felt like the world had slowed down for just a moment.

Lando had just showered and changed into a clean team polo, though his curls were still damp and tousled. His skin carried the subtle pink flush from the heat, and his eyes—god, his eyes—looked exhausted but alive. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he got out of the car.

You sat on the couch with Sebastian, who had finally calmed from all the excitement, his small head resting against your side as his fingers absentmindedly played with the lanyard still hanging from his neck. He looked up as Lando stepped in.

“Hi, Champ.” you smiled, soft and genuine.

Lando looked at you, his expression faltering for just a moment—relief, disbelief, emotion. His voice dropped, quieter now than all the shouting and applause from earlier.

“I still can’t believe it,” he murmured, dropping down onto the seat beside you, careful not to crush Sebastian’s legs.

“You earned every bit of it,” you said. “It was yours from the start.”

Sebastian sat up, crawling into Lando’s lap, wrapping his arms around him. “You were so fast! Like zoooom,” he said, making a whooshing sound. Lando laughed, burying his face in Sebastian’s shoulder for a second.

“Thanks, buddy. I told you I’d win today if I saw your suit.”

Sebastian beamed, proud as ever. “I’m your lucky charm!”

“Yes, you are.”

The moment was warm, cozy. The three of you felt like a little island in the middle of all the chaos. But that peace only lasted a beat before Carlos barged in through the door without knocking, grinning from ear to ear, still sweaty and in his Ferrari kit.

“Landoooo!” Carlos called, pointing a finger at him. “You said—if you ever won—you’d party.”

Lando groaned playfully. “Carlos—”

“No excuses!” Carlos waved off the protest. “We’re going out tonight. Whole paddock’s buzzing. It’s your moment, hermano. You're not skipping this.”

You looked over at Lando, who glanced back at you as if waiting for your response.

“It’s okay,” you smiled. “Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

“But I wanted to spend time with you two,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to you and Sebastian again. “I don’t really care about—”

“Lando,” you interrupted softly, brushing your hand against his. “You can have this moment. We’ll still be here tomorrow. Go dance, drink, scream if you want to. You only get your first win once.”

He hesitated, then squeezed your hand.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Promise. We’ll be in bed, watching SpongeBob reruns or something. Go.”

Carlos threw an arm around Lando and smacked the back of his head. “Come on, before she changes her mind!”

Lando finally cracked a grin, standing up with Sebastian still in his arms. He looked at you once more—an unspoken thank-you in his eyes—before gently setting Sebastian down on the couch.

“I’ll text you when I get in,” he said.

“I’ll be asleep,” you teased, “but I’ll read it in the morning.”

As Lando and Carlos disappeared down the hallway, laughter echoing behind them, you leaned back on the couch, Sebastian curling up at your side again.

And though Lando had gone to celebrate with the world, it still felt like his heart had never really left that room.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Somewhere in Australia, while the soft hum of the hotel’s AC wrapped you and Sebastian in a cocoon of sleep, a different world pulsed to life just down the city blocks.

The club was dimly lit but alive—bass thrumming through the floorboards, the strobe lights slicing the shadows like flashes of lightning. Music thundered. Laughter echoed. Bodies moved in rhythm with careless joy. It was the kind of chaos that made the air feel electric, where sweat mixed with spilled liquor and every fleeting moment felt like something worth chasing.

And there he was—Lando.

Shirt half-buttoned, the edges loose and dancing with the rhythm of the club’s fan. His curls were damp at the edges, the scent of his cologne clinging stubbornly to his skin, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey and champagne that hung in the air. His cheeks were flushed pink from both alcohol and adrenaline, and his smile—crooked and disoriented—never quite left his lips.

The celebration was real. Electric. He had finally done it—P1. The first win. The first taste of it. And everyone wanted a piece of him.

Carlos was lost somewhere in the blur of bodies, likely dancing on some table and encouraging shots with people Lando couldn’t name. McLaren team members toasted, DJs hyped him up. Strangers—women—slid into his space like gravity pulled them toward him.

He leaned slightly against a girl, laughter bursting from his chest, and she reached up, fingers brushing his jaw as if she belonged there. Cameras snapped in a flurry—flashes of light capturing a moment out of context but full of implication. Lando didn’t even register the blinking of notifications piling up in his back pocket. His phone was the last thing on his mind.

He was smiling. Drunk. Buzzing. Floating.

And in that moment—between the glass in his hand, the warmth of touch that wasn’t yours, and the loud encouragement of friends and strangers alike—he didn’t see the cracks beginning to form.

Because back in a quiet hotel room, wrapped in cotton sheets and the soft light of the night lamp, Sebastian slept soundly beside you, one hand still holding onto the tail of the jumbo shark plush, the other curled into your side.

And you? You were asleep. Or trying to be. Somewhere in your subconscious, maybe something felt... off. A small shift. A ripple. Like a thread tugging just slightly, signaling something had come undone while you weren't looking.

But Lando didn’t know. Not yet. Not as laughter swallowed him. Not as hands rested where they shouldn't. Not as the night captured a version of him that he might not even remember in the morning.

And certainly not as the world watched, waiting to see how this celebration would cost him something he hadn't yet realized was priceless.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun was high in the sky when you stirred awake, Sebastian’s soft breaths nestled against your side, the morning light seeping in through the cracks of the curtains. It was peaceful—at least, it should have been.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, wiping the sleep from your eyes, not prepared for the barrage of notifications that had flooded in overnight. Headlines. Photos. Mentions.

A single image opened first—Lando, flushed and smiling in a dim-lit club, his shirt undone, a girl’s hand resting on his chest like she belonged there.

Your chest tightened, breath catching just slightly. You scrolled slowly. More photos. More angles. One of her whispering into his ear. His smile wide, his body comfortably close. He didn���t look forced. He looked... happy. Drunk, yes, but happy.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

You stared for a long while, heart sinking, and yet—you said nothing. No text. No confrontation. No storming call demanding answers. What would be the point? You weren’t his. He had introduced you and Sebastian as his friends, hadn’t he? Not even close to what you thought you might have been.

So instead, you placed the phone down, slid out of bed, and began to pack.

Lando hadn’t texted that morning. Nor that afternoon. You made the decision to leave it at that.

At the airport, Sebastian clutched his stuffed shark, happily babbling about the turtles and fish, unaware of anything heavier lingering in the air. You smiled at him, fixed his little McLaren hoodie, and carried on as if the last few days hadn’t cracked something quietly inside you.

Lando met you at the gate, out of breath and sheepish, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie. “Hey,” he panted, “I was hoping I could say goodbye before you left.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course.”

He crouched to give Sebastian a hug, the little boy clinging to him like always. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he said softly.

“Okay,” Sebastian beamed.

Then Lando looked up at you. “We’ll stay in touch?”

You nodded, keeping your voice calm and pleasant. “Definitely.”

But definitely started to feel more like barely.

Weeks passed. Conversations that once felt effortless turned into polite check-ins. Lando would text, and you would take hours—sometimes days—to reply. You became harder to reach, more brief, no longer offering the warmth he had grown used to.

He noticed.

And eventually, Oscar noticed too.

They were in the paddock weeks later, preparing for another Grand Prix when Oscar finally confronted him during a quiet moment in the garage.

“Do you even know what you did?” he asked, arms crossed.

Lando blinked, startled. “What are you talking about?”

Oscar scoffed. “You don’t get it, do you? She saw the photos, mate. The club. The girl. That night you celebrated like a legend. She never said a word about it, but that’s why she pulled back.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

Oscar continued, “She cared about you. I mean, really cared. She didn’t have to come to your race. She brought her son. Wore your colors. Stood in your world. And you—”

“I didn’t know,” Lando muttered, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

Months slipped by like sand through fingertips.

Your messages came less frequently. Then they stopped altogether. But your Instagram didn’t. Every few weeks, Lando would find himself opening the app, searching for your name. There you were, always glowing.

One photo showed you and Sebastian at a pumpkin patch, his little arms wrapped around that same grey shark. Another had you walking on the beach with him, your smile soft but distant.

In one, you were dressed up for a night out. No tag. No mention of who took the photo. That one he stared at for too long.

The digital distance cut sharper than any silence ever could.

And now, the only way Lando kept up with the life he once dipped his toes into—was through a screen.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three Months Later Off-season Break, Quiet Day in Monaco

Lando was sprawled across the sofa in his apartment, TV playing something he wasn’t watching, phone in his hand as his thumb hovered over Instagram. It had become a routine now — checking your page, looking for any glimpse of your life, of Sebastian, of the family he let slip through his fingers.

And then he saw it.

A hand. A delicate ring sitting neatly on a manicured finger. Resting against a familiar sweater he swore he’d seen on you.

The caption? A simple heart emoji.

And the comments —

“Engaged?! Omg congrats!! 💍” “Wishing you all the love and happiness!” “You deserve this 🥹💖”

His stomach dropped.

He blinked. Read it again. Scrolled. His hands began to shake slightly as he locked his phone, but it didn’t stop the pounding in his chest.

He didn’t even realize Carlos and Oscar had entered the apartment until Carlos tossed a water bottle at him.

“Earth to Norris,” Carlos called out. “What’s with the face? You look like someone just stole your car.”

Lando didn’t answer.

Oscar flopped into a chair and frowned. “Lando?”

He finally sat up, holding his phone like it was evidence in a crime. “I think she’s engaged.”

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“She posted a picture. A hand. A ring. I don’t know if it’s hers but everyone’s congratulating her and—” he stood abruptly, pacing. “I knew I lost her. I just didn’t know it was already this far gone.”

Oscar leaned forward. “You haven’t talked to her in weeks, mate.”

“I didn’t know what to say!” Lando’s voice cracked. “I messed up. I let her walk away. And I’ve been watching her raise Sebastian like the strongest woman I’ve ever met while I sit here doing nothing.”

Carlos exchanged a glance with Oscar before stepping in front of Lando, voice firm. “So do something. Fly out there. Talk to her.”

Lando shook his head. “What if she doesn’t even want to see me?”

Oscar stood, crossing his arms. “Then at least you’ll know. But right now? You’re acting like a coward. You love her. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

Carlos nodded. “And that kid adored you. So either go tell her how you feel or spend the rest of the season wondering what might’ve been.”

Lando stood frozen for a moment — heart in his throat, chest tight — before he turned and grabbed his keys.

“Book me a flight,” he said, voice low. “Tonight.”

The next day Your doorstep – early evening

You weren’t expecting company, especially not when the sun had barely begun to dip behind the trees. So when the knock came, sudden and sharp, you wrapped a cardigan around yourself and padded over.

You opened the door slowly.

Lando stood there. Hoodie half-zipped, sneakers slightly dusty, hair messy like he’d run straight from the airport.

You froze.

He looked like hell. Beautiful, aching hell.

