#to make a five plus one or to not make a five plus one

[verstappenverse]

Can you do one where max is teaching reader how to sim race and is really bad but when max is gone to races reader is secretly using his sim setup to get better and one day reader surprises max showing they got better? I feel like this made no sense 😭 I really love your writing thought you could make this idea come to mind 🫶🏻❤️

Ghost Laps

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: What starts as Max teasing you over your terrible sim racing attempts turns into a secret mission to impress him. (Requested)

1.8k words / Alternate Scene / Masterlist

You’re awful at this. Comically bad. You spin out in the first corner, crash into a wall in the second, and somehow end up driving in the wrong direction before Max can even stop laughing.

“I just don’t get it,” you groan, half-laughing, half-threatening to throw the wheel across the room. “How am I already off track? I haven’t even hit the first corner yet!”

From the couch behind you, Max chuckles. He’s draped lazily across the cushions, an arm slung over the backrest and one leg bouncing with idle amusement. “You missed your braking point again,” he says, far too calmly for someone witnessing you virtually crash for the third time in five minutes.

“Maybe if you gave better instructions—”

“You’re the one who missed the turn,” he deadpans.

You spin around in the seat to glare at him, cheeks warm. “Because you said left while pointing right!.”

Max bites back a grin, eyes crinkling. “Come on, you can figure it out. You’ve watched me race a million times.”

“You don’t watch Gordon Ramsay and magically become a chef,” you shoot back, gesturing wildly to the sim setup. “This thing is terrifying. Why is it so sensitive?.”

Max gets up and saunters over with that usual quiet confidence that borders on cocky. He rests his hand on your shoulder and leans down, his voice lower now. “I think you’d rather argue with me than try again.”

You tilt your head up, lips quirking. “Oh because you’re so patient and humble when I spin off into a wall.”

Max laughs, soft and warm. “Alright, fair. But you’re doing better than you think.”

“Really?”

He hesitates. Then lies. “Sure.”

You shove his hand off your shoulder, laughing. “You’re the worst.”

“Okay, maybe this is not my calling,” you mutter, yanking off the headset.

Max kisses your temple, still smirking. “Told you. But hey, it was cute watching you try.”

You should be annoyed, but you know he’s not actually trying to mock you and it’s impossible to stay mad when he looks at you like that, so instead you lean into his side and grin.

“I’ll find a different hobby,” you say.

But later, when he leaves for the next Grand Prix weekend something tugs at you. You find yourself staring at the sim rig after he goes. You are bad at it. Really bad. But maybe not hopeless. And Max, for all his teasing, had been annoyingly kind about it.

The screens glow in standby mode, waiting. Your fingers hover over the power switch.

Just one lap.

That’s how it starts.

You drive.

You crash.

You swear.

You adjust the pedals, crack your knuckles, and whisper to yourself: don’t spin it this time.

And you try again.

Max's sim rig is intimidating, and you know it’s expensive, plus it’s precise and utterly punishing. You don't dare touch his settings, so you make do. One YouTube tutorial turns into five that tuns into ten. Then you’re watching old onboards, listening to the pitch of engine sounds like you actually know what you’re doing. You’re scouring the web late into the night researching for any tips or tricks you can find.

You stop crashing by Day 4. By the end of the week, you can finish a lap. A clean one. You start setting decent lap times by Day 9. By Day 12, you’re doing consistent laps

Two weeks in, you're chasing ghosts. Literally, you race against Max’s stored ghost laps on Spa, watching the glowing blue car pull away in Sector 2 and vowing to close the gap. Every night after work it's a routine, tie your hair up, grab a water bottle, and boot up iRacing like you're training for something. You even start logging your lap times in your notes app like a serious amateur.

It becomes your own secret ritual. A way of being close to him when he’s away that doesn’t hurt so much.

Max texts you in bursts during the two week. Voice notes between debriefs, a quick facetime from the paddock, a few rants about tyre degradation and setup frustrations. He always asks how you’re doing, what you’re up to, and every time you somehow manage not to mention the hours you’re now secretly spending in his sim.

Can’t believe it’s been two weeks since you traumatised the virtual car. time flies. would 100% pay to watch it again.

You’re grinning when you read that one, but you keep the secret anyway.

You don’t know why you’re keeping it a secret. Maybe it’s because it started as a bit of fun, or maybe it’s because you want to surprise him. But part of you also just wants to do something for yourself. Just to prove you can.

He comes home on a Monday.

His flight arrives at midnight, and you meet him at the door, hair a mess from waiting up and eyes barely open. He’s still in his team hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and when he sees you, he drops everything just to pull you into a hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your hair.

He looks exhausted, eyes rimmed with fatigue, but he’s smiling like he’s never been happier to be home. You help him carry his stuff inside, and once he’s showered and curled up beside you in bed, he finally asks:

“So… do I get another performance on the sim this week?” Max grins, nudging your side. “Could use a good laugh.”

You shrug casually. “Might’ve had a little go while you were away.”

That gets his attention. He sits up slightly. “Wait, seriously?”

You toss him a look, still deliberately casual. “You were gone, I was bored. Figured I’d mess around a bit without the peanut gallery laughing this time.” You narrow your eyes at him, just for emphasis.

“I never laughed at you,” he insists, way too fast.

You raise a brow. “Max, you wheezed. I thought you were going to pass out.”

He winces, then grins. “Okay… maybe a little.”

Your heart stutters, but you smother it with a smirk. “Wanna see or not?”

His brows draw together, curious now. “Right now?”

You’re already sliding out of bed. “Come on champ.”

You lead him to the sim, flick on the lights, and sit down in the chair. The screens flicker to life, the whirring of the pedals and wheel now familiar.

Max watches from behind you, arms crossed, leaning against the chair but sweatpants and a sleepy smile.

“Alright Verstappen,” you say. “Watch and learn.”

You load into Austria. Red Bull Ring. Home turf.

The loading screen fades, and you place your hands on the wheel. Your shoulders relax. You take a breath.

And then you start.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

You hit turn one with precision, clipping the apex just right. Brake late into turn three, hold your nerve through the uphill. You’re smooth on throttle. Confident in your braking points. Sector by sector, you thread the lap with a rhythm that feels second nature, because it is now.

By the time you cross the line, Max is no longer smiling. He’s blinking at you like you’ve just grown a second head. He’s still now, standing upright. Eyes fixed on the screen. His smile has slipped into something else entirely, something bordering on disbelief.

You spin around in your seat, heart pounding, breath a little tight in your chest. “Surprised?”

“What the fuck?” he breathes.

You laugh, unable to hold it back. “That bad?”

“That good,” he mutters, eyes flicking from you to the sim, then back again. “That was… really good.”

You beam. “No crashing this time.”

“That was more than just not crashing. That was… I mean you nailed every corner.” He cuts himself off, watching the replay. “You practiced this much?”

You nod, a little shy now. “Every day whilr you were gone.”

His brows shoot up. “Every day?”

“Morning. Night. Whenever I had time.” You shrug, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”

Max stares at you. Then at the sim. Then back at you.

“You practiced,” he says again, but this time it’s not disbelief. It’s something closer to delight.

“While you were away, yeah.” you repeat, gentler.

He glances at the sim again, then back to you, voice almost reverent. “You used my rig.”

“Every day.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you change the settings?”

“I never touched your settings,” you say quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I'm not suicidal.”

Max laughs, breathless. “Holy shit.”

You grin, smug. “Wanna see how good I am?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out and cups your face in his hands, his touch suddenly soft, steady.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“Thank you,”

“I love it.” He pauses, then adds, quieter now, “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel bad. I was just messing around, but if I made you feel silly—”

“You didn’t,” you say, but he presses on, voice rougher now.

“I love you and I love that you care about something I care about. That you even tried. That means more than you think.”

Your cheeks flush, but you lean into his touch, heart thudding.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” you admit.

He grins. “Well consider me impressed. And slightly terrified.”

You laugh. “Terrified?”

Max kisses your forehead. “Yeah. If you’re this good already, you’re gonna start beating my lap times soon.”

He pauses after that, smile softening, something quieter flickering behind his eyes. Pride. Admiration. Maybe even awe.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and pulls you gently up. He slides into the rig like it’s second nature then reaches for you again, tugging you back down into his lap. His arms wrap securely around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy against your neck, “we should do a proper race. Side by side. Full setup. Winner picks dinner for a week.”

You raise a brow, fighting your smile. “You sure? I am pretty good now.”

“I’ll just punt you into turn one,” he says, without an ounce of shame.

You gasp, dramatic. “Cheater.”

“Champion,” he corrects with a wink, far too pleased with himself.

You laugh, loud and honest, your head tipping back against his shoulder. The sound vibrates between you, soft and full of affection. You don’t move right away content to just sit there, cocooned in the moment. The hum of the rig beneath you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, the smell of his shampoo and the way he still hasn’t stopped touching you.

Maybe it started as a joke. A way to prove something to yourself.

But now?

Now it’s just another thing you love doing together. Another reason to love him. Another way he loves you.

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[xoxorory]

Where’s the dog !

POV: Fem!Reader & Damian Wayne Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff | Humor | Chaos | Domestic Softness Featuring: Titus Word Count: 1K .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) requested by: @simpingmyassoff sorry it took long!!! I was finishing classes A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: It's kind of inspired in how @fromdove (💕💞💓💗💖💘💝) writes damian. . .,please GO CHECK HER BLOG ! ! ! !

“He hid again,didn’t he?” 

‘’Pffft– what? Of course not!”

©𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐,𝑹𝒐𝒓𝒚🐚 —-do not copy, repost, plagiarize,translate or feed any of my work into ai. I work hard to give quality content.

POV: You

Dog-sitting Titus should be easy. I mean, come on. He’s a dog. A big dog, sure, but mostly a big, fluffy, lovable dog who just wants to nap, chew his squeaky toys, and occasionally judge me for my lack of treats.

I’d done this countless times before. Titus stayed with me while Damian was off doing who-knows-what, and I’d happily take care of the giant fluffball. Feed him, walk him, throw his favorite toy until he got tired, repeat.

Simple.

Today was supposed to be just another normal Titus-sitting day.

And yet here I was, standing in my living room with my hands on my hips, heart thumping, and pillows thrown all over the floor like a tornado had hit my apartment.

Because Titus had vanished.

Literally.

It started an hour ago. I was cleaning up after one of Titus’s enthusiastic toy-chasing sessions, when I glanced around and noticed he wasn’t at his usual spot by the couch. No gentle snoring. No wagging tail brushing against the carpet.

Nothing.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇:  I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Oh great.

Great.

Because Titus was nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” I muttered, dropping onto my knees, scanning the floor for any signs of him. “Keep calm. He’s probably hiding. He loves hiding.”

Except that usually, when Titus hid, I could hear him. His nails tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood, or the faint squeak of his favorite red toy being tossed around. This time? Silence.

And the clock was ticking.

Damian’s text came again.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇: I’m five minutes away.

I was about to text back a frantic, “Hey baby! Um…I think I lost your dog,don’t kill me. xoxo” but I knew that would only make things worse. Damian’s eyebrow raise would be legendary.

No. I had to find Titus before Damian showed up.

So I launched into full search mode.

First, the couch cushions. I flipped and dug through every crevice, fishing out dust bunnies and a couple of crumbs, but no Titus.

Next, under the coffee table. No wagging tail. No big eyes staring at me.

“Come on, Titus,” I whispered, voice catching. “Please don’t make me look bad in front of Damian.”

I moved to the kitchen, thinking maybe he was trying to steal some snacks, but no. Empty floors.

The balcony door was closed, so no chance he escaped outside — plus, I was pretty sure he’d never survive the drop without some serious bat-gadgets.

Then I heard it. The tiniest squeak.

My heart jumped.

Titus’s toy.

I followed the sound, creeping around my bookshelf — and suddenly, there he was.

Curled up in the tiniest corner behind the books, happily gnawing on his red squeaky toy like it was the best thing in the world.

Oh my god.

Relief slammed through me in a tidal wave.

“Titus! You little stinker!” I scooped him up before he could run off again. His tail thumped against my arm as if to say, “I was just having some alone time, chill.”

I didn’t care.

I hugged him tight.

And then, because I was officially losing my mind, I looked around at the disaster zone my apartment had become.

Pillows from the couch tossed everywhere.

Blankets flung like flags of defeat.

My coffee table now sporting a suspiciously large scratch.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” I told myself. “Damian’s coming. You can do this.”

Almost like the universe heard me, the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped again.

“Okay, Titus,” I whispered, setting him down. “Time for Operation: Don’t Look Like You Lost Him.”

I straightened my hoodie, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Damian stood there, expression unreadable, as usual.

His dark eyes flicked from me to Titus—who was now sitting politely by my feet, tail wagging.

“Welcome back,roohi! ,” I said, voice a little too cheerful.

Damian’s lips twitched—maybe the closest thing he had to a smile.

“You seem… relieved.”

I flushed. “Really? You’re making up things again”

He took the leash from my hand and clipped it to Titus’s collar.

Titus immediately jumped into Damian’s side, tail wagging furiously.

Damian glanced back at me, then said quietly, “I suppose I won’t ask where he was.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

But the way his eyes softened told me he already knew exactly what had happened.

And maybe, just maybe, he was choosing not to make me explain.

POV: Damian Wayne

I texted her fifteen minutes ago.

I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Simple enough.

When I arrived at her place, I expected to see Titus sprawled on the floor, maybe half-asleep, or at worst, begging for a walk.

Instead, the door swung open, and there stood her—looking disheveled, slightly flustered, and clutching Titus like he was a fragile treasure.

My eyes scanned the room.

Pillows were strewn everywhere.

The coffee table bore a fresh scratch.

Blankets were tossed haphazardly.

The couch was upside down.

Clearly, some kind of Titus-related chaos had ensued.

I kept my expression calm, though inside I was amused.

“Titus,” I said softly, kneeling down to the dog’s level.

The giant mutt wagged his tail, tongue lolling happily.

Relief was written all over her face.

“You seem… relieved,” I said quietly, not really expecting a reply.

She flushed and gave a small laugh.

“Really?,” she said, “ You’re making up things again”

I clipped the leash to Titus’s collar.

The dog immediately pressed against my leg.

I glanced back at her.

“Where was he?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

I didn’t press.

Some things were better left unsaid.

[motherismotheringggg]

slow burn blues 🎸

summary: the very stubborn and independent reader met the SmokeStack twins in Chicago, along with their friend Bo Chow, who left quite the impression on her, so when she came down to Delta it wasn’t a new start she had to look forward to

type: plus sized black fem! reader x my best eater bo chow (single ofc)

warnings/tags: oral (f! receiving), talks of violence, blood but not in a sexual way

author’s note: mamas got a new fixation and it’s this man right here 😭😭 huge shoutout to ryan coogler for making every man in this movie an eater and/or a pleaser

The back office stank of old whiskey, gun oil, and panic.

You shoved bills into the canvas satchel, fingers trembling as you counted under your breath — twenties, tens, a crumpled five. The single bulb overhead swung in its chain, throwing long shadows over the filing cabinet and the stained wallpaper. Your heels clicked against the scuffed wood floors, pacing fast and tight between the desk and the back exit.

"Didn't I tell y'all to keep it quiet?" you snapped, eyes flashing at Stack. "Lord have mercy, I said lay low. What happened to layin’ low?"

Stack shrugged, leaning against the filing cabinet like it was just another Friday night. "Ain’t nothin’ but a little ruckus, folk get hot, that’s all." His smiled beamed as his grilled accessorized his cockiness.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Ain’t no such thing as just a ‘little ruckus’ when you Black in this city, Stack. Them Irish boys and dago types don’t come to just talk when they get stirred up."

Smoke stood by the door, tall and still, hand resting over the butt of his pistol, eyes scanning through the cracked glass pane. His jaw clenched tight, the way it always did when he was choosing silence over rage.

Outside, the night was thick with smoke and anticipation. The bar lights were off, the windows boarded. Somewhere down the block, tires screeched, and you all froze, just for a second, before you zipped the bag closed.

“They gon’ burn this place down tryin’ to get to y’all,” you muttered, thrusting the satchel into Stack’s chest. “Train rolls south at a quarter to midnight. You catch the last car, y’hear? Get on and don’t look back.”

Stack’s cocky grin minorly faltered for the first time that night. He took the bag slow, hands brushing yours. “Always lookin’ out for us,” he said, voice lower than usual. “Even when you oughta leave us to the wolves.”

“I oughta, but I ain’t that cruel,” you said, voice cracking on the edge of tears.

Smoke turned and hugged you first; firm, full-bodied, but still reserved. Just one arm wrapping around you. You smelled the tobacco smoke on his coat, the cologne he always wore, too and felt the hard edge of a revolver at his waist.

Then Stack stepped close, all heat and hesitation. He didn’t hug you right away. Just looked at you, real soft. “If it turns mean up here,” he said, thumb grazing your wrist, “you come find us. Down in the Delta. You got no business lettin’ this city chew you up.”

You stared back at him, heart hammering. His lips twitched like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just disappeared out the door, melting into the night behind Smoke.

The last thing you heard before they vanished down the alley was Stack’s voice, faint in the wind: “We’ll be waitin’, darlin’.”

The train car rattled beneath you, a steady, hypnotic clatter as the tracks stretched out like an endless, silver thread. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the Chicago skyline shrink into a haze of smoke and brick until it was nothing but a jagged memory. Your fingers traced circles in the fog your breath left behind, the chill from the glass seeping into your skin.

It’d been a week since that knife fight in the alley behind the bar. One of the Irish came at you fast, but you were faster. Didn’t mean you got out clean, though. The gash on your thigh still ached, wrapped tight beneath layers of wool and gauze. You’d fought him off and left him bloodied on the pavement, but the message had been clear — they weren’t lettin’ you stay. Not after you protected the twins.

You took what was left of the bar’s cash drawer and everything you’d managed to save. Bought a one-way ticket south with a gashed leg, a heavy heart, and no real plan beyond Stack’s promise: We’ll be waitin’.

You had no clue how you were supposed to find them — Stack always said they were big-time down in the Delta, and if that was true, maybe the wind would carry your name to the right ear. Or maybe you’d just follow the smoke and music and hope for the best.

The station platform was buzzing when you stepped off the train, warm air thick with dust, fried batter, and sweat. You were still dragging your suitcase down the steps when you heard it: the sound of a harmonica that was so rich, so full of ache and fire, it nearly stopped you where you stood.

The crowd pulled you in before you could think. You pressed through bodies, Black folks in Sunday hats, little boys barefoot and wild-eyed, travelers fresh off the train and made your way to the front.

There he was: Delta Slim.

The man bent low over his harmonica, rocking with each note like the music was being dragged out of him. The sound wound through your ribs and pulled at something soft in your belly. The kind of playing that carried ghosts. The kind that made you forget you were tired, that you had no place to stay.