“Hi,” he breathed out. “I—I saw the ring post. I thought you were engaged. I thought you were gone.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “Wait, what?”

He shook his head. “The picture. I thought it was your hand. I didn’t read the caption, didn’t check anything, I just... I panicked. I flew here without even thinking. I had to see you. Had to know.”

You let out a breath, eyes wide. “Lando, that’s my best friend. She got engaged. I was posting for her.”

Lando blinked like he was waking up. His shoulders dropped as he let out a strangled laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You stood aside. “Come in.”

He walked in slowly, glancing around as though memorizing everything. Like the home you built with Sebastian was a life he’d only dreamed about.

He turned back to you and the laughter died.

“I thought I lost you,” he said again, voice cracking. “I’ve already been losing you. You’ve been slipping away since Australia, and I knew it. And I let it happen.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

“I know I never said the right things. Or showed up in the right way. I messed up — at the club, and every day after when I said nothing.” He looked down. “But it was never because I didn’t care. I was scared. Scared that what I wanted was too much. That you’d realize you didn’t need me.”

“Lando—”

He stepped closer.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I love you. I love Sebastian. And it’s not some temporary, easy feeling. It’s deep, and messy, and real. I’ve felt like a ghost since I left. I check your Instagram just to feel something. Every time Sebastian smiles in a post I think, that used to be mine too.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was trembling now, the weight of months of silence collapsing in on him.

“I want to be there. Not for show. For real. I want to be the one Sebastian tells his secrets to, the one who packs school lunches, the one who kisses you goodnight, and doesn’t run when things get hard.”

You stared at him — eyes glassy, chest tight.

“You left,” you whispered. “You let me think I didn’t matter.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And if I have to prove otherwise for the rest of my life, I will.”

A small yawn echoed from down the hall.

“Mommy?” came the sleepy voice.

You turned just in time to see Sebastian peek out, hair messy, eyes wide. “Is Lando here?”

Lando crouched down gently. “Hey, buddy.”

Sebastian grinned. “You’re back.”

You looked between the two of them — the connection, the hope in Sebastian’s voice, and the pleading in Lando’s eyes.

And finally, your resolve cracked. You walked to him, wrapped your arms around him, and let yourself feel everything you’d pushed down.

“I’m scared too,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sebastian was five now — bright-eyed, sharp with his words, and carrying more energy in his little frame than the entire grid on race day. The flat you now called home was tucked into a hillside in Monaco, where the sea kissed the edges of marble balconies and every window glowed with golden sunset light. Fancy, yes — sleek and curated — but warm with laughter, scattered toys, and the fingerprints of a real life being lived inside.

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and lemon, the sauce simmering gently as you stirred with one hand, the other resting absentmindedly over the curve of your belly. The moonlight filtered in through the glass doors, casting silver across the tiled floor. Music drifted low and slow in the background — something jazzy and nostalgic.

Peace. You had found it, and better yet, you had chosen it.

The door opened with a click and a rush of laughter. Sebastian’s giggles filled the flat as he kicked off his shoes, running to his room with the thud of socks against hardwood. Lando followed, gear bag slung over his shoulder, curls tousled from the wind.

You turned, smile playing at your lips. “How’d he do?”

Lando leaned in, stealing a brief kiss before answering. “He’s good. Like, really good. We might be raising the next world champion.”

You chuckled. “He gets it from you.”

Lando’s gaze softened. His hand moved instinctively to your bump, resting over the swell of new life. “And how’s this one doing?”

“She finally stopped her karate routine,” you joked, glancing down. “I think the smell of dinner soothed her.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he said with a grin.

Dinner was cozy, full of overlapping conversation — Sebastian animatedly recounting how he overtook someone on the final lap, and Lando grinning proudly at every word. Between bites, he’d chime in about his own upcoming races and how Sebastian’s form was already better than his at that age. You caught your gaze wandering now and then to the photo in the corner — your wedding day — frozen in time with the sound of the waves and laughter behind you, your veil tangled in the wind as Lando looked at you like he was seeing color for the first time.

After the dishes, which Lando insisted on doing — “Can’t have both of my girls stressed,” he’d said with a wink — the house quieted. Sebastian had curled up in bed with his shark plush and a bedtime story. And now, the two of you were lying in your bed, blankets tangled at your feet, your heads close, voices low. This was the part you loved most — not the trips or photoshoots or champagne showers, but the calm. The pillow talk. The shared world no one else got to see.

You’d once been a single mom fighting your way through life with tired eyes and a hopeful heart, never sure what the next day would bring. But here you were — Mrs. Norris now. With a son who bore that name proudly, and a daughter soon to join the world who would never have to question her father’s love.

The phone buzzed once. Lando rolled to check it.

“Old mate wants to go out tonight. Some club in town,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to you — your belly, your soft smile, your fingers gently tracing patterns across the duvet.

He paused. And then the decision came without thought.

“I’ll be home with the wife and kids,” he said aloud, tapping his screen off. “But you boys have fun.”

He tossed the phone on the bedside table and rolled closer to you, one hand sliding to rest over your belly, the other entwining with yours. He kissed your knuckles and sighed like someone who had run every race just to arrive here, in this exact moment.

“I really did change everything, huh?” he asked softly.

You nodded, resting your forehead against his.

“No,” you whispered. “We did.”

And outside, Monaco slept under a velvet sky, but inside that home, love stayed awake — breathing, growing, anchoring everything that mattered.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @fangirlmusicbiashoe @rexit-mo @jewelszn @rebelatbay @hellsingalucard18 @hc-dutch @pleasantphantomhologram @msliz @bunnisplayground @nicooolsstuff @f1norris04 @freyathehuntress @IiIaissa @thetorturedblogger @kodzuvk @degeathesaviour @kayleighlovesf1 @mcmuppet @nightrose-18 @mayax2o07 @wherethezoes-at @esw1012 @swiftlyboring

[strawberry-nugget]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[artist-issues]

Just calling my response “aggro, hysterical coke rant, meltdown” doesn’t make it so. And uh, re-framing what I said as a demand for anything from you just illustrates the point I’m making: you’re reading and seeing what you want to read, not what’s actually going on.

I said “I hope you get some patience.” Is “I hope” “demanding language,” now?

Who can’t handle people “chiming in?” You’re the one who hopped into the reblogs to “meltdown” (since that’s what we seem to be calling it) over me handling it.

Ya’ll made a claim I disagreed with. Here it is, since you aren’t really reading to understand:

“… them whitewashing Nani should’ve been the first and last straw that kept folks outta theaters.”

Emphasis on “first and last straw.”

And the whole point of my post—as I have already explained, but will repeat here, was what IS important to understand (or “first and last straws”) from the point of the original movie, instead of focusing on anything else because that’s part of the problem:

“Those are not the only things that were bad about this remake. You could easily tell it was going to be all that and more beforehand, but most people’s reaction to the trailer was “it’s surprisingly good!” and now they’re acting all surprised. If you didn’t see this coming, enough to purchase a ticket, you’re part of the problem and you don’t get the original movie any more than the people who made this remake did.”

So I responded to their “chiming in,” which I disagreed with, with a reblog that said, over and over, what was summed up at the bottom:

”It’s a focus issue. Race is not what this movie was ever about. It was about family. Which all races and all people can relate to. I said do not miss the point.”

I have only been saying the same thing again and again. That’s not “melting down” when someone “chimes in.” It’s: 1) making a post about the consequences of a wrong focus, highlighting the right focus, then 2) noting that someone “chimes in” with the wrong focus somehow in spite of the point of the original post, so 3) responding with the correct focus, again, because why wouldn’t I when that was the point of the post in the first place?

It’s not hard to understand.

What is hard to understand is how you get “meltdown” from that. Just the caps and italics I guess.

Or maybe it’s because you don’t have anything to say about the actual topic, so you gotta skim the surface and try to UNO-reverse what I said about how you can’t handle the topic and have to resort to name-calling back on me.

If that’s the case, nice try. Didn’t work, but nice try. Seriously now, do you have anything to say about the topic at hand, or are we just going to keep on attacking me personally instead of what I said? Cuz this is getting repetitive, and I block spam.

That’s It.

I’m tired of seeing everyone repeat the same four points: “1) Nani gives Lilo to the state! 2) Hawaii has a better marine biology program than San Fransisco! 3) Jumba doesn’t get redeemed! 4) Pleakley’s not wearing a dress!”

Those are not the only things that were bad about this remake. You could easily tell it was going to be all that and more beforehand, but most people’s reaction to the trailer was “it’s surprisingly good!” and now they’re acting all surprised. If you didn’t see this coming, enough to purchase a ticket, you’re part of the problem and you don’t get the original movie any more than the people who made this remake did.

So I’m done being quiet, this is the Lilo & Stitch 2025 Takedown Post.

And as usual the only good thing about an attempted-remake is that it gives people a reason to think about what made the original so good.

Let’s go in order. But just scroll down to the Heading you Care About if you don’t want to read all this.

1. Cobra Bubbles

In this movie, Cobra Bubbles is a secret agent hunting for aliens and they have a new character take his place as the state social worker.

The Problem They Were Trying to Solve With this Change: “We shouldn’t have a black man or a government worker feel like an insensitive antagonist to Lilo’s family.”

That’s a stupid surface-level one-dimensional misread of the character from the original…and it wouldn’t have been hard, at all, for a child to explain to the 2025 filmmakers that Cobra is not an insensitive antagonist in the original.

Cobra Bubbles is not insensitive and he is not in any way portrayed as a bad guy in the original. Nani sees him that way, Nani sees him as antagonistic, because he’s the representation of Lilo being taken away.

But Nani is wrong about him and learns that she is wrong about him by the end of the movie.

Can we please make a list?

Cobra’s first interaction with the caretaker of the child he was being sent to protect was that she ran out into the road, yelled at a complete stranger, and dented his car.

Then he found her locked out of the home and threatening the child inside with a hammer in her hand.

Then he found out the stove was on while she was out, and she’d left a 7 year-old alone.

The 7 year-old made comments about being disciplined with bricks and a pillow case.

The 7 year-old looks like she might be more than a little emotionally unbalanced because she’s figuring out how to put voodoo spells on her friends to punish them.

He still gave that pair of sisters three days to straighten the ship. When in actuality, in 2002, under HRS §587-73, (don’t play with me) the social worker would’ve been well within his rights to remove the child from the home right then. But instead he gives her three days to fix it. THEN

The 18 year-old loses her job.

The family gets a “dog” who he is implied to know is an alien, right off the bat.

The alien is violent and wreaks havoc across town.

The 7 year-old almost drowns while they surf instead of find a job.

He lets the child and caretaker have one more night together to say goodbye, but when he’s on the way to get her he gets a call that she’s being attacked by aliens, hears a chainsaw, and finds the house on fire.

Do you understand what I’m saying.

Cobra Bubbles had NO BUSINESS being as BIG A SOFTIE AS HE WAS for all of the original movie. He was not only well within his legal rights to take Lilo away from Nani immediately, but he was actually required by law, it was his DUTY, to remove her immediately. But he didn’t do that. Why?

Now listen to me very carefully.

Lilo and Stitch is a movie about how “Family chooses to love and commit to one another selflessly, no matter what the other person can do for them or how hard they make it.” The fancy way they say it is just “Ohana means family: family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.”

Did you catch that? “No matter how hard they make it.”

Cobra Bubbles was a CIA agent before this. A CIA agent who saved the planet, by doing what? Convincing an alien race to leave them alone. Oh, he didn’t fight them off? No. How? He “convinced” them? He talked it out? Sounds like a pretty compassionate guy, for all his tough exterior. How did he do that?

He could’ve picked any animal that’s actually endangered. The filmmakers chose to make him the guy who convinced aliens to value mosquitos.

MOSQUITOS. Creatures that give nothing, only take. Ugly little bloodsucking monsters. That’s the creature he convinced them to care about enough to save the planet.

NOW do you have any trouble understanding why this is the specific social worker who would give an alien-infested dumpster fire of a dangerous home a chance when two sisters are about to be torn apart?

Do you see that Cobra is just another example of the grace that the movie is always talking about? The love that transforms someone from bad to good simply because it refuses to give up even when it gets nothing out of it? I’m repeating myself because I want you to see why he was a well-done character who NEEDED NO CHANGE.

Cobra Bubbles’ character is not an insensitive monster who doesn’t care who his actions hurt as long as he gets the job done. But you know who that does sound like?

2. Gantu

Gantu is not in the remake at all.

The Problem They Were Trying to Solve With This Change: “It’s going to cost us upwards of 1.5 millions of dollars to design, sculpt, rig, animate, and render a character this big in addition to finding a suitable voice actor to play the part.”

This is a really dumb choice for several reasons. A. Without Gantu, there is no “stakes-raiser” to Lilo and Nani’s story. The movie has no climax without him. For the first and second acts of the movie, it’s about a grieving pair of girls trying to prove themselves to a social worker while the story-equivalent of Beethoven the Destructive St. Bernard wacky Jumba & Pleakley antics get in their way. But when a 40-foot tall alien stomps into their lives and abducts Lilo & Stitch in a spaceship that careens around the island during an explosive sky-chase scene, now you have a high-octane, somebody-could-die climax.

B. Without Gantu, Stitch looks weaker. The climax gave Stitch a reason to come out of the wackadoo puppy he’s been posing as and suddenly remind everybody that he’s a lethal weapon who can survive thousand-foot drops, lava, and astronomic explosions—and a giant alien’s Thanos-dwarfing fist. Take him out and who do we have as a match for Stitch to go up against, even for a moment, and prove how much he’s changed to be willing to risk his freedom and fight?

C. Without Gantu you have no villain to reflect that STITCH is no longer a villain. (So they substituted Jumba.)

But the reason this character is really worth millions is, again, the theme.

I told you Cobra Bubbles was a character who did not put “duty” or even “convenience” or “position” over the real lives of Lilo and Nani. He saw that there was love there, and in his own way, he gave it a chance. And even when he chose to take Lilo away, he did it carefully; he gave them time to say goodbye.

GANTU IS THE OPPOSITE OF COBRA BUBBLES.

Gantu is the insensitive, uncaring, unyielding Captain whose commitment to duty turns into rage and cruelty. Not Cobra.

Nani thinks Cobra is walking in a threatening to tear apart their family in a display of government judgement. But that’s what Gantu literally does.

His first reaction to Stitch is to call for his destruction. Without even waiting to see if “it can be reasoned with” like the Grand Councilwoman suggests. He’s merciless. He mocks Stitch when Stitch is captive. And he knows that he caught Lilo, a human, along with him. He doesn’t care. He even suggests that Stitch eat her as a snack.

There are only two other characters who laugh at others’ misfortune in the movie. One is Stitch, the original villain. Then love changes him. The other is Jumba, who made Stitch. Then love changes him. But Gantu never gets changed. He’s only concerned with his job, and with personally annihilating the flaws he sees in Stitch.

Gantu is unyielding, ungracious, and cruel. And he’s big and powerful enough to be a test for Stitch to prove he’s changed. For the benefits he brings to the story, he’s worth 1.5 million and more. But they cut him anyway.

3. Jumba

In the new movie, Jumba is a villain through-and-through with designs on overthrowing the Galactic Council using Stitch, and instead of being redeemed, he’s sentenced to prison.

The Problem They Were Trying to Solve With This Change: “We can’t spend money on our real villain so we’ll just keep Jumba evil.”

The reason this is dumb is obvious. They created their own problem, and the ‘fix’ makes the movie weaker, not stronger. But here’s how.

In the original, Jumba is introduced as trying to self-protect. He’s on trial, and he lies. But when Stitch is revealed, he’s genuinely passionate about the thing he’s created. And he cares about image. He prefers to be called “evil genius,” and he hates the headlines labelling him “idiot scientist.”

You have to remember he’s part of “Galaxy Defense Industries.” They had him making weapons of destruction anyway. He just got too into it with his genetic Experiments, went a little insane.

I’m not downplaying the fact that Jumba is evil at the start of the movie. He is. It is evil to be outcasted from society and then respond to that with, “well, if they’re going to treat me like an idiot, I’LL SHOW THEM, I won’t care about anything except my passion for mad science!” That’s evil.

But it also explains a lot.

I said it in another post. Jumba’s whole utility as a character is that he knows who and what Stitch really is, better than anyone. He made him to be a monster who can’t belong and wreaks havoc on everybody else’s ‘place of belonging.’ Jumba is the audience’s insider’s perspective on what is going on in Stitch’s head, at first.

But when he’s redeemed, it happens fast. And why? Because that’s how plain and simple Stitch is, as a character. Jumba knows Stitch is a disgusting little monster with nothing inherently loveable about him, and no “greater purpose.” So when his disgusting monster is loved by someone? When his disgusting monster is willing to ask him, Jumba, for help? Something totally outside his programming, totally not what Jumba thought he’d ever be capable of?

That proves to Jumba, in an instant, that there’s love out there that transforms. And creates a place of belonging.

There were already germs of that, a desire to belong, a compassion, in Jumba after he reached earth.

He doesn’t try to get Nani fired, he offers an explanation for Pleakley’s swollen head.

He claims he won’t hit Lilo (why would he care about collateral damage?)

He sounds sorry for Nani when she’s upset about losing Lilo, and tries to keep Stitch from bothering her.

My point is, Jumba’s redemption isn’t important because it’s cute or because we need to set up the big happy found-family trope everybody loves.

Jumba’s redemption is important because it is just one more PROOF that what’s happened to Stitch is so incredible. The love Jumba finds transforming his monster is enough to transform Jumba, too.

But sure, fine, whatever, make him a soulless one-dimensional talking head. Whatever.

4. Stitch’s Design

In this movie, Stitch is cuter than he is ugly, and he’s half Lilo’s size.

The Problem They Were Trying to Solve With This Change: “Ugly-cute doesn’t come across as well in ‘live action’ animation. And all the Wal-Mart moms remember Stitch as ‘cute.’ Plus we’ll save about 15% in rendering the animation.”

This is crippling to the characterization of Stitch.

Stitch is supposed to be an echo of who Lilo could become now that she’s lost her parents and may be losing Nani. This scene:

Where Jumba points out that Stitch has nothing, and destruction is his only purpose, is the evidence for that. But Chris Sanders, who made this whole story, also point-blank said it. Stitch is a future Lilo, if she loses her family.

So that’s reason number 1 that he should be her same height. But also, practically, no iconic pair of best friends, yin and yang, have visuals where one is smaller than the other. Especially not if one of them is supposed to be disguised as a pet.

The point is, Stitch is not LILO’s pet. He is her best friend, her other half. But between the muzzle-muscles they worked into his upper lip and the darkened dog nose and the butt-scooting across the floor, the remake is trying to make him more pet-like in relation to Lilo.

That’s not what he is.

I said this in another post. But Stitch is supposed to throw food to the back of his head like a gator—his lips are not designed for forming words. His gums and teeth are supposed to look like a shark’s. His nose is supposed to be too big, stamped into his face. His ears are supposed to be like bat ears, not bunny ears. He hunches forward, instead of bending at the waist like a toddler. His eyes can narrow to lizard slits.

He has to look like he can believably be a disgusting monster. Yes, he can also be cute. But he has to first look like a monster. Because that’s what he really is, in the story. If he isn’t, then LILO’s love for him doesn’t look as powerful.

It is easy to love a cat even if it scratches you, because it’s cute. It’s harder to love a life-sized spider that keeps knocking you down and eating your prized possessions and laughing when you get hurt. Stitch is supposed to be closer to the second one, so that Lilo’s love shines brighter.

But also, practically:

She can’t look him in the eye for emotional shots when he’s that short. He’ll always have to awkwardly be standing on a box or a chair or a bed.

How is he going to scoop her up, hero-style, and leap off of an exploding spaceship with her in his arms, when he’s half her size? He could do it: it’ll look stupid, though. So they just don’t have that part in the movie.

She can pick him up. That alone is demeaning and again, the visuals are silly. Not what we’re going for.

5. Lilo’s Personality

In this movie, Lilo doesn’t like weird stuff, and she screams when she first meets Stitch. There’s no problem that this solves. It’s just laziness and a lack of care about the characters.

I would like to remind you that the original Lilo:

Made her own doll that looks like a shrunken head and pretended a bug laid eggs in her ears.

Makes up stories about a fish that controls the weather and actively deep-sea dives to bring it peanut butter sandwiches.

Has a knee-jerk reaction of using practical voodoo spells on friends who wrong her.

Listens exclusively to Elvis Presley.

Fills baby bottles with coffee.

Believes Nani’s manager is a vampire.

Has fishing nets and seashells in her room for decoration.

takes safari pictures of overweight bleached tourists.

meets a social worker and her first impulse is to ask if he’s killed someone.

Nails the door shut when she’s mad at her big sister.

She’s not friends with pound dogs in that original movie; when they first get there she acts like she’s never been in the kennel before, and originally wants a pet lobster.

I know that we all love that little girl they got to play Lilo, but if you were really being objective, you’d acknowledge that she’s a little girl. She’s not Lilo. She’s a cute little girl.

They did not write Lilo into the 2025 movie. They wrote any old little girl.

You should have known, from the moment she first sees Stitch and her reaction is to scream in the trailer, that THAT IS NOT LILO.