And suddenly, you were a little girl again, standing in your grandmother’s hot kitchen while she fried catfish and hummed songs older than the house itself. Blues tunes with names you never learned but could hum in your sleep.

When Slim finally stopped, the crowd clapped and whooped, some tossing coins into the open case by his boots. You stepped forward, dropped in a few bills. “God bless you,” he said without looking up.

You opened your mouth to thank him, but froze.

Somewhere behind you, a voice cut through the crowd: “Smoke said he’d be done ‘round sundown.”

Your head snapped around.

It was a dark-skinned woman in a plaid navy blue dress, carrying a market basket. She had cheekbones sharp enough to slice air and eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She looked just like the woman Smoke used to talk about in low, rare moments — like she wasn’t just anyone, like she was sacred.

“Annie?” you asked, stepping closer, unsure.

She stopped, instantly guarded. “Who’s askin’?” Her voice was soft, but it carried steel.

You lifted your hands, palms up, no threat. “Name’s Y/N. I knew Smoke and Stack back in Chicago. Helped ‘em get out when things turned bad. I… I came down after the Irish and Italians ran me out. Figured I’d find ‘em if I could.”

She stared long and hard. Then something shifted in her face — the tightness melted a little, and her lips curled just slightly.

“Heard plenty about you,” she said. “More from Stack than Smoke, naturally. But still.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the Delta. “We settin’ up the juke joint for tonight. I gotta make a stop first, but they’ll be awful glad to see you.”

You nodded, heart picking up pace. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe you might actually be safe.

————

The car groaned as it skidded around another bend in the dirt road, gravel popping under the tires like gunfire. You gripped the door with one hand and braced your good leg against the seat in front of you, praying the back axle wouldn’t snap clean off from the way Delta Slim was pushing it. The wind screamed through the open windows, whipping your scarf into your face, and the sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold across your lap.

Slim drove like he was being chased by every ghost he ever crossed — fast, erratic, and with a bottle tucked between his knees that he sipped from like it held the secrets of the universe. The smell of corn liquor was thick in the cab, sweet and sharp enough to make your nose sting.

You hadn’t said much. Between the pain in your leg and the way Slim was flirting with death at every turn, there wasn’t much breath left for conversation.

Annie, sitting on the passenger side turned and looked over her shoulder. Her expression was calm, like she’d seen this a thousand times. “Don’t worry,” she said, tapping a small leather pouch that hung just above her chest. It bounced lightly against her sternum with the movement.

You blinked. That pouch.

You’d seen it before. Smoke wore one just like it; dark leather, worn smooth from years of wear. He kept it tucked under his shirt, said it was “for protection,” though he never explained what it was from. Seeing it now, on Annie, made something settle in your stomach.

Slim cackled then, throwing a lazy arm out the window to flick ashes off the stub of a cigarette. “Girl sittin’ back there like she expect me to drive us into the river.” His voice was scratchy, coated with booze and heat. “You scared o’ me, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer, just glanced sideways at Annie, who smirked like she was used to this foolishness.

He twisted around in his seat, one bloodshot eye squinting at you. “So how you know them twins anyhow?” He offered you his cigarette.

You obliged and leaned forward to take it, the effort tugging at the self-done stitches in your thigh. “Back in Chicago. Ran my family’s bar. Smoke and Stack used to come in all the time. They eventually became suppliers until a few weeks ago, I helped get ‘em out when things turned bad.”

“Bad?” Slim echoed.

You nodded. “Knife fights. Bomb threats. The Irish tried to burn the place down. I caught one in the thigh, but I gave as good as I got.” You took a final drag of the cigarette before handing it back to Delta, whose eyes were wide with awe.

That laugh again — loud and ugly and amused. “Lord, girl! You ain’t tell me you was a brawler. I’m gon’ have to put some respect on your name. Might be more scared o’ you than them boys.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, lips curling slightly. The pain in your leg throbbed with every bump, but you couldn’t help the pride that bloomed warm and fierce in your chest.

The landscape started to shift as the road flattened — less forest now, more clearing. Sunlight pooled like honey between the buildings, and the air carried the heavy scent of river water, fried fish, and the faintest trace of honeysuckle.

Children darted between storefronts barefoot and wild-eyed, chasing marbles, tossing sticks. A woman stepped out of a seamstress shop holding a bolt of fabric to her chest, her laughter rising over the whir of cicadas. The whole town breathed like it had a heartbeat.

Then you saw the sign.

Chow’s Groceries.

Your breath caught mid-inhale. The letters were hand-painted, a little faded, but clear as day.

Bo.

It couldn’t be.

You hadn’t thought about him in months, not properly — but now it all came rushing back.

————

He’d come to Chicago once, maybe 6 or 7 months ago. The twins said he was gonna help them with a deal so he just needed a quiet place to sleep for a few nights. You gave him the back room of the bar, didn’t think much of it. Figured he’d keep to himself.

But Bo... watched.

Not the way most men do. Not with that slow-lidded hunger that made your skin crawl. No, he watched like he was reading you — like every move you made behind that bar meant something. He’d sit at the end stool, drink barely touched, just following you with those steady eyes.

And that night, well you remembered it like it was pressed in amber.

The bar had been full, the floor sticky with old beer, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke. A regular, one who’d had too much, reached for you when you passed. Grabbed your hip like he’d paid for it and pulled you down on his lap.

You squirmed free and went to grab your switchblade knife from your pocket. You hand grazed the handle but before you could fully draw it, Bo was behind you. Quiet. Calm.

“Baby,” he’d said, voice like warm molasses, “everything alright here?”

His hand slid to your hip — not rough, but firm. Protective. Present. The drunk’s hands went up in defense, and he muttered an apology before slinking away.

You didn’t say anything then, just kept moving.

But later, when the lights were low and you were wiping down the counter, he came out from the back. Started stacking chairs like he worked there. You paused but you didn’t stop him.

“Thanks for earlier,” you said, going back to wiping.

He kept working. “Didn’t sit right, lettin’ that slide. You hold your own. I seen it. But still...”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So you been watchin’ me?”

Bo smiled as he met your gaze with something quiet and serious. “How could I not?”

He came closer — close enough that the scent of sandalwood and clean cotton filled your lungs. His arms were bare, veins rising like rivers down his forearms as he placed a chair upside-down on the table beside you.

You were perched on a barstool by then, thighs aching from the long shift, apron wrinkled, hair pulled back. He stepped between your knees, eyes locked on yours. One hand drifted up your leg, slow, fingers grazing the inside of your thigh.

He reached for your hem.

Then—

Bang bang bang.

A knock at the door. Heavy. Familiar.

The twins.

You both froze like your thoughts had been read aloud. Bo stepped back, jaw tight. You fixed your skirt, heart pounding.

Nothing else was said.

————

But now, staring at the sign for Chow’s Groceries, you felt it all at once: the heat of his hand, the weight of his stare, the possibility that had lived for one long moment and never got to grow.

You stood outside caught in a trance so deep you didn’t realize Annie and Delta Slim had already gone inside. The porch boards creaked under your heels, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the hand-painted sign.

The Delta air wrapped around you like a shawl—thick, warm, and humming with life—but your thoughts were tangled up in memory. The way Bo looked at you that night in the bar, the way he made you feel seen without saying much at all. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been standing there until—

“Y/N?”

That voice—gritty, familiar, a little more worn than before.

You turned just in time to see Stack walking up, grin wide and arms already open. He pulled you into a hug that squeezed the breath out of you.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “Didn’t think you’d really come down.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Yeah, I ran into, Annie, Smoke’s wife at the station. Figured the Delta might do me some good.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder, guiding you through the screen door into the store. The cool air was a welcome shift, carrying scents of lemon oil, tobacco, and flour dust. The sound of laughter rolled from the back of the store where Smoke, Delta, and Annie were gathered around a woman you didn’t recognize—dark-skinned, with a narrow waist and wide hips, cheekbones like razors and eyes that missed nothing.

“That’s Pearline,” Stack whispered. “And that fool next to her is our cousin Sammy.”

Sammy tipped his hat. Pearline’s gaze lingered a little longer before her mouth tugged into a polite smile.

Then the group shifted slightly.

And there he was.

Bo Chow.

You could’ve sworn the floor tilted. His sleeves were rolled up over strong forearms, hands dusted with flour as he sorted through a ledger. His hair was still parted neat, his face still quiet and kind, but those eyes—those dark, steady eyes—lit up the second they landed on you.

And then he smiled.

Your breath hitched.

He crossed the room in just a few strides, pulled you in like no time had passed. His arms were solid, the kind that made you feel safe whether you wanted to or not. He leaned in close enough for his lips to brush your ear.

“Still fine as ever,” he said low, that slow, careful drawl curling around your spine.

You didn’t even hear the rest of it—blood roared in your ears, your heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

Smoke clapped his hands once—sharp, loud, enough to cut through the noise.

“Alright. With Y/N here, she’ll be good to keep the bar running. Annie, I’m movin’ you to the floor. I want eyes everywhere, and I want 'em sharp. Ain’t no slip-ups tonight. Everybody bring your best or don’t bring nothin’ at all.”

The group talked more and then started filing out, talking plans and logistics. You followed them out onto the porch, ready to head toward Delta Slim’s rusted-out ride. Your bags were still in his trunk, and you started toward them on instinct.

But then—

“Where your bags at?” Bo asked, already coming up beside you.

You pointed with your chin. “Back of Slim’s car. I got it.”

You moved quick, hands already reaching for the straps, but Bo was faster. His hand came down over yours, firm but gentle.