Lilo had a very specific set of characterizations. She was a character with a personality that exploded out of the screen. Every other character in the movie meets Stitch and reacts with disgust.

But not. LILO. She’s the only one to react to him like THIS:

She is literally not like anyone else. She’s doesn’t care that he’s ugly. Or weird. Or blue. Or even bat an eye when he can talk with all those shark teeth.

From Moment One, Lilo chooses Stitch. She chooses to love him. Regardless of what he can do for her. Regardless of how many times he pushes her over or rips up her house or makes her relationship with Nani harder. That is the number one thing about Lilo.

She is desperate for people to stay, but she chooses to love Stitch even though he’s a monster. And she tries to make him better. And her love succeeds in transforming him when nothing else could.

Lilo’s personality traits all mean something in the story. (I.e. she likes Elvis because she’s clinging to the past, she snaps pictures of tourists like they’re safari animals because they’re inherently people who LEAVE and she has issues with LEAVING, etc.) But the thing I think that was so obvious that the moviemakers missed for 2025 is she has to be weird. If she’s not weird, there’s no reason for her not to have friends. And if she has friends, what does she need Stitch for?

But also, Lilo’s personality in the new movie is just boring. Cute. But boring. Cute’s not that great of an accomplishment; any 7 year-old is cute.

6. Nani

I don’t think you guys need to know this. It’s not just that Nani leaves. It’s that “take care of yourself” is the exact opposite of the selfless message of the movie.

In the beginning, Lilo literally argues with Nani after being told she’s “such a pain,” and goes, “why don’t you SELL ME and buy a RABBIT INSTEAD?”

And then breaks down and cries at the thought of Nani wishing she had a rabbit instead of Lilo, later.

Because Lilo is afraid of people leaving. But Nani won’t leave her. Nani loses her job, her own life, because of Lilo. But she’s desperate to keep Lilo anyway, because she loves her. Don’t you understand? The message of the movie was about self-sacrificial love. A love that doesn't care what I get out of the relationship.

Nani starts it. But you know what, David loves her like that, too. And then Lilo transfers it to Stitch, who shows it off to Jumba. It’s a chain reaction, but Nani is spearheading it.

You realize that when their parents died, Nani already would’ve been in high school? With a whole life of her own? Her own friends, her own potential boyfriend, a job she went to, surf competitions (the trophies are in her room.) Lilo would’ve been well aware that that was the status-quo: Nani has her own life. And even a seven year-old can see that that life is being put on hold, but maybe the big sister wants to go back to it, at every turn.

The fact that Nani never does that, never expresses a desire for that, only ever expresses a desire to keep Lilo with her, is huge. It’s the core of the movie.

I don’t think that needs any more explaining.

We could talk more. Like about how Lilo needs to see that Stitch is an alien, because that’s the ultimate test: he’s one of the monsters who destroyed her house, he’s been lying to her and using her as a human shield, he’s a criminal—but she still winds up giving everything up to protect him.

Anyway. My neck hurts and I don’t want to type anymore. But we could talk about the music, the social worker, the grand councilwoman—it just doesn’t matter.

Ya’ll had more than enough details in the trailer to be able to not go see this movie because it was obviously going to ruin everything. But instead you chose to make this twisted corpse “the highest-grossing movie of any Memorial Day.” You bought tickets because they ruined a perfect movie and slapped together an uglier package for you.

Whatever. It was my favorite movie today, it’ll be your Treasure Planet or Tangled tomorrow. Keep riiiight on giving them your money, and keep letting influencers regurgitate the same four obvious facts to you over and over, because they paid Disney to make a talking-point for their content benefit. Whatever.

[gloamysnail]

Study Break

hello, hello~

this is my first fic for jjk, of course it's smut, of course it's suguru.

i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing.

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

summary: suguru invites you to his dorm to study. nothing unusual about that. until you can't seem to stop fixating on his hands playing with his pen, his arms with those rolled up sleeves, his thigh pressed against yours...

alternative summary: shameless, plotless smut wherein suguru geto rails you senseless while being infuriatingly calm about it.

word count: 5300

content warning: explicit, smut, mdni, 18+ ONLY, plotless, teasing, softdom, fem reader, reader insert

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

It wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t.

You were just in Suguru Geto’s dorm on a Tuesday night going over cursed spirit classification, because apparently you had to re-read chapter six three times while he had already internalized the material with supernatural grace - the same as everything else he ever did. That was it. That’s all this was.

So what if he’d pushed the door open with that soft little “come in” smile and held it open just enough for your shoulder to have to brush his chest as you squeezed inside past him? So what if he had the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows like he knew exactly what that did to you?

It was fine. You were fine. This was fine.

You sat on the floor with your notebook. He sprawled out right next to you, propped up on one arm, hair tied back in a low, lazy knot while he picked apart your poor study habits in that infuriatingly kind way he had where he asked questions only he knew the answer to because you were too distracted to focus on your reading material and he knew it.

You weren’t looking at him.

Absolutely not.

You were reading.

Trying to.

Until his voice cut through the silence.

“So…” He said, tapping a finger to the margin of your textbook above a handful of diagrams. “Which one of these is the semi-grade, again?”

You squinted at the page, as if it would somehow jar you out of thinking about Suguru Geto's fingers and help you focus on grasping a firmer understanding of things that could actually kill you. “The one with the twisted limbs?”

“Mm.” He leaned closer. “You sure?”

His thigh pressed lightly against yours.

You absolutely were not sure.

“…Yes.”

He hummed, low and thoughtful in that way that told you how wrong you were, but he was too polite to outright call you a dumbass.

It was the little things that were ruining you from there.

The way he rolled the pen between his fingers like it wasn’t clearly calculated to make you watch his hands and salivate over his dexterity. How his soft voice dipped low at the end of a sentence when he leaned just a bit closer to you. The little glances with an arch of a brow and a smirk when he caught you glancing back. The soft laughter under his breath when you accidentally called “cursed manipulation” “cursed manhandling,” and then immediately wanted to die.

“Manhandling?” He repeated with a raised brow.

“I’m going to jump out the window.”

“Please don’t. I'd like to keep you in my room.”

He smiled when he said it, easy and teasing like there was no other way you could possibly take that statement somewhere in the filthiest part of the gutters of your increasingly lust-addled mind.

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

At some point, the space between you two shrank, just naturally and gradually. His thigh against yours was no longer an accidental bump now and then, and instead was glued to you. His arm braced behind you was suddenly close enough that you could feel body heat on your lower back.

How he leaned over you, chin nearly on your shoulder and breath ghosting across your neck while he explained concepts to you that may as well have been in some eldritch language for all you actually absorbed. All you could focus on with this maddening proximity was his scent, the low tone of his voice, the way he bit his lower lip when he read to himself…

And then, with no warning, he sat up straighter and reached for your notebook.

You flinched, jarred from a rather tantalizing daydream about said lips.

He caught it, though, that flinch. That very telling hitch in your breath.

Suguru paused, holding the edge of your notebook and fixing you with an amused look.

“Something wrong?” He asked, all politeness that veiled any of the indecency you were certain you were projecting onto his very mundane actions.

You shook your head quickly. “No. Nope. Nothing.”

He smiled again, a little wider this time, before leaning in closer.

“Come here.”

That’s all he said.

Quiet and almost bored, like you were a particularly unimpressive sparring partner.

Your body moved before your brain did, and you very obediently shifted closer.

He didn’t reach for you, just tilted his head, watching, waiting, observing.

There was no way he was letting you get to within a breath of his lips - at his invitation - without expecting a kiss. This was far too on-the-nose. Suguru Geto knew what he was doing, and your confidence surged for a moment, that perhaps also his inadvertent teases over the course of the night with no real pass at you was simply… him being shy. You'd need to make the first proper move.

So, you leaned in to kiss him, not even thinking.

And he did not meet you halfway.

You missed.

You almost kissed the corner of his mouth - almost - before his hand slid up the back of your neck and tilted your head exactly the way he wanted it, holding you in place like a misbehaved feline.

“Eager.” He accused under his breath, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“I wasn’t -” You stuttered, flushed and now wholly void of the impatient confidence you'd summoned to finally claim those pretty lips.

“Mm.” He silenced your lying protest with a disbelieving hum and a smile that belied something not-at-all shy or polite.

Then -

He kissed you, finally. Slow and full and indulgent. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your thoughts go fuzzy.

And just as you started to push forward, to deepen it -

He leaned back.

Just an inch.

Just enough to make you follow.

Your mouth hovered over his, breathing shallow, eyes searching his for any clue as to what he was looking for. He looked infuriatungly pleased with himself.

You tried to move forward to capture his mouth again.

He leaned back again.

You let out the smallest, most miserable little groan before he actually laughed.

“I thought we were studying.” He mused gently.

“I can't focus because of you.”

“No, it doesn't seem like it.” He tilted his head. “Should I send you back to your room so you can?”

That very clear danger of being deprived of him spurred you to action.

You straddled him before you even realized that was the next step. His hands came to your hips, thumbs tracing unhurried circles just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You felt impatient - he merely looked like he expected as much.

Suguru kissed you again, properly this time. One hand slipped up your back. The other caught your wrist when you tried to grab at his buttons.

“No.” He said lightly, smile still in his voice. “Slow.”

“I am going slow -”

If you had it your way, he'd already be leaned back on his bed, stripped down with you on top.

He shut you up by kissing you hard, and then pulled back, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke:

“You’re not in charge here.”

Oh.

That’s what he said, so simply that your mouth dried and you could only nod.

And then he kissed you again, deep this time. Slower than before as his lips dragged over yours like he was giving you time to reconsider and decide this wasn't for you.

You didn’t, of course.

If anything, you chased his mouth again, desperate now, hungry, and he let you for a moment.

One moment.

One hand at the base of your spine, one sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin.

You started to grind against him without realizing.

His hand moved immediately, lower, tighter on your hip.

“Easy…” He murmured, pulling back just enough to speak.

You made a noise, small and wrecked.

He kissed you again to shut you up. Or maybe just to swallow that sound for himself.

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

It wasn't long before you were trying to unbutton his shirt again - your hands awkward, clumsy, too eager - when he caught both your wrists in one large hand and gently, so gently, moved them away from his chest.

His other hand came to your thigh, thumb brushing the inside, close but not close enough.

“Let me.” He said, and it wasn’t a request.

You nodded.

You hated yourself for how fast you nodded.

He started slow, because of course he did.

He slid his hands up beneath your shirt, fight-calloused palms scorching, moving across the planes of your waist and ribs to memorize the shape of you. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just under your breasts and stayed there, not groping, not rushing.

Just holding.

And fuck that wasn't what you needed.

You tried to move; rocked your hips again.

He stopped touching you completely, and you froze and whined.

“Patience.” Suguru urged, softly amused. “You’re not going anywhere. We've got all night.”