“I said I got it,” you repeated, trying to shoulder one of the heavier bags.

He stepped in front of you and took the strap clean out of your hand. “No, you don’t.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Bo—”

He cut you off with a quiet look, already lifting both bags like they weighed nothing. “You been carryin’ enough,” he said. “Not today.”

You paused, caught off-guard—not by the help, but by the certainty of it. You weren’t used to that. You were used to men saying one thing, meaning another. Used to them letting you do the heavy lifting ‘cause it was easier for them to stay out the way.

But Bo didn’t move like a man who wanted to stay out your way. He moved like he wanted to make space for you to rest.

Stack passed behind you and tossed a look over his shoulder. His gold tooth flashed as he smirked. “I knew somethin’ happened.”

You swatted at his arm. “Ain’t nothin’ happened,” you muttered, but your face was already hot.

Bo opened the passenger door for you without saying a word. Just stood there, waiting. You hesitated a second, then put your hand in his. His grip was warm and steady, guiding you into the seat like you were something precious.

He slid into the driver’s side, lit a cigarette with one hand, then passed it to you after a slow drag. You took it between your fingers, felt the heat through your fingers, inhaled.

The smoke tasted of cloves and pine.

————

The car rumbled to life and bumped down the dirt road, dust kicking up behind the tires. For a long moment, you didn’t speak. You weren’t scared, but you were out of your element. Most men you knew were loud, demanding, rough in the ways they loved or claimed to. Bo didn’t press. He didn’t rush.

He just drove, eyes on the road, the silence stretching out like something sacred.

Then finally, he said it—quiet, plain.

“I missed you.”

You looked at him, sharp. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Ain’t stopped thinkin’ about you since Chicago. Swear I almost caught a train up myself a few months back. Store kept me tied up. Always somethin’ needs fixin’ or orderin’. You know how it is.”

You nodded, listening to the slow melody of his voice, the way it filled the cab like music—low and familiar.

“I was worried,” he added. “Heard what happened with the Italians and the Irish. Stack said you handled it, but still. I hated not bein’ there.”

You took another drag, eyes narrowed at the road ahead. “Held my own. Like you’d expect.”

He smiled, proud and quiet. “Course you did.”

There was a beat of silence before you added, softer, “But there’s a reason I’m back.”

That made the smile fade.

“What happened?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached over and gently brushed your fingers along the back of his head, where his hair gathered soft at the nape of his neck. He leaned into it just barely—like he wasn’t used to being touched so kindly.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, thumb dragging slow across his skin. “I handled it.”

“As always” he completed your sentence with a dry smile, like he didn’t like his own response.

————

The juke joint was jumpin’.

Floorboards creaked and groaned under the rhythm of feet—heels stompin', bodies grindin’, skirts twirlin’ like the hem was on fire. Heat rose off the crowd in waves, thick with sweat, perfume, and the sharp bite of corn liquor. Every inch of that room was alive with bottles clinking, laughter breaking like thunder, and voices lifted in song.

Up on the makeshift stage, Pearline and Sammy were singin’ like the Devil himself was in the crowd and they meant to save every soul in it. Her voice was honey dipped in iron, his the low rumble of a storm rollin’ over the river. The two of ’em tangled their harmonies like vines, and the people hollered, clapped, swayed—caught in it.

Stack was out on the floor, two-steppin’ with a girl in a red dress, the kind of pale that made you double take. She laughed with her whole body, and Stack twirled her like he had something to prove. You had to remind yourself she wasn’t white—her curls thick and coarse under that hat, her smile quick but knowing. Still, you clocked every eye that lingered on them too long, just in case.

Smoke was up on the rafters, leanin’ over the rail, watchin’ the whole scene like a man used to puttin’ out fires before they started. He didn’t drink, didn’t dance, didn’t smile much—but his presence settled folks. Like the room itself calmed a little when he laid eyes on it.

You were where you always felt strongest—behind the bar.

Sweat beaded at your temples, and your thigh was barkin’, but your hands moved fast. You flipped a bottle, poured two at once, wiped down the counter, grinned at whoever cracked a joke—all muscle memory. Folks leaned in and said things like, “Lawd, I ain’t never got a drink this fast down here,” and “Where you been hidin’, sugar? We needed you weeks ago.”

You gave ‘em a wink, passed the jars, and kept it movin’. If your leg wasn’t actin’ up, you’d have been damn near flyin’.

Bo was somewhere across the room, duckin’ between folks, noddin’ to the band, checkin’ on tables. He moved quiet, like a shadow with good intentions. And every time your eyes searched for him, you found him already watching you—chin tilted, lips curled into that half-smile that made your stomach dip low. He even blew you kiss at one point and you had to fight off the smirk creeping on your face.

He had on his work shirt rolled up to the elbows, slick black hair pushed back neat, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. That man looked like the kind of sin folks wrote sermons about.

You bit your lip and leaned into the counter.

Your thoughts drifted back to Chicago. That night. The way he stood over you, big and careful. The way his voice wrapped around you like a warm coat. The way his fingers started slidin’ up your thigh slow, reverent like church hands.

Lord help you, if the twins hadn’t knocked when they did…

You blinked yourself back into the present, only to feel it—warm and wet against your leg. You looked down.

Damn. That cut had started bleedin’ again. The fabric of your skirt had gone dark, stickin’ to your skin. You shifted, wincing.

“Ain’t no need to look like that.”

You turned, and there was Annie, slidin’ in behind the bar with a look that saw everything.

She nodded down. “Go on. Closet in the back. I keep bandages and clean rags in there just in case. You don’t need to be pourin’ whiskey with blood on your hem.”

You hesitated, but her face brooked no argument.

You grabbed a damp rag, limped through the wall of sweat and song to the back. The closet was little more of a pantry—narrow, hot, and full of stale air and mop buckets. You sat on a crate and pulled your dress up. The gash wasn’t terrible, but it was mad. You hissed and pressed the rag to it, biting the inside of your cheek.

A knock hit the door just as you reached for the gauze.

“Give me a minute!” you called, but the knob jiggled.

“Anybody decent?” a voice came—low, deep, unmistakable.

“Bo, wait—!”

Too late.

The door creaked open and in he stepped. He took one look at you—skirt bunched, thigh bleeding, breath caught—and his whole body shifted.

“Hell,” he muttered. Then louder, “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”

“I was handlin’ it,” you muttered.

But he was already movin’. The door clicked shut behind him and he reached out a hand to help you up. You grabbed it and he hoisted you onto the table so he could help you. He dropped to his knees in front of you. His hands were steady as he took the rag from you and started cleaning.

You bristled. “Bo. I said I got it.”

“And I heard you.” He dipped the cloth in a bowl of clean water and wrung it out. “But I ain’t leavin’ you to patch yourself up in a broom closet like some stray.”

You rolled your eyes but your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your skin—tender but sure. He wrapped the bandage slow, careful not to tug, his thumb brushing your inner thigh to smooth the gauze.

“You always this bossy?” you asked, voice softer now.

He glanced up, a smile ghostin’ his lips. “Only when I care.”

When he was done wrapping you up he looked up at you like you were some rare bloom he wasn’t sure he deserved to see twice.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough like gravel but sweet on the edges.

You huffed a laugh. “For what? I’m the one leakin’ all over the bar.”

He chuckled, but didn’t move.

“For lettin’ me tend to you,” he said. “Ain’t a thing I know you take lightly.”

That settled in your chest like something dangerous.

“I should be thankin’ you,” you said.

And in that little hush, that pause where everything else in the world pulled back, you weren’t in a closet anymore. You were somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that made you believe, just maybe, you could let your guard down for longer than a moment.

You meant to move.

Meant to hop off that table, tug your skirt down, and march back out there like nothing happened. But Bo was still kneeling, still starin’ at you like you were somethin’ to be held tender and tasted slow.

His thumbs brushed the outsides of your thighs, slow as molasses, not bold yet, just curious. Testing. Seeking permission.

“You always look at folks like that?” you asked, your voice low but steady. “Cause it’s powerful rude.”

His smile ticked up, crooked and warm. “Ain’t lookin’ at folks,” he murmured. “Lookin’ at you.”

And then he stood — easy, unhurried, like a man who’d already decided where this was going. He filled the space in front of you, hand coming up to trace your jawline, rough fingers gliding soft over your cheek. You didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not when he leaned in slow enough for you to change your mind, but you didn’t.

His lips touched yours — soft, like a question. And you answered it.

You kissed him back, mouth parting, your hands gripping his forearms as you tilted up into him. He kissed like he fixed things — patient, exact, but sure. Like he wasn’t about to rush a damn thing unless you begged him to.

Then he kissed your jaw, trailing the heat down, down, until his lips were ghostin’ your neck.

“Bo—” you whispered.

“Mm?” he hummed against your skin. His breath was warm, his voice thick.

His teeth grazed your neck — slow, deliberate. Then he bit. Just enough to pull a gasp from you. A wince, sharp and involuntary. Your thighs twitched around him.

“S-sweet Lord—” you hissed, half scolding, half desperate.

He pulled back, eyes dark with something that made your heart knock against your ribs.

“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, not sorry in the slightest. “But I can make it better.”

He dropped again to his knees — the same place he’d been moments ago, only now his hands didn’t hesitate. He gripped your thighs and eased them apart like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You always gotta be the strong one, huh?” he said, voice low and reverent. “Always takin’ care of folks. Lettin’ ‘em lean on you.”

You swallowed, already breathless. “Somebody’s gotta.”

“Maybe,” he said, inchin’ your skirt up again, kissin’ the inside of your thigh like a prayer. “But tonight, let me carry some of it.”

Then his mouth found you — slow, open, tender. And you stopped thinkin’ about the juke joint. About the blood. About Chicago. About anything but Bo, and the way he worshipped with his tongue like he’d waited his whole damn life to learn your taste.

Bo’s hands were warm, steady as they parted your thighs—one guiding you gently, the other firm at the back of your knee, coaxing it over his shoulder like it belonged there. And maybe it did. Maybe this whole moment had been waitin’ on you both to catch up to it.

“Relax f’me,” he murmured, voice honeyed and low, almost like a song. “Ain’t gon’ rush. Let me taste what I been missin’.”

He leaned in slow, breath warm against your bare skin, and kissed the inside of your thigh again—closer now. You gripped the edge of the table with both hands, eyes flutterin’ shut as his mouth ghosted over your center, not touchin’ yet, just breathin’ you in. That alone made your hips twitch, made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he licked you.

Soft, slow, and low—just one long drag of his tongue, like he was learnin’ you. Worshippin’. You let out a broken little sigh and felt his hum vibrate against you, pleased and hungry all at once.

“Sweet,” he muttered, barely liftin’ his head. “Goddamn, you sweet.”

His tongue circled your clit, gentle at first—just a tease, just enough to make you melt further into the heat risin’ off your own skin. Then he flattened his mouth and sucked, slow and full, and your legs clamped around his shoulders before you could stop yourself.

He liked that. You could tell. His grip tightened on your hips, holdin’ you right where he wanted you while he worked—firm strokes, deep licks, his tongue movin’ like he meant to undo you one breath at a time.

“Bo,” you whispered, not even sure if it was a warning or a prayer.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed against you, the sound rumblin’ right through your core. His tongue flicked faster now, more deliberate, and you felt yourself unravelin’—little by little, tension leavin’ your shoulders, your chest, your hands. All of it leakin’ out through the way he kissed you.

And Lord, he kissed you there—like he’d missed your mouth and settled on the next best thing. Like it was a favor to him, not a gift for you.

He paused for a moment, just to look—his mouth slick, his eyes dark as syrup, lips swollen from the work. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he said, voice rough and reverent. “You deserve to be looked at. Tasted. Taken care of.”

You could barely speak. You just nodded and leaned back, and when his mouth returned, he wrapped both arms under your thighs to hold you open—locked in now. No runnin’.

He went slower this time—steady, rhythmic, pulsin’ against you like the bassline of a blues song. Your stomach tightened. Your back arched. You felt it coiling deep and low, that pressure threatenin’ to split you in half.

“Bo—Bo, I’m—” you gasped.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, lips grazin’ you. “Give it to me. Let go.”

And you did. Right there in that closet, dress hiked up, sweat on your skin, hands buried in his hair. You let go with a cry you couldn’t bite back—and Bo held you through it, mouth never leavin’, like he needed every last bit of you to stay alive.

When you finally sagged back, chest heaving, thighs trembling, he pulled back and kissed your inner thigh like he was thankin’ it.

Then, voice soft and hoarse, he asked, “I told you I missed you.”

[applejusue]

butch!Logan howlett ─── retail therapy

During a much needed shopping trip, you pass by a nail bar taking walk-ins and get bombarded with a mischievous idea.

𓏲 ๋ idea requested by the lovely @zzelysian

◟`# cw: butch!logan, claws, fluff, cuddling, sleeping, healing, injury mention, scratching, teasing.

xmen masterlist

You'd been kicked out of the school for a few hours to get some 'retail therapy', as Charles had described it and frankly, you weren't complaining. There was an incident a few days ago where you had to revive one of the students who'd gotten himself fatally injured. He'd survived, but it had drained every last drop of your energy. For days you couldn't even lift your finger, let alone get up. It was nice, to be honest, getting to sleep in your bed undisturbed. Well, mostly.

Logan passed most of the time with you, sleeping in your bed with an arm slung around your waist while she snuffed against the side of your neck. It was a very familiar routine for her to come to your room to take a nap after training or to use your shower, because god forbid she do that in her own room. Deep down though, you didn't mind. Her company was nice, plus she always brought food. You were a little higher on your feet now, but the incident had taken more of a toll on you than just physically.

Mentally, you were still shaken. It was intense, cradling a lifeless kid and feeling your own life slip away as you pushed it into his chest instead. When you'd slumped forward into the grass, you knew you'd pushed yourself too far, but seeing that student wake was enough to bring relief, right before it all went dark. It was a few days before you'd woken up, and when you did, shocker, you weren't alone. Logan was against your side, a mess of scruffy hair on your shoulder while her hand rested on your stomach. The memory made you smile.

Still, you needed a breath of fresh air, and for once you'd actually get it. You were dropped off in a shady black car to the nearest mall, armed with a shiny credit card that didn't belong to you. It felt like being a giddy teenager again, getting to spend money that belonged to somebody else. At first you were tentative, simply browsing through the shops and peering into windows. Making the mature decision, you got new vitamins, socks, things for training.

Then, you really thought about it. How long would it be until you got a chance to get out again? Likely, a while. You wanted to make it count. So you bought clothes that actually felt nice, looked nice, that wouldn't be destroyed in combat. On those rare occasions that there would be a gathering, you finally had something other than one staple black dress. You even decided to get a haircut, a nice one that curled around the ends and made your head smell like vanilla. You'd definitely made eye contact with too many sales assistants while trying to get a glimpse of yourself in the shop windows.

With arms stuffed full of bags, you were practically skipping through the mall. You'd gotten perfume, some new makeup, and even some pretty underwear that you'd definitely have to lock away from Logan. She had habits. As you moved further through the small, you noticed a small nail parlor. You glanced down at your hands, definitely a sore sight. Charles hadn't exactly given you a spending limit, so he couldn't be too angry, right?

Five minutes later and you were plonked on a stool, your bags guarding your feet like little soldiers. With some swaying from the nail tech, you decided on some pointed acrylics. While building the base your eyes drifted, settling on a pot of silver chrome. A grin twitched at your lips before you could stop it, and you already knew what kind of design you wanted. When the time came you gestured, she nodded, proceeding to give you razor sharp silver claws. By the time you got collected you were exhausted, but for once it was the good kind.

When you got back to the school, you tried on some of your new outfits. Not even five minutes later you were barging into Logan's room, hands held behind your back. She raised her head, face mussed and suspicious at the shit eating grin on your lips. You gave her a small twirl, showing off the new look to which she blinked groggily. Then her gaze drifted to your hands, her brow furrowed.

"..Hell are they?"

You froze, lip twitching in the effort it took not to burst out giggling. Instead, you mocked one of her poses, baring your sharp claws with as much seriousness as you could muster before you couldn't hold in the laughs. Logan grumbled, looking away with red cheeks.

"Yeah yeah, you think you're real cute.."

You couldn't even try to swallow your amusement, moving towards the bed to clamber up onto her lap. Despite her 'annoyance', her arm came snugly around your waist as she sniffed at your hair. It smelled different, and you knew she could tell. Her rough hand came up to the side of your head, gently running down the soft strands.

"I got it cut, you like it?.." You murmured, arms resting around her shoulders. Logan nodded, face still nosed into your hair as she held you by the hip.

"Suits ya.." She mumbled, trailing her nose down to your shirt where she made her next revelation. She tugged at your collar, finding your new underwear and staring without an inch of shame as she pulled you in closer. You giggled at the sudden movement, hands still braced to her shoulders and nails digging playfully into her back.

"Careful, I can scratch you back now.." You warned teasingly, your nails dragging gently over her skin in a way that made her stutter, hips bucking instinctively as she continued to inhale the smell of your hair.

"M' not complaining.."

[emjayewrites]

according to lyric • lyric hamilton [private landing one shot]

SUMMARY: Growing up Hamilton may have its perks, but living life as Lewis Hamilton's son isn't what it's all cracked up to be....or is it?

WARNINGS: cursing, nepo baby ish, celebrity children, f1/racing b.s.

WORD COUNT: 10K+

TAGLIST: @4ftwonder, @iamryanl, @certifiedlesbianbaddie, @totallynotluluu, @omgsuperstarg, @amirawrah, @imjustheretomanifest, @greedyjudge2, @muglermami, @irishmanwhore, @barcelonesa, @lewisangel, @scorpiobleue, @iam-lulu, @lewlewlemon44, @lewismcqueen, @purplelewlew

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a Private Landing one shot. Read the story here to understand the characters. This is also first person POV....

The Colorado mountains stretched endlessly in front of me as I sat on the deck of our family cabin, my legs propped up on the railing, watching Larke attempt to teach Brutus and Maximus some elaborate trick through the holographic pet training app she'd downloaded. The dogs were old now - Roscoe's boys - but they still had that stubborn Hamilton streak that ran through everything in our family, including the four-legged members.

"Lyric, tell your sister that dogs can't learn quantum physics," Mama called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that amused exasperation she'd perfected over twenty-one years of dealing with us Hamilton kids.

"Larke, the dogs said they're more of a classical mechanics family!" I shouted back, earning myself a middle finger from my little sister.

Real mature, sis.

"They're smarter than you think!" she yelled back, but Brutus had already given up and was sprawling in a patch of sunlight, completely unbothered by her academic ambitions for him.

This was our thing - winter break at the Colorado cabin before the chaos of the new racing season kicked into gear. Pops had bought this place years ago when I was still karting, back when Larke was just a baby who cried through most of his races on TV. Now here we were, me at twenty-one and working as her race engineer, her at eighteen and already making history every time she got behind the wheel.