You bit your lip and pouted, because he was treating this like a meditation session instead of the achingly real and dire need that you had to feel his skin on yours and those hands inside of you before you really did die.

“…You’re being cruel.”

He hummed. “Am I?”

But when he touched you again, it was decisive.

His mouth was at your throat now, kissing a slow trail down to your collarbone as his hands lifted your shirt - up, up, off. You raised your arms automatically, and he pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. The cool air on your newly exposed skin was heavenly, but it was quickly tempered by his warm gaze, and how he just looked at you.

Calm, warm, focused, patient.

He leaned back slightly, hands still resting at your sides, and let his gaze trace every inch of you. You felt like you were standing naked in front of an altar being admired.

“You’re beautiful.” He remarked appreciatively, as if just stating a plain, blunt fact.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

What were you supposed to say to that?

And then his hands moved again, down this time. Over your hips and between your legs under your hitched up skirt.

You gasped.

He kissed the hollow of your throat again, shushing you.

His fingers moved with precisely the kind of intent you were hoping for. Not rushed, but no awkward fumbling around. Suguru found exactly where you wanted him with ease, like he'd memorized your body in that eternity ten whole seconds he'd spent just raking his eyes over you.

He teased you through your underwear first. Light pressure. Barely-there circles that had you arching into his chest within seconds, panting. He hadn’t even kissed you again yet.

When he slipped under the elastic, fingers pressed against your dripping core, you whimpered.

“Already?” He asked, voice soft. “We’ve barely started.”

“I -” You gasped. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, low in his throat. “Still trying to be in charge, huh?”

You hated him.

You wanted him to ruin you.

Maybe you said that out loud. You weren’t sure, but he chuckled again and the sound alone put you in a daze.

Two of his fingers slipped between your folds and he groaned softly into your skin like he’d just experienced something divine.

“You’re soaked.” He mused, and you squirmed.

Suguru pressed his fingers deeper, slow and unrelenting. Your head dropped against his shoulder, and he exhaled against your neck, biting gently at your pulse point.

“I could keep you like this all night.” He murmured. “Just here. In my lap. Begging.”

He absolutely could, and you would let him.

But then he crooked his fingers just right and you very nearly had a fucking spiritual experience. Because that one little shift had you on the brink of climax already.

The moment you rocked your hips down, just barely, just a fraction of instinct to get there, his fingers paused.

He didn’t pull away or make a scene. He just… stopped. Kept them where they were.

Inside you? Yes. Moving? No.

Your breath caught and your thighs twitched.

He kissed the corner of your jaw, still calm, still maddeningly gentle. “Mmm.”

That was all he said.

He didn’t need to say more.

You were learning this game, and you stilled entirely, letting him train you.

You let him take over again.

And like clockwork, he resumed just as slowly, just as deliberately, his fingers curling ever so slightly as your walls clenched around him.

You whimpered, but forced yourself to remain obediently still.

“That’s better.” He praised, voice something soft and fond and pleased.

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

It went on like that.

Each time you tried to chase it - lift your hips, buck against his hand, whine too demandingly - he slowed. Not enough to frustrate you into a tantrum, but just enough to make you pliant.

Every movement told your body: Wait. Yield. Trust.

The more you gave him control, the more he gave back.

When you went still in his lap, your arms trembling, your body soft and malleable, he mouthed your throat and rolled his thumb once over your clit.

Your whole body spasmed and he smiled into your neck.

“You’re doing so well.” He crooned softly, fingers still buried deep, thumb pressing against your clit. “See what happens when you stop fighting me?”

You whimpered again, higher; reedier. Your hands were gripping the front of his shirt now - clutching but not trying to pull or unbutton anymore. You'd learned better by now. Your lips parted in a near-silent keen, head tipping against his shoulder.

He kissed your jaw, your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“Just let me.” He instructed calmly again, like he was still helping you with your studies and not edging you to the most torturously delicious orgasm of your life.

You nodded - of course you nodded.

And, fuck, he rewarded you.

His thumb circled again, just a touch firmer, and he didn't let up this time. Fingers curved perfectly, the heel of his palm nudging against your hips, holding you steadily open despite the shake in your legs.

You turned to kiss him, couldn’t find his mouth, got the edge of his cheek instead. He turned and caught your mouth properly, kissed you slow and deep while his fingers worked. Suguru was the pinnacle of smug composure while you were absolutely shattering.

You were making so much noise now that if you were capable of any coherent thought, you might have had the grace to be embarrassed.

“Let it happen.” He whispered, between kisses. “I’ve got you.”

You clenched around him, so, so close.

And when you gasped, thighs twitching again, he -

Stopped.

Just for a second.

Just to see if you’d chase.

You almost did.

Almost belligerently moved again.

But you fought against the primal urge and waited, because you knew he would deliver and you needed him to let you out of this near-climax purgatory your impatience had trapped you in.

“Good girl.” He praised right against your ear as he began again. “Just like that.”

His voice hadn’t changed. Still low, still calm, still friendly. You might’ve imagined the note of heat behind it, if it weren’t for the way his fingers moved now, and the slight tinge of flush on his face.

He kept you open with one hand, two fingers still deep, now steadily curled and dragging down your walls. His thumb moved in deliberate circles, slow and relentless, slick from your own wetness.

“Suguru -” You breathed out, pleading as that heat gathered and pooled unbearably.

That earned you another kiss. A sweet one to your temple this time. His hand never faltered.

“That’s it. Go ahead.”

You did.

It was dizzying. Hot and slow and deep, cresting and pulling your body taut against his until the sound you made was somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Your hands slipped down to his forearm, clinging, breath stuttering with every pulse of your orgasm against his hand.

And he held you the entire time.

No teasing. No gloating.

Mouth at your jaw, arm around your waist, hand between your thighs until every last tremble faded.

Only when you stopped quivering and were little more than a boneless, ruined heap in his hold did he offer you another little show of praise with a kiss and a devastating good girl.

You sagged against him, forehead against his shoulder, eyes shut.

He was warm. So warm. His palm slid up your back again, slow and soothing now, fingers skimming your spine as you went delicate in his hands.

You’d barely caught your breath before he shifted beneath you.

One little roll of his hips and you felt him - hard against your inner thigh, straining behind the fabric of his pants.

His fingers grazed your chin and tilted your face toward him.

When you opened your eyes, he was already watching you with that same amused curiosity.

No instructions, no questions.

And a smile that told you whichever way this went next, you weren’t getting out of it intact.

Then, he moved.

Just a subtle shift beneath you. You blinked slowly as your brain caught up, chest still heaving in the aftershocks of your release. His hand, the one that had just drawn you apart like thread from a spool, slipped from between your legs, and you felt its absence immediately and expressed as much with a whine.

Then you felt his eyes, still observing you.

You looked up, bleary, to see Suguru soft, composed, that same gentle smile still playing at the corners of his mouth like he hadn’t just made you see stars.

And then…

He raised his hand to his lips.

You barely had time to register it before he licked his fingers clean. First one, then the next. Slowly, his tongue wrapped around his digits, his gaze never leaving yours as he took them into his mouth down to the knuckles.

He hummed, quiet and content, and savored your tangible pleasure that he'd earned.

You made a choked noise in your throat and your body twitched, your fingers clutching his sleeve.

���You’re not done already are you?” He teased lightly.

You could only shake your head no before he lifted you off his lap like it was nothing - hands braced beneath your thighs, body rising with you as he stood in one clean motion, carried you to the bed, and laid you out before ridding you of the remaining articles of clothing you wore like they were offensive.

And then he looked down at you.

Clothed, composed, hair still tied back.

While you were panting and bare and utterly undone.

You curled up and reached for his shirt, but he caught your wrist before you could tug at the buttons.

“Not yet.” His voice was firm and soft and left no room for the argument you so desperately wanted to make.

Still, your hand dropped back to the mattress. He leaned over you and picked it up to kiss your knuckles in reward.

He kissed his way down, too.

Slowly.

Mouth at your sternum, your navel, the soft curve of your hip. Hands moving over you the whole time, mapping every part of your skin like he was learning it, like it was a language he already knew, and he was just brushing up on his fluency.

He didn’t rush a thing.

When Suguru nudged your legs apart, you opened for him without thinking. And he made a hum of approval, like you’d pleased him.

He kissed the inside of your knee first.

Then your thigh.

When his mouth finally met you, your whole body jerked.

And then he ate you.

There was no other word for it. Not just licks, not just teasing; full attention and hungry pressure. Tongue flat and slow, then pointed and devouring. He held your thighs apart with both hands, thumbs dragging little arcs against your skin as he licked into you with maddening expertise.

You were already so over-sensitive.

He knew it as well, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t let up. He adjusted as you squirmed, exhaled softly and appreciative when you whimpered, let his mouth press deeper and firmer. You could feel the strain in his grip - he wasn’t just teasing anymore.

You were the one making an absolute mess, but this was his reward.

You tried to warn him. Tried to say something - his name, maybe, or a curse or a plea, but the second your hands touched his hair, he groaned against you.

You froze as he continued on, relentless, with none of his earlier teasing.

Your body arched, hands clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, his hair, at anything.

And when you came again, it was messy and hot and overwhelming. Your voice cracked, hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth, thighs shaking beneath his palms.

He didn’t stop until you were crying his name while he lapped up every bit of you he'd drawn out.

He didn’t stop until you pushed weakly at his shoulder, gasping.

Then - only then - did he lift his head.

Mouth and chin glistening, eyes dark, completely unbothered.

“Still with me?”

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

You were barely starting to come down from your second climax when he sat up, hands pressing softly to your thighs to part them one last time just to kiss your hip, just to soothe.

And then he leaned back on his heels, still fully clothed, and exhaled slowly, finally showing the first sign of it.

Tension.

That tightness in his jaw. That heavy breath through his nose.

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted. You felt wrecked and utterly melted while he still looked like he’d just begun.

Apparently fucking Suguru Geto was on par with sparring with him. He was in another league.

But you saw it now - the way his pants strained at the seam, the way his eyes were just slightly darker, the barest twitch of a muscle in his forearm when you sat up slowly, reaching toward his belt.

He caught your hand. Not harshly - just placed his over yours.

“You sure?” He asked, always giving you that chance to stop - patient, willing to give you a break, willing to let you call it quits when it got too intense.

You nodded, though.

“Good.” He said simply, and let go.

You moved slowly at first.

Hands to his belt, fingers unbuckling, breath catching when you brushed against the hardness pressing against the front of his pants. He said nothing, just watched and let you work to reveal him at your own pace this time.

When you finally got his cock free - thick, flushed, heavy against your palm - you swallowed hard.

Big.

He smiled softly at that.

“Don’t overthink it.” He coaxed, hand reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “Just touch me.”