Wild how life works out.

My phone buzzed with a text from Laura - L'waura in my contacts because I'm apparently still five years old at heart and it never fails to get an eye roll out of her when she sees it.

L'waura 💕: Miss you already. Stockholm is gray and depressing without your stupid jokes.

Me: My jokes aren't stupid, they're sophisticated comedy that you're too Swedish to understand

L'waura 💕: I'm literally Danish-British you absolute muppet

Me: Tomato, tomahto. Still love you though

L'waura 💕: Unfortunately I love you too. Say hi to your family for me

"Yo, Abel!" I called out as I spotted him emerging from the guest room, looking like he'd just woken up from the best sleep of his life. "Laura says hi to everyone, including your ugly mug!"

"Your girlfriend has excellent taste," Abel grinned, dapping me up with that elaborate handshake we'd developed over the past few months. Kid had grown on me, I'll admit it. Plus, anyone who could keep up with Larke's intensity deserved respect.

"She really does. That's why she's dating me and not you."

"Mate, I'm spoken for," Abel laughed, nodding toward where Larke was now trying to convince Maximus to participate in her holographic training session. "Besides, your sister would murder me if I even looked at another girl."

"True. She's got that Hamilton protective streak. Very possessive."

Pops emerged from the house carrying three cups of coffee, settling into the chair next to me with that contented sigh he always did when we were all together like this. At fifty-eight, he still moved like the athlete he'd always been, but there was something softer about him now. Less of that razor-sharp intensity that had defined his racing years, more of the man who'd taught me how to ride a bike and fix engines and treat people with respect no matter who they were.

"Morning, boys," he said, handing Abel a cup. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead, sir. This altitude is no joke."

"Stop calling him sir," I laughed. "You're practically family now. He's just Pops. Or Lewis if you're feeling fancy."

"I'm still getting used to it," Abel admitted. "Six months ago I was watching him on TV, now I'm drinking coffee with him in Colorado."

"Six months ago I was convinced you were going to break my daughter's heart and I'd have to end your football career," Pops said casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

"And now?"

"Now I'm only mostly convinced."

"Lewis!" Mama's voice carried from the kitchen.

"What? I'm being nice!"

Abel looked between us, clearly not sure if Pops was joking or not. I decided to help him out.

"He's messing with you, mate. If he actually thought you were going to hurt Larke, you wouldn't be here. Trust me."

"Plus," Pops added with a grin, "Lyric's the one you should really worry about. He's got that protective big brother energy."

"Please. I'm a lover, not a fighter," I protested. "Though I am six feet tall now and I've been working out, so..."

"You bench pressed the bar yesterday," Abel pointed out. "Just the bar."

"Hey! That bar was heavier than it looked!"

Rude but accurate.

________

That night, after dinner and way too much wine (for the adults) and hot chocolate (for those of us who were apparently still children according to Mama), Pops suggested we take a walk around the property. It was one of those clear Colorado nights where you could see every star, the kind of sky that made you feel small and infinite at the same time.

"So," Pops said as we walked, our breath visible in the cold air. "How are you boys feeling about the new season?"

"Excited," I said immediately. "The car's looking incredible, Larke's driving better than ever, and I think we've got a real shot at the championship."

"Nervous," Abel added. "Not about the racing, but about the attention. Larke's getting more famous by the day, and football's ramping up too. It's a lot to navigate."

"The attention never gets easier," Pops said thoughtfully. "But you learn to manage it. Focus on what matters, ignore the noise, and remember that most people are just trying to live their lives and don't actually care about your personal business."

"Most people," I emphasized. "The rest are complete psychopaths who analyze your grocery receipts."

"Lyric's not wrong," Pops laughed. "But here's the thing - you two are building something real together. That's rare in this world. Don't let other people's opinions mess with that."

"Any specific advice?" Abel asked.

"Communicate. Like, constantly. About everything. Schedule, priorities, fears, dreams, all of it." Pops looked at both of us. "And remember that you're both young and figuring things out. There's no rush to have everything perfect right away."

"What about the long-distance stuff?" I asked, thinking about Laura in Stockholm and how hard it was sometimes.

"Make the time you have together count. And when you're apart, be present in your own life instead of just waiting for the next time you'll see each other."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the night air and the kind of conversation that only happened when it was just the guys.

"Can I ask you something?" Abel said eventually.

"Shoot."

"How do you deal with people constantly comparing you to your father? Both of you?"

Ah. There it was. The question everyone was always too polite to ask directly.

"Honestly?" I said. "Some days it's motivating, some days it's exhausting. But mostly I just try to remember that I'm not trying to be Lewis Hamilton. I'm trying to be the best version of Lyric Hamilton."

"Same," I continued. "Like, Larke's not trying to replicate Pops' career. She's building her own legacy. And you're not trying to be anyone else either - you're just Abel, who happens to be really good at football and really good for my sister."

"Plus," Pops added, "people are going to have opinions no matter what you do. Might as well do what makes you happy and let them talk."

"Wise words from the old man," I grinned.

"Old man? Son, I can still outrun you."

"In your dreams, Pops."

"Want to test that theory?"

"Right now? In the snow? At ten thousand feet altitude?"

"Scared?"

Oh, it was on.

What followed was the most ridiculous sprint race in Hamilton family history - three generations of competitive stubbornness playing out on a snowy mountain path, with Abel recording everything because he said it was "content gold."

Pops won, obviously, because genetics are unfair and he's still in better shape than people half his age. But I came in a respectable second, and Abel... well, Abel learned that footballers aren't necessarily built for high-altitude sprinting.

"I'm dying," he gasped, bent over with his hands on his knees.

"You're fine," Larke said, appearing from nowhere with a cup of hot chocolate. "Though you do look like you're about to pass out."

"Your family is insane," he told her.

"You're just figuring this out now?"

_______________________________________________

The view from our family's São Paulo home on a hill was absolutely insane on New Year's Eve - the entire city sprawling out below us, fireworks already starting to pop off even though it was only nine p.m. Brazil always felt like home in a way that was hard to explain, probably because Pops, Larke, and I all had dual citizenship and had been coming here since we were kids.

"Lyric, vem cá!" called Isabela, our housekeeper who'd been with the family for like fifteen years. "Your hair needs work before the party!"

Yes. Isabela gave the best braids, and I'd been growing my hair out specifically for this trip. There was something about having her do my hair that felt like a tradition - she'd been braiding it since I was little, always adding these intricate patterns that somehow looked both classic and fresh.

I settled into the chair she'd set up on the balcony, the warm Brazilian air a perfect contrast to the Colorado cold we'd left behind.

"You're getting handsome like your pai," she said in her mix of Portuguese and English, starting to section my hair. "But you need to eat more. Too skinny."

"I eat plenty, Isa."

"McDonald's is not eating."

"I don't eat McDonald's!"

"Hmm." She clearly didn't believe me, but her hands were gentle as she worked. "Your namorada, she's coming tonight?"

"Laura's in Stockholm still, but she'll FaceTime in for midnight."

"Good girl, that one. Smart. Pretty. You keep her."

Planning on it.

As she worked, I could hear the chaos inside - Larke and Abel attempting to salsa with Uncle Franco and Aunt Aaliyah, who were trying to teach them the steps they'd learned on their honeymoon. Abel was... not good at it. Like, genuinely terrible. But he was trying, which earned him points.

"Meu Deus, your boyfriend has no rhythm," I heard Aaliyah laugh from inside.

"He's English!" Larke protested. "What did you expect?"

"Hey!" Abel's voice carried through the doors. "I have rhythm! Just... not for this!"

Franco was dying laughing, which wasn't helping the lesson at all. Their kids - my cousins Maria and Gabriel - were recording everything, probably for TikTok.

"Done," Isabela announced, holding up a mirror so I could see the back. The braids were perfect - neat, intricate, with a geometric pattern that somehow made me look older and more put-together.

"Isa, você é incrível," I said, giving her a hug.

"Of course I am. Now go take pictures so your followers can see my work."

She wasn't wrong. I pulled out my phone and took a few shots - one serious, one grinning, one with the São Paulo skyline in the background. Posted them to Instagram with the caption:

liked by f1, mclaren, and 200K others

lyrichamilton: NYE ready thanks to the best braider in Brazil 🇧🇷 Obrigado Isa! ❤️

The comments started rolling in immediately:

BRO YOU LOOK SO GOOD those braids are PERFECT you and your dad could be twins I swear daddy Lewis raised you right 😍 sir you are FINE Lewis Hamilton's genetics are undefeated both Hamilton men can GET IT

Ugh, gross. Some of these comments about Pops were just weird. Like, I get that he's objectively handsome and all, but these people needed to chill.

lyrichamilton replied with: y'all are nasty talking about my dad like that. He's literally married to my mother. Get help.

"What are you frowning at?" Larke asked, appearing on the balcony looking slightly disheveled from her dance lesson.

"People being thirsty on Instagram. As usual."

"About you or about Pops?"

"Both. It's disgusting."

She looked at my phone and made a face. "Ew. Block them."

"I can't block everyone. There'd be no one left."

"Fair point. Come inside, Uncle Franco's trying to teach Abel how to dip me and it's going very badly."

This I had to see.

Inside, the living room had been turned into an impromptu dance floor. Mama and Pops were actually pretty good at salsa - they'd learned years ago for some charity event and apparently still remembered the steps. Uncle Franco and Aunt Aaliyah were pure poetry together, moving like they'd been dancing their whole lives.