You stroked him first, tentative and slow, and he breathed out. That was it. No lewd moan, no exaggerated grunt - just a steady exhale that made your stomach flutter.

When you leaned down and kissed the tip, he watched with quiet reverence.

“You’re doing fine.” He praised, sighing lightly, proving once more that his patience was truly inhuman.

When you took him into your mouth, slow, careful, inch by inch - his breath hitched, and then his hand settled in your hair.

No force, just gentle permission to keep going.

He let you find your rhythm, let you learn him. When you flattened your tongue along the underside, you felt his cock twitch in your mouth. When you pulled back slowly, letting your lips drag over the head, you heard a small sound at the back of his throat - finally.

You looked up.

Suguru was watching you with half-lidded eyes, mouth slightly open, jaw clenched in effort as he concentrated.

“Doing so well.” He said again, thumb brushing your cheek.

You hummed in response, mouth still full, and he shuddered.

Those small little reactions were more than enough to make you want to double down on your efforts. You kept going, deeper now. His cock heavy on your tongue, hand tightening just slightly in your hair as your lips slicked down, up, down again.

He groaned, soft and low, when you gagged just a little, when your hands braced on his thighs and you looked up, wet-lashed and breathless and flushed from the tip hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

His control frayed then.

He pulled you back gently, thumb swiping across your spit-slicked lips, eyes less focused now.

“Lie back.” He gave a quiet order, coaxing you to obey. “Now.”

And obey you did.

He stood, finally, shirt half-untucked, belt loose around his hips, his body tall and commanding in the low light, and then he leaned over you again.

Hands braced on either side of your head, he dipped down low to your ear.

“You’ve been very good, but I think I’ll take my turn now.”

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

You barely remembered how it started anymore.

All you knew was this: Suguru’s body pressed to yours, skin hot and sweaty against yours, hips rolling deep between your thighs. The drag of his length inside you was maddening, the kind of friction that built in a slow, relentless ache.

His mouth had moved to your neck again. You could feel his breath there, and his teeth.

He was kissing more firmly now, bruising.

Not gentle, but with no brutality either.

He was so damn steady in everything he did.

You felt his hand shift between your legs. His palm pressing down just slightly, anchoring your hips.

He adjusted the angle of his thrust, and you cried out. A desperate, choked sound you couldn’t have faked if you tried.

And then you heard it:

“There?”

You nodded frantically.

“Yes!” you gasped. “Yes, right there -”

“Good.” Was all he said before he did it again.

And again.

And again.

Until the rhythm changed.

Still slow and controlled, with that even pace that drove you to the edge with every hit of his tip against your walls.

But deeper now.

The kind of powerful rut that lifted your hips from the mattress with every thrust, your body bouncing into his with nowhere to go, nothing to do except take it.

And he let you. Expected you to.

He let you fall apart without rushing, without interrupting, just holding you there with a hand on your waist and another tangled in your hair, one long stroke after another dragging you across the edge.

He grunted quietly when you clenched around him.

You felt it.

That subtle pull in his body. That crack of tension in his voice.

He kissed your mouth open and breathed something against your lips you didn’t catch.

Then said it again, after a moment of crumbling composure.

“Still with me?”

You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

“Barely.” You sobbed out.

He smiled down at you, sweet and full of pride.

“You’re doing so well.”

And then he fucked you.

No more teasing, no more calm pace.

Just hard, even, perfect. Everything you thought you needed and now knew you needed. His hips snapped forward, filling you again and again with a wet, steady clap of skin that made your whole body tremble and shudder and your core ache. Your breath hitched every time he bottomed out, every time he angled just right, every time you felt him drag back so slowly only to press in so deep you could barely breathe.

You could feel yourself getting louder; high, reedy, wrecked little sobs against his shoulder, and he liked it. You knew he did.

His hand slid up your back again, the other gripped under your thigh, and he didn’t stop.

Even when your body shook. Even when you clenched so tightly around him it felt like you might break. Even when you moaned his name like it was a plea and a warning both.

Especially then.

You came again.

So hard it almost hurt. So intense it made you curl into him, nails raking lines across his back, your voice strangled and high and raw as you came around him, clenching and fluttering and slick enough now that every thrust made an audible mess of your bodies meeting.

He groaned loudly into your shoulder.

That was the first real sound he made.

And then you felt it -

The way his hips stuttered.

The way his grip tightened.

The way his teeth bit down into your neck.

He was there with you.

Suguru stayed buried deep when he came. You felt the twitch of him inside you - hot, thick pulses that filled you fast, spilling out around him even before he finished.

He breathed hard, something low and groaning and quiet in your ear, and he didn’t pull out.

You gasped - oversensitive, your body still pulsing - and he grunted again when you clenched reflexively.

“Shh.” He exhaled, forehead pressed to yours now. “Just a little more.”

You nodded, barely able to think, he'd fucked you so thoroughly.

Suguru rocked into you again. Slower now, but deeper, like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stand the thought of leaving you empty.

His cum was dripping out of you already, warm and thick, smearing between your thighs with every slow grind of his hips.

He kissed you again before he finally stilled.

Chest rising against yours, arms around you, still buried inside.

⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆⋆₊𖤐⸝⸝🐌⸝⸝𖤐₊⋆

The room was too quiet.

No more wet slap of skin on skin. No gasping. No quiet grunts. No soft-spoken questions answered with broken whimpers.

Just steady breathing and the soft, sticky sound of Suguru slowly pulling out.

You whimpered, more a noise of protest than pain, and he kissed your temple immediately.

“I know, sweetheart.” He murmured. “You did so well.”

You were trembling. Warm and sore and very aware of every inch of your body that had been handled, bitten, held in place, or spread wide open. Your thighs ached. Your hips burned. You had no idea where his shirt had gone and even less of a clue where your underwear might be.

And Suguru, bastard that he was, was already up and moving, calm and smug and unhurried as he slipped into the adjoining bathroom.

He tossed a used towel in the bin and came back with a clean one, crouching at the edge of the bed.

“Let me see.” He said, not asking.

You didn’t resist. You were too tired to resist anything. You let your legs fall open with a soft wince. He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose when he saw the aftermath of what he'd done to you, still dripping out.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s a mess.”

You swatted at him halfheartedly.

“Not my fault you’ve got no self-control. I only invited you over to study.”

“Suguru.”

“Hmm?” He hummed, already wiping you gently.

You bit your lip. “You’re so annoying.”

“I was very nice to you.” He retorted calmly. “You begged for it. Multiple times. I even let you come four times.”

“Five.”

His hand paused and he looked up at her, delighted.

“Oh? Don’t let me undersell myself.” He leaned in. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He let you flop back against the sheets with a huff and pressed a kiss to your knee before finally standing and rummaging through his drawers.

You watched him.

The ridiculous, infuriating, beautiful man. Shirtless, flushed, hair still half-tied, with a bite mark on his nail-scratched shoulders that looked almost as nasty as the several now littering your neck.

He found one of his clean shirts and turned toward you, then paused.

“Do you want boxers too or just the shirt?”

“Shirt’s fine.”

“Hoping to go another round?”

“Suguru.”

He tossed the shirt at your face and you shrieked, voice raw and hoarse.

Once you’d tugged it on (far too large, soft, and smelled like him), you let him coax you into his lap while he ran a comb through your damp, tangled hair. You leaned against his chest, legs curled under a blanket, while he made soothing little passes through your hair like it was second nature.

You knew this tender aftercare was a deliberate act of manipulation.

He was lulling you, giving you no reason to get up. Not that you could.

Or wanted to.

[wahapele]

Me fan girling over Cod men again recently has got my brain turning. So I give you boyfriend!soap x reader and how I think mornings would be like. Just a heads up, might not be the best since I haven’t written in YEEEEAARRS! But i needed to get this idea out of my head.

( Also, apologies in advance, realized I got to work on writing with accents. I have one myself(filipino) but definitely not used to writting a scottish one. So yeah. Not the best but wanted to get the idea out of my brain while it was still there.)

Pairing: John/Johnny “soap” McTavish x reader

Boyfriend!soap x reader (reader doesn’t have a specific gender in this)

Summary:Mornings with him.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: nothing explicit but little, very tiny, hint at spicy time but didn’t put it fully in. Just implied.

Boyfriend!soap who wakes you up with kisses all over your face and lays his entire body on you as you try to wiggle yourself free. Tells you he’ll move off you for a kiss. You trying to remind him that you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. Him replying “Dae bother me”.

Boyfriend!soap reluctantly letting you get out of bed so you can get ready for the day. But not without a smack to the butt first.

Boyfriend!Soap tickling and making funny faces at you while you’re both in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Of course bending down to give you big ‘ole kiss once you’ve both finished. Wiggling his eyebrows at you after.

Boyfriend!soap snaking his arms around your waist and kissing the side of your neck while you’re making you both breakfast. Him whispering what “other” things he’d like for breakfast instead. “ Cannae ‘ave me starting ma dey without a taste bonnie. ” he says as his hands slowly trail down your hips.

Boyfriend!soap pouting after you smacked his hands with the spatula and told him to “behave”. Him muttering complaints under his breath but listening and snuggling back into you.

Boyfriend!soap helping with the dishes after breakfast saying “ A’ll do ‘em. ‘ant ‘ave you doing all the work bons” while kissing your forehead and shushing you away when you try to help.

Boyfriend!soap getting dragged by you to the couch in the living room after the dishes to watch a movie. Blankets covering you both as you snuggle into one another. A new movie that came out was playing, one that you’ve been dying to see but never had time to watch it while it was in theatres.

Boyfriend!soap not paying attention to the movie. Starts getting handsy again under the blanket while you try giving him a stern look cuz you he’s distracting you from the movie. Scolding him to knock it off and pay attention.

Boyfriend!soap saying “Dinnae ken ye’re talking aboot”. He’s just cuddling he says.

Boyfriend!soap getting turned on at one of the more romantic scenes in the movie and starts pressing into you more while littering your shoulder with kissing.

Turning to scold him again but eventually cracking and straight up laughing at the doggy eyes boyfriend!soap gives you. Planting a kiss on his lips while his eyes close and he makes a sound like all his problems just disappeared.

Boyfriend!soap absolutely pouncing on you after, making you squeal in surprise. Movie forgotten at this point.

Boyfriend!soap having to buy a copy of the movie after cuz you pouted that you didn’t get to finish it. Telling him that he has to watch it with you again.

Boyfriend!soap groaning about it but smiling all the same at you. Mans just thinking about repeating what happened an hour ago anyways. Sorry, don’t you’ll get through the movie unless you watch it alone.

Both of you deciding to take a little nap afterwards first though.

Boyfriend!soap staring at your sleeping face thanking whatever god/power that let him meet you. Falling asleep after giving you a peck on the forehead.