And then there was Abel, who was holding Larke like she might break while simultaneously looking like he was about to trip over his own feet.

"Mate, you're thinking too much," Franco called out. "Just feel the music!"

"I am feeling the music! The music is telling me I can't dance!"

"Here," I said, stepping in. "Let me show you. Larke, dance with your actually coordinated brother."

What followed was me giving Abel a crash course in basic salsa while dancing with my sister, who was trying not to laugh at both of us. I wasn't amazing at it either, but I had rhythm and I'd been forced to take dance lessons when I was younger (thanks, Mama).

"See? It's all about the hips," I demonstrated, earning wolf whistles from our cousins.

"Your hips lie though," Maria called out, recording everything.

"My hips tell beautiful stories, thank you very much."

By the time we switched partners back, Abel was at least not actively dangerous to dance with. Progress.

"Better?" I asked him.

"I didn't step on her feet that time, so yeah."

"Small victories."

As midnight approached, we all gathered on the terrace with champagne (sparkling cider for me and the cousins) and phones ready for the countdown. Laura's hologram was projected in the center of our group, and even though she was five hours ahead in Stockholm, she'd stayed up to celebrate with us.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!" we all shouted together, the fireworks from Copacabana visible in the distance.

"Seven! Six! Five!"

"Four! Three! Two!"

"FELIZ ANO NOVO!"

The sky exploded with color, and everyone was hugging and kissing and shouting. Larke and Abel had their New Year's kiss, Mama and Pops had theirs, and I blew a kiss to Laura's projection while she laughed at me from her Stockholm apartment.

"I love you all!" Larke shouted over the noise.

"We love you too!" everyone shouted back.

Looking around at our family - blood and chosen, present and projected - scattered across Brazil and Sweden but somehow all together, I felt that familiar surge of gratitude.

Tomorrow we'd start gearing up for another season of racing, another year of chasing dreams and managing pressure and living in the public eye. But tonight, we were just us. The Hamilton family, plus one South African footballer who still couldn't salsa, one Danish-British artist beaming in from across the world, and enough love to power this entire city.

"Ready for 2043?" Pops asked, raising his glass.

"Bring it on," Larke said confidently.

"Let's make it legendary," I added.

Yeah, definitely worth it.

The 2043 Formula 1 season had been nothing short of spectacular for Larke. Starting with her victory in Bahrain - where she'd controlled the race from pole position and reminded everyone why the Hamilton name meant excellence in motorsport - she'd gone on a tear that had the entire paddock talking.

Australia came next, another commanding performance where she'd managed the challenging street circuit with the kind of precision that made veteran drivers shake their heads in admiration. By the time we reached the third race, the media was already throwing around words like "dominance" and "historic."

Saudi Arabia was a night race, which meant everything felt slightly surreal - the neon lights, the late start time, the way the entire paddock seemed to be running on caffeine and adrenaline. Larke qualified second behind Kenzo Craigie, which was frustrating but not devastating. Sometimes you had to settle for a front-row start and trust that race pace would make the difference.

Laura had flown in from Stockholm, which was a surprise and also the best possible way to start the weekend. She looked tired from the travel but happy to be there, wearing one of my McLaren shirts and a pair of sunglasses that made her look like she belonged in the paddock.

"Shouldn't you be studying for finals?" I asked when I found her in the garage before practice sessions.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on your sister's car instead of questioning my academic priorities?"

Fair point.

"Besides," she continued, "I wanted to see you work. And Larke asked me to come."

"Larke asked you to come?"

"She said she needed another woman around who understood what it was like to date someone in this world. Apparently I'm now the relationship expert in your family."

Interesting. Things with Abel must have been more complicated than Larke was letting on.

The race itself was a thriller - Larke and Kenzo battling for the lead, wheel-to-wheel racing that had the entire paddock on their feet. In the end, she finished second, which was a great result but I could tell she was frustrated by the missed opportunity.

"Good drive," I told her over the radio as she crossed the finish line.

"Not good enough," came her reply, clipped and professional but I could hear the disappointment.

Later, in the garage while the media circus was happening outside, I found her sitting in her driver's room looking frustrated.

"Want to talk about it?"

"He made a mistake in sector two and I couldn't capitalize on it. Should have been my win."

Racing was cruel that way - sometimes perfect wasn't good enough.

"You drove brilliantly. Sometimes the other guy is just slightly better on the day."

"I hate losing to Kenzo."

This was new - Larke usually had good relationships with the other drivers, but there was something different in her voice when she talked about Kenzo Craigie. Something more personal than professional rivalry.

"Why?"

"Because he's cocky and he thinks he's entitled to everything because he's daddy's protégé and he acts like I only got my seat because of who our father is."

Ah. So it was like that.

"Have you talked to Pops about this?"

"What's he going to do? Tell Kenzo to be nicer to me? That would just prove Kenzo's point about me needing daddy to fight my battles."

She had a point there. The last thing Larke needed was for people to think she couldn't handle her own racing rivalries.

"You know what the best revenge is, right?"

"Beating him on track."

"Exactly. And you will. You're eighteen and already giving him trouble. He's thirty-three and supposed to be in his prime. Time is on your side."

She nodded, looking more determined than frustrated now. "You're right. Besides, Abel's flying in tomorrow and I want to actually enjoy having him here instead of being grumpy about finishing second."

There it was again - the mention of Abel with that slightly complicated expression.

"How are things with you two?"

"Better. We had a really good conversation after our fight. About priorities and communication and what we both need." She picked at her nail polish. "He's been trying really hard to understand the racing schedule, and I'm trying to be better about making time for us even when everything's crazy."

"That's good. Relationships take work, especially in this world."

"Speaking of relationships, Laura's been giving me advice about dealing with long distance. She's smart about this stuff."

Laura was smart about most things.

"Yeah, she is. Also probably good to have someone to talk to who gets it."

"Definitely. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only girl in the world trying to balance being a professional race car driver with having a normal relationship. But Laura makes it seem possible."

If anyone could make it work, it was Larke. She was stubborn enough to have both.

lyrichamilton posted on his instagram!

liked by larke_hamilton, lauraaaaaa, f1, mclaren, and 1.3M others

lyrichamilton: Still the fucking best driver! P2 in Saudi Arabia but we clinched in the WDC! #WeMove #NeverDoubtTheOrange #McLaren4L tagged; larke_hamilton, mclaren, f1

view all comments...

lauraaaaaa: go larke the shark!!

⤷ lyrichamilton: luv u l'waura

f1: 👏👏👏👏

mclaren: you got this larke_hamilton! next week we got the dub! 💪🧡

random_girl1001: your so fine!

⤷ thirstyhoe11: isn't he? looking like his equally fine af daddy

⤷ lyrichamilton: yall this is a wendy's....and we trying to support lil sis. off with that pls

Larke was changing the sport itself. Every race weekend brought more young girls to the barriers, wearing #44 merchandise and carrying signs with messages like "Future Female Champion" and "Larke is my hero." It was the kind of thing that made Pops emotional.

The marketing team couldn't keep up with demand for her gear. Larke wasn't just racing - she was inspiring a revolution.

By the time we reached Miami, she was leading the championship by sixty points and showing no signs of slowing down. Three wins in the first five races, and each victory more dominant than the last.

Larke was somewhere in the middle of the popup store she had for her latest merch, taking pictures and signing autographs and being gracious to every single person who'd waited hours to meet her. She was in her element - confident and charming and completely natural with fans in a way that reminded me so much of Pops during his prime.

"She's a natural at this," Laura observed. She'd flown in for the Miami race weekend and was documenting everything for her summer art project about sports celebrity and fan culture.

"Takes after the old man," I said. "Though I think she might actually be better at it than he was at her age."

"Different generation. She grew up with social media and constant attention. You both did."

True. Pops had had to learn how to handle fame; Larke and I had been born into it. Sometimes I wondered if that made us better at managing it or if it just made us think we were better at it than we actually were.

My phone buzzed with a notification - someone had tagged me in a video of Larke signing a little girl's race suit. The girl couldn't have been more than eight, and she was wearing a full McLaren outfit that was clearly several sizes too big for her. Larke had gotten down on her level to talk to her, and you could see the exact moment the little girl realized she was meeting her hero.

Jesus, that was going to make me emotional.

"You okay?" Laura asked, noticing my expression.

"Just proud of her. Look at this." I showed her the video, which already had thousands of likes and comments.

making dreams come true this is why we love you future world champion and class act

"She's going to change everything, isn't she?" Laura said quietly.

"Yeah, I think she is."

The popup was scheduled to run until an hour before qualifying, but we had to shut it down early because the crowds were getting too big for the security team to handle safely. Not a bad problem to have, but definitely a learning experience for future events.

"Next time we're renting out a stadium," Pops joked when we finally made it back to the garage.

"Next time you're hiring more security," Mama corrected. "I aged ten years watching those crowds."

Larke looked tired but happy, still signing the occasional autograph for VIP guests and team members who'd missed the popup. She had that glow that came from doing something you loved and being appreciated for it.

"How do you feel?" I asked her.

"Like I just ran a marathon, but in the best way. Did you see how many kids were out there?"

"I saw. You're inspiring a whole generation of future drivers."

"That's the goal," she said simply. "If I can make it easier for the girls coming after me, then everything else is worth it."

This was why she was going to be special - not just the talent, but the understanding of what her success meant for other people.

Qualifying was later that afternoon, and Larke put the car on pole by three tenths of a second. The popup had been great, but this was what really mattered - showing up when it counted and proving that all the attention was deserved.

"Pole position in Miami," I said into my headset as she crossed the line. "That's how you shut up the doubters."

"Just getting started," came her reply, confident and focused.

God, I loved working with her.

___________________________________________

The basketball court they'd set up near the Miami paddock was supposed to be a fun promotional event - just Pops and me playing some one-on-one to hype up the Grand Prix weekend. What it turned into was me absolutely roasting my father in front of a crowd of fans and media while pretending I wasn't trying to impress the group of girls who'd somehow gotten VIP access to watch.

"You sure you want to do this, old man?" I called out, dribbling the ball between my legs in what I thought was a pretty slick move. "I've grown like six inches since the last time we played."

"Old man?" Pops laughed, stretching his arms above his head. Even at fifty-eight, he was in ridiculous shape - all lean muscle and quick reflexes, his tattoos catching the Miami sun as he moved. "Son, I was playing basketball before you were even a thought."

The speakers were pumping music to keep the crowd hyped, and when a Notorious B.I.G. track came on, I couldn't help myself. Started moving to the beat, adding some improvised bars that definitely weren't appropriate for the all-ages crowd but got the girls in the corner absolutely losing their minds.

"LYRIC!" one of them screamed, and I shot them a grin that I'd definitely inherited from my father.

"Are we playing basketball or are you putting on a concert?" Pops asked, but he was trying not to laugh.

"Why not both?" I shot back, still bouncing to the beat. "Gotta give the people what they want, right?"

What followed was twenty minutes of the most competitive father-son basketball you've ever seen. Pops might have been approaching sixty, but he still had those quick hands and that court vision that had made him dangerous in charity games for years. I had height and youth on my side, but he had experience and the kind of trash talk that reminded me where I'd learned it from.

"That's a foul!" I called when he got a little too physical defending.

"That's just good defense!" he shot back. "You're just soft!"

The crowd was eating it up, cheering every basket and laughing at our banter. By the end, we were both dripping sweat and breathing hard, but grinning like idiots.

"Water break?" Pops suggested, and we headed to the sideline where they'd set up chairs and towels.

"Not bad for an old guy," I conceded, accepting a bottle of water.

"Not bad for a string bean," he replied.

We sat there for a few minutes, catching our breath and sharing the vegan lunch they'd brought over - some kind of quinoa bowl that actually tasted decent. The crowd had dispersed a bit, giving us a moment of relative privacy.

"I've been thinking about getting some tattoos," I said casually, watching his reaction.

Pops raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What kind of tattoos?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe something racing-related? Or family stuff?" I shrugged. "Just feels like it's time, you know?"

He looked thoughtful, tracing one of his own tattoos absently. "It's a big decision. They're permanent, obviously."

"Obviously."

"What does Laura think?"

"She said as long as I don't get her name tattooed anywhere, she doesn't care what I do."

That got a laugh. "Smart girl. Never get someone's name unless you're married to them."

"Even then?"

"Even then. Your mama's the exception to every rule."

I rolled my eyes playfully. "You're such a sap."

"Says the kid who posts love poems on Instagram."

Touché.

"So you'd be okay with it? Me getting tattoos?"

"Son, you're twenty-one years old. You don't need my permission to get tattoos." He paused. "But if you want my advice, think about what they mean to you. Don't just get something because it looks cool. Get something that tells your story."

"Like yours do?"

"Like mine do."

Looking at him - sweat-soaked and relaxed, surrounded by the controlled chaos of race weekend but taking time to just be my dad - I felt that familiar surge of gratitude for how normal he'd managed to keep our family despite everything.

"Thanks, Pops."

"For what?"

"For being you. For this." I gestured around us. "For teaching me how to trash talk properly."

"That last one was all natural talent," he grinned. "But you're welcome."

______________________________________________

The Miami Grand Prix was one of those races that reminded you why you fell in love with motorsport in the first place. Larke controlled it from start to finish, managing her tires perfectly and making strategic decisions that had the commentary team comparing her to drivers twice her age.

I was in the garage, monitoring telemetry and radio communications, but I kept finding myself just watching her drive. There was something almost artistic about the way she took certain corners, the way she could find grip where other drivers couldn't, the way she seemed to understand exactly what the car needed at any given moment.

"She's in a class of her own today," Jamie said, shaking his head as he watched her lap times.

"Yeah, she is."

With ten laps to go, she had a fifteen-second lead over second place. Barring mechanical failure or an act of God, the race was hers.

"How are we looking, Lyric?" came her voice over the radio.

"You're absolutely flying. Fifteen seconds clear, tires are good, just bring it home."

"Copy. This one's for everyone who waited in line today."

Of course it was. Larke had this way of making everything personal, of connecting her racing to the bigger picture of what she represented. It was part of what made her special as a driver and as a person.

When she crossed the finish line, the garage erupted. I was screaming into my headset, probably loud enough to damage someone's hearing, but I didn't care. This was my little sister, winning races and making history and being absolutely brilliant at it.

"LARKE HAMILTON WINS THE MIAMI GRAND PRIX!" I shouted.

"YES! YES! YES! Thank you everyone, thank you to all the fans, this is incredible!" came her reply, pure joy and adrenaline in her voice.

Later, watching her on the podium with champagne in her hair and the biggest smile I'd ever seen, I felt that familiar surge of pride and protectiveness. She was eighteen years old and already changing the world, one race at a time.

After the ceremonies, when the media obligations were done and the garage was finally quiet, our family gathered for our traditional post-win dinner. Nothing fancy, just good food and wine and the kind of conversation that reminded you what was really important.

"Four wins in five races," Pops said, raising his glass. "At this rate, you'll clinch the championship before summer break."

"Don't jinx it," Larke laughed, but she looked confident in a way that suggested she might actually believe it was possible.

"To Larke," Mama said. "For driving like a champion and inspiring a generation."

"To family," Larke corrected. "For always believing in me, even when I don't believe in myself."

Yeah, we were pretty lucky.

______________________________________________

The Met Gala was one of those surreal experiences that reminded you how weird your life had become. One day you're covered in motor oil in a McLaren garage, the next you're walking up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo while photographers scream your name.

The theme was "Future Histories," which was perfect for our family - Pops in a vintage Virgil Abloh piece that somehow managed to be both classic and futuristic, Mama in something flowing and beautiful that made her look like a goddess, and Larke in a stunning gown that incorporated racing-inspired elements without being gimmicky.

"I can't believe this is my life," Larke whispered as we posed for photos at the bottom of the steps.

"Better get used to it," I whispered back. "You're only getting more famous."

The actual event was a mix of art, fashion, and networking that felt like the most expensive party in the world. I spent most of the evening talking to other young people who'd grown up in various spotlights - actors' kids, musicians' children, athletes' families - and was reminded that privilege came in many forms but always with its own unique set of complications.

Laura looked incredible in a dress she'd designed herself, something architectural and flowing that perfectly captured her aesthetic. She was in her element talking to artists and designers, and watching her hold her own in conversations with people who'd probably never heard of her was incredibly attractive.

"You clean up nice," I told her during a rare quiet moment.

"You're not so bad yourself. Though I preferred you in the garage clothes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're sexier when you're doing something you're passionate about."

Note to self: wear more McLaren gear around Laura.

The evening ended with our family at the after-party, Larke holding court with a group of young activists and artists who were fascinated by her perspective on sports and social change. She was in her element, talking about representation and inspiration and the responsibility that came with platform.

"She's going to be President someday," Laura observed, watching my sister charm a table full of influential people twice her age.

"Probably. Though I think she prefers racing cars to politics."

"Give her time. She's only eighteen."

True. Who knew what Larke would accomplish once she was done conquering Formula 1.

The Good Morning America studios in Times Square buzzed with the kind of energy that only came with live television. I'd been doing interviews since I was karting as a kid, but this felt different - more formal, more important somehow.

"Five minutes, Lyric," the producer called out, adjusting my mic one final time.

The host today was Janai Norman, who'd taken over the morning show after Robin Roberts finally retired about ten years or so back. She had that perfect morning TV energy - warm but professional, the kind of person who could make anyone feel comfortable on camera.

"So we're talking about the Netflix documentary, your role as Larke's engineer, and growing up Hamilton?" she confirmed, settling into her chair across from me.

"That's the plan. Though knowing me, I'll probably go off on some random tangent about why pineapple belongs on pizza or something."

She laughed. "Please don't. We only have ten minutes."

Fair point.

"So tell us about Life in the Fast Lane," Janai said. "What can viewers expect?"

"It's really about the next generation in Formula 1," I explained. "Kids who grew up in this world, whether their parents were drivers or team principals or engineers. The pressure, the privilege, the way it shapes your perspective on life and career choices."

"Your sister's having an incredible season. As her engineer, what's it like watching her make history?"

"It's surreal," I said honestly. "Like, I remember when she was this tiny kid following me around the garage, asking a million questions about everything. Now she's out there breaking records and inspiring a whole generation of young girls. As her brother, I'm proud as hell. As her engineer, I'm just trying to give her the best car possible so she can keep doing what she does."

"And what she does is pretty spectacular."

"Yeah, it really is."

After the interview, Laura and I met up outside the studio. She looked gorgeous in that effortless way she had - jeans, a blazer, and boots that somehow made her look like she belonged in New York more than anyone else.

"How'd it go?" she asked, falling into step beside me as we headed toward the street.

"Good, I think. Didn't say anything stupid or controversial."

"That's always the goal."

We'd made it maybe half a block when I noticed the crowd forming behind us. Phones