[preemptivejustice]

Arthur nodded, watching Marc politely. The way he spoke, the way his breath was as he spoke. The way he seemed to not want to meet Arthur’s eyes - it seemed that Marc had a habit of that, when being honest. As if it were harder to look someone dead-on and say the truth, than it was to look at them and lie; he was used to lying, then? Perhaps that was typical, for life in the military. 

It looked like there was guilt, too. Heavy guilt, over something that didn’t seem fair to himself; Arthur didn’t say much to the man over it, instead just allowing him to have it. If he felt a need to hold onto guilt, for now, he could - but Arthur did write a brief note of it, just something to watch for. 

“You were there,” he repeated, with a nod. It wasn’t a question, only a confirmation; saying he accepted it, that Marc wouldn’t have to prove it if he didn’t want to. He practically did, by going into what had happened; Arthur had taken care of Steven, sure. But he would have done that for anyone. 

“I’m grateful that you were listening,” he agreed. “And I’m glad I could be there. That he wasn’t alone — that neither of you were.” Another note, silently written down, just something he found important to take down. He didn’t set the pen down, but did lean back again, looking over Marc. 

He didn’t take offense in Marc choosing not to look at him. In fact, he found it almost meant more; it was a type of trust. A quiet type of trust, but a type of trust all the same - one that Arthur appreciated. 

“You care about him,” he pointed out, carefully. “That makes sense. And your instinct doesn’t seem to be pushing him away - I think that’s protective. And I think that’s a good thing. That’s a very good thing, Marc. You’re a very good man, too.” 

He let his fingers tap for a moment, before leaning in again, folding his hands in front of himself. “I’ve been thinking for a bit,” he offered. “If you’d be willing. We could try putting you on a medication - for you, it would help with things like depression and mood. For Steven, it would help with his anxiety. It wouldn’t do anything too severe to either of you, but it could take the edge off - I think it might help you both, if you’d allow it. Just to try it, just for a bit.” 

He watched Marc for a moment, as if there was something hidden under that question. There was, of course; things rarely came at face value with Arthur, especially in the course of treatment. “Would you like to try that? It’s alright, if you wouldn’t.” 

Despite Harrow remaining his calm self, Marc can still feel it - the subtle change in the air surrounding them with how the other stills, doesn't say much at first, does not move at all; The surprise that's experienced here is palpable, and Marc swallows, his gaze flicking away from that bottle once more, just to look at what appears to be a ... succulent? Oh, that one's new.

So the other did end up getting a plant, then. The most tiny one he could get his hands onto, no doubt, but... it's a plant. He brought it in, put it there. Interesting, in a way...

---If only the situation as a whole weren't so damn tense, Marc could probably appreciate it more, even bring it up as a topic. But alas, he's just admitted to something that's probably quite huge for someone like Harrow, and he obviously wants to know more - wants answers to questions he hasn't even spoken out loud yet.

Marc feels guilty, again. He feels guilty about everything lately and he hates it, hates it, hates it, hates it---

Eyes squeezing shut, with Marc biting the inside of his cheek again, he inhales, deeply so - holds that breath for a few seconds before exhaling it, trying to remain calm himself. Next to that guilt there's shame, and there's embarrassment; He's never talked to anyone about Steven, never mentioned his secret, and... god, it feels incredibly hard to open up about it now.

He doesn't even know where to start, fucking hell.

"No, you're right - Steven's not bad. Not at all. Steven is... the opposite. He's so good he cannot even kill a fly... prefers to catch them instead, set them free."

Another breath, a sigh, and Marc blinks his eyes back open, his gaze back on the bottle. He takes in the sight of that peach that's printed onto the label, just so that he can focus on something here - anything that will help him to stay sane, to keep his breaths steady.

"I just... ---I want to say that I was there for the whole of it, for... the conversation you had with him. A bit before that. I... I didn't know he had taken over, I didn't feel it happen, I... wasn't aware of it." A small pause, voice remaining low, subtle. "But... when he panicked, it... it caused me to become alert. I basically... woke up without having the body. I heard him beg and cry, I could feel---"

Yeah, Marc had felt it, the panic pulsing within his poor, sweet Steven. Marc swallows again, bites his tongue, forces his emotions away.

"---I wanted to... ---to thank you, for... having him. The way you spoke to him, it... really helped. If it weren't for you to come over in the middle of the night, I... ---I don't know what would've happened."

Nothing good, he assumes. Probably would've forced his way back into the body and acted out on that stupid fucking bitch of a nurse, yeah. Which would've been bad, definitely.

Still, Marc's unable to look at the doctor, so he keeps his gaze lowered.

[thethronezone]

A pleasant thing about having wings is the fact that flight provides you access to places no one else can reach. The top of trees, roofs, nooks and crannies that most people aren't even aware exist.

The palace on Terra is no different.

Up in the rafters, hidden in the shadow of a beam thicker than he is, Asher hides, curled up with his face tucked against his knees and wings carefully folded around him, encasing him like a cocoon. Perhaps if he's lucky, he'll be someone else when he emerges.

Down far below, he hears voices calling his name in search of him. They sound stressed. Frantic. Almost terrified. If he bothered to part his wings and look down, he'd most likely spot the familiar gleam of red armor darting around like ants.

Part of him feels guilty. They are looking for him, after all. A week ago, Asher would never even have dreamed of worrying them like this.

But time is a strange thing and a lot can change in a week. In a week, people can fall in and out of love. In a week, unbreakable friendships can be forged. In a week, wars can be waged, peace can be declared and history can be written.

And a week ago, Asher's father was still alive.

Terra stands, but at what cost? As much as it shames Asher to admit, he would rather the planet had burned to the ground rather than losing his father. But in the end, they had won, and where did it leave them? The Imperium in shambles, the Emperor is confined to his throne, half of Asher's uncles and their traitorous legions having escaped to who knows where and people- People keep trying to talk to him.

It would be better if they were cruel. Uncaring. If they wanted favors and influence like they always used to whenever they approached him. But the truth is, they do nothing but offer him their condolences.

Serfs and nobles alike, they all but fall to their knees, eyes wet with unshed tears as they lament the tragic demise of the Great Angel. They tell Asher how brave and fantastic his father was. Some even have personal stories, personal experiences to share about how Sanguinius affected them specifically. Then they say that it's such a travesty what happened, that they wished it had ended differently.

And Asher agrees with them every time. He nods and does his best to smile at them, offer them the comfort and reassurance that they probably so desperately needs in these trying times. Yes, his father was brave. A fantastic man. A hero. Again and again and again he repeats it until the words lose value and something in him breaks.

It feels like they are dragging their fingers through a fresh wound that is not given the time to heal. Everyone just keeps digging the blade that is grief deeper into his soul. Do you know how amazing your father was? Do you know how sad we are all about his death? His sacrifice was great and we will never forget him and neither will you.

Like that was ever an option.

Truth to be told, Asher feels like screaming at them. Tell them to shut up and leave him alone. Sometimes, he even imagines himself lunging, tearing out their hair in large fists while clawing at their faces until they're unrecognizable. These people don't know him, they didn't know his father and they certainly don't know what he's going through. It's not fair that they are trying to share his grief with him when he's lost so, so much. To them, Sanguinius was a leader, an icon but to Asher, he was his father! How dare they think that he and they are one and the same!?

But then he calms down as melancholy and guilt washes over him like a great tidal wave. How could he blame them, when they are just trying to be kind? Trying so hard to support him in this trying time? It would be selfish and wrong of him to lash out, to take out his rage on people who have done nothing wrong when they don't know any better.

What would his father have thought?

The thought makes his hearts ache and his eyes sting but he has no more tears left to shed. Instead he just curls up further, arms tightening around his legs and wings trembling as a silent sob escapes him.

Just a few more minutes, and then he will stop hiding from his entourage and the countless people that want to see him. But for now, he just wants to pretend that the wings folded around him belongs to somebody else.

[just-b-wilde]

How Much Good Is Enough?

I can’t believe I’m talking about this again… Sometimes I feel like my blog has turned into a THT shitpost zone, but I just can’t help myself — let me wallow in it a little longer...

Thanks to my videos on YouTube, I occasionally get negative comments or opinions I don’t agree with. Honestly, it’s always the same few arguments repeated over and over again, and it’s getting a bit boring. But today, I want to focus on one of them again (which was also present in the show itself): that "Nick only ever did things for June (+ Holly) and didn’t care about anyone else."

Of course, there’s constant talk about the “big betrayal,” about how Nick only cared about June’s wellbeing and not about “everyone’s” wellbeing… that he saved himself and not those poor women… I’m sure you’ve seen that one thrown around plenty of times. And today I was thinking about it, and I asked myself…

How many people (in real life) actually think more about others beyond themselves and their loved ones?

I’m genuinely curious — how many of the people who loudly claim this actually help others? The conditions of Gilead and real wartime situations are an extreme, of course, but really… what do people expect from Nick? What if he did help people — and we just didn’t see it on screen? Maybe he didn’t do grand, visible things (for other people) but he did plenty of small things that still mattered.

And is someone truly a bad person just because they don’t want to — or simply can’t — help everyone? If they don’t sacrifice themselves for the “greater good” and instead try to save themselves first? If we lived in a world where everyone always prioritized strangers, things would look very different.

I admire anyone who helps others — even in small ways. Honestly, I believe most people do that, and it’s not even up for debate. But I also think it’s entirely human to prioritize the people you love — and yourself. (And Nick had to think of himself, because no one else was thinking of him.)

People really create strange scenarios out of those weird little crumbs...

[custody-if]

Sneak Peak from the Prologue!

Note: Don’t worry everyone all your questions will be answered! Im finishing up finals and then I would have time to put all my focus on you guys!!✨

So here’s a Sneak Peak with Darcelle for the prologue that will be soon put into code!

Note: Sarah - I saw your tips! Thank you!✨

Darcelle🥀 & Zane💵

⚠️WARNING⚠️ Sexual & Explicit language

It’s been years since she remembered being a little girl.

When she realized how he changed her, made her the way she is now, she did every little thing to forget it. But she couldn’t. She could still remember what it was like living with that man and being under the same roof. At exactly 4:30, every night it’s the same routine. When everyone’s fully awake in the morning, he acts like nothing ever happened, like she never felt his breath on her skin, like she hasn’t had the taste of him festered up inside of her. The thought of what she had to go through nearly made her want to vomit.

Her 16th birthday is when everything has gotten a little better when CPS had came to take her and her siblings away from that horrific household.

Her best friend Inessa knows what she does and why she does it. Maybe not all the reasons but most. Darcelle’s goddess like beauty with high cheekbones, strong jaw, good sense of style, and on top of her high confidence and true art of seduction, she’s learned since she was a little girl, quickly got her easy money, especially when it comes to helping MC, Ollie, and maybe Sylas, which is his turn to watch them by the way.

Lately her tempers been ranging low to high way too quickly.

As the breeze of the open window goes through her hair and rushes over her body, she blows out a deeply inhaled smoke from a lit cigarette, desperate to resolve and relieve her mind from the storm brewing inside her head. The man beside her turns over. She can only see his V line, the rest oh his body being covered by sheets.

She’s seen this scenario too many times. He will say to her,

“you’re really gorgeous” or “your even more amazing in bed.”

It’s predictable, they all are. Predictable. Every. Single. Time.

But instead this time it’s something different.

“What’s in that pretty little head of yours?” the man laying next to her says.

The only reason she keeps going back to him other than money, Is that he has morals and is understanding. Of course she’s not stupid enough to tell him everything.

‘Thorne. Baby. The words her father would repeat to her.’ She says in thought.

“You know you can’t tell anyone or I might have to put that pretty underwear of yours, back down your throat” Magnus says in a whisper.

She inhales as the nicknames her father gave her echoes in her head.

“I can’t stop my legs from shivering, and I can’t finish whatever else is in this joint.”

“Too much is going on in here” she taps the side of her head.

She hears the breeze from the windows including the noise from the party downstairs. This is Zane’s mansion. His brother had a crush on Inessa and frankly she just met this dude a month ago. Her and Zane built…something, not a bond but something. In the back of her head the reason why this isn’t a relationship is because she doesn’t want to be comforted. She just wants to leave the world behind. She knows Zane doesn’t want to lose any more of his female dogs.

They live in the same city but he’s in college. She on the other hand is still in high school.

“Come here.” He says.

She turns her gaze towards him,

“Your brother and his goons will be looking for you and me very soon”

She take in his really dirty blonde hair where she struggles to figure out if it’s brunette or blonde. He has a strong jaw, lips as soft as cookie dough and brown eyes. His sharp features are definitely different from his brothers and sister.

“I’m the older brother and unless he wants to go over the fucking balcony, he will be sure to mind his business.”

He grins and pulls Darcelle closer. She practically falls and leans on him. With his heart beating, he looks her in the eyes and his next words leaves her feeling a small pit of warmth.

“You never stay long enough to talk.” he pouts, “Please speak to me, seriously this time.”

For once she actually starts to relax. She huffs out a laugh.

“If you wanted to speak, you had plenty of other girls to speak to you.”

He rolls his eyes rubbing her lower back,

“They are all…irrelevant. They aren’t…like…you, there’s no one like you. No women. No ma-“

As he continues, she zones out. She hasn’t felt this feeling in so long. It was a long time ago for a reason. It feels so agonizingly disgustingly, but not this time. This time it feels good…no not good. Real. Genuine. True.

She feels his hand on her cheek, and before she could register what’s happening.

She shoots up darting to the end of the bed breathing heavy.

“Hey hey! What’s wrong? did I hurt you? I mean you know I pulled o-“

Darcelle starts trembling and is in the verge of tears,

“I really can’t…do this” she sobs,

“Please don’t touch me just, don’t let me speak, no matter if I try to open up just, Shut. Me. Out!”

She gets up and quickly starts putting on her clothes.

“Wait don’t leave I’m sorry If I said the wrong thin-“ before he could finish Darcelle interrupts him.

“Yes you did. Thank god it reminded me not to get too comfortable.”

He’s stunned for a bit before he quickly gathers himself, “Cella, please look at me!”

She turns to look at him, “What!? What more do you want me to say?”

He jumps out the bed wearing nothing but his underwear, he cups her face with his hands and puts his forehead against hers.

“Why?”

She already knows this question and finally one she can answer,

“I like the thrill. I love the feeling after. The feeling of feeling completely different. Then whatever this is.”

She points to her self and the towards him.

“No one else is gonna make me feel this real.” He speaks with desperation,

“Cella, please…..” he sucks in a breath,

“Would you conclude your night with me.”

When she opens her mouth to reject this nonsense of a question, not wanting to get attached or waste her time with him lusting over her, he cuts her off—

“Don’t go home. Don’t you back out and leave me behind! Don’t discard this life me and you created!”

They both breathe with the sudden sound of rain and lighting from the still opened window.

He again, whispers a plea, “Don’t leave me…please. Please don’t leave me...”

Sudden tears start falling from his eyes, Darcelle looks at him in the eyes and then looks towards the opened window.

“We should close the window, it’s starting to rain.”

The end-

A little sense of what Darcelle looks like!✨💋

[sappholotl]

Sometimes I feel I shouldn’t be tagging my naked mole rat art with mole interest because they aren’t technically moles - in terms of scientific classification they only share the same class (mammalia)

Moles are in the Eulipotyphla order, which means (according to me skim reading the wiki page) they are fat and blind, typhla coming from the Greek word typhlon which means blind (at least as far as I can tell by using the first thing google shows me) and I can’t immediately find what the eulipo part means

Naked mole rats are in Rodentia order, meaning they have really big ass teeth that kinda just keep growing because they’re built different

Rats at least share an order with naked mole rats though that’s where the connection ends - rats as it turns out has far too vague a use. The genus Rattus is typically all rats but you can still get rats outside of the genus which bothers me

Naked mole rats are apparently most closely related to Guinea pigs, porcupines and chinchillas which is strange, though admittedly I know nothing about any of them so I’m not sure why this is the case

Anyways the mole interest tab seems to be used for random things anyways so it’s not that important I just like thinking about this stuff :D that and I need to spread the naked mole rat agenda and this was all a clever ruse to make you read about my favourite guys

[bluegarners]

well i mean, the argument of murderer = bad person is ontological, but also, if you're going to ignore completely every objectively bad thing a character has done in favor of reconstructing the foundations of what made that character them, and part of that foundation is murder, then i really don't think you like that character or know them as well as you think you do

[rubbership]

i kind of feel like no ones been taught how to manage their fears and i dont understand why i feel like i have a strong suit in that skill and other people my age don't. i don't understand. is it because im scared of everything? because my fears are more "irrational" and there for have o be directly dealt with on a more regular basis?

[quilleth]

the extreme level of 0 fucks to give i feel about work lately is kind of problematic. but also...i give 0 fucks about it. just absolutely 0 motivation beyond the most bare minimum i can get away with doing and that's not even really motivation. that's just "i need to not be a complete bump on a log or i will get fired and we literally cannot afford to live if i do not have a job and also i would lose my admittedly very good healthcare that is covering therapy and medications and testing for my adhd, insomnia, and chronic fatigue." but like i don't care about it. i'm back in the office full time (i work remote during breaks) and i'm dreading it

[aquaticfreakshow-sys]

Oh noo,, venting.

I wish my relationship would stop having to almost end just for one day of actually being thought about instead of neglected and forced to do everything for both of us on my own

[s-soulwriter]

Things Real People Do in Dialogue (For Your Next Story)

Okay, let’s be real—dialogue can make or break a scene. You want your characters to sound natural, like actual humans talking, not robots reading a script. So, how do you write dialogue that feels real without it turning into a mess of awkward pauses and “ums”? Here’s a little cheat sheet of what real people actually do when they talk (and you can totally steal these for your next story):

1. People Interrupt Each Other All the Time In real conversations, nobody waits for the perfect moment to speak. We interrupt, cut each other off, and finish each other's sentences. Throw in some overlaps or interruptions in your dialogue to make it feel more dynamic and less like a rehearsed play.

2. They Don’t Always Say What They Mean Real people are masters of dodging. They’ll say one thing but mean something totally different (hello, passive-aggressive banter). Or they’ll just avoid the question entirely. Let your characters be vague, sarcastic, or just plain evasive sometimes—it makes their conversations feel more layered.

3. People Trail Off... We don’t always finish our sentences. Sometimes we just... stop talking because we assume the other person gets what we’re trying to say. Use that in your dialogue! Let a sentence trail off into nothing. It adds realism and shows the comfort (or awkwardness) between characters.

4. Repeating Words Is Normal In real life, people repeat words when they’re excited, nervous, or trying to make a point. It’s not a sign of bad writing—it’s how we talk. Let your characters get a little repetitive now and then. It adds a rhythm to their speech that feels more genuine.

5. Fillers Are Your Friends People say "um," "uh," "like," "you know," all the time. Not every character needs to sound polished or poetic. Sprinkle in some filler words where it makes sense, especially if the character is nervous or thinking on their feet.

6. Not Everyone Speaks in Complete Sentences Sometimes, people just throw out fragments instead of complete sentences, especially when emotions are high. Short, choppy dialogue can convey tension or excitement. Instead of saying “I really think we need to talk about this,” try “We need to talk. Now.”

7. Body Language Is Part of the Conversation Real people don’t just communicate with words; they use facial expressions, gestures, and body language. When your characters are talking, think about what they’re doing—are they fidgeting? Smiling? Crossing their arms? Those little actions can add a lot of subtext to the dialogue without needing extra words.

8. Awkward Silences Are Golden People don’t talk non-stop. Sometimes, they stop mid-conversation to think, or because things just got weird. Don’t be afraid to add a beat of awkward silence, a long pause, or a meaningful look between characters. It can say more than words.

9. People Talk Over Themselves When They're Nervous When we’re anxious, we tend to talk too fast, go back to rephrase what we just said, or add unnecessary details. If your character’s nervous, let them ramble a bit or correct themselves. It’s a great way to show their internal state through dialogue.

10. Inside Jokes and Shared History Real people have history. Sometimes they reference something that happened off-page, or they share an inside joke only they get. This makes your dialogue feel lived-in and shows that your characters have a life beyond the scene. Throw in a callback to something earlier, or a joke only two characters understand.

11. No One Explains Everything People leave stuff out. We assume the person we’re talking to knows what we’re talking about, so we skip over background details. Instead of having your character explain everything for the reader’s benefit, let some things go unsaid. It’ll feel more natural—and trust your reader to keep up!

12. Characters Have Different Voices Real people don’t all talk the same way. Your characters shouldn’t either! Pay attention to their unique quirks—does one character use slang? Does another speak more formally? Maybe someone’s always cutting people off while another is super polite. Give them different voices and patterns of speech so their dialogue feels authentic to them.

13. People Change the Subject In real life, conversations don’t always stay on track. People get sidetracked, jump to random topics, or avoid certain subjects altogether. If your characters are uncomfortable or trying to dodge a question, let them awkwardly change the subject or ramble to fill the space.

14. Reactions Aren’t Always Immediate People don’t always respond right away. They pause, they think, they hesitate. Sometimes they don’t know what to say, and that delay can speak volumes. Give your characters a moment to process before they respond—it’ll make the conversation feel more natural.

Important note: Please don’t use all of these tips in one dialogue at once.

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

why didn't they just use franziska for literally all of this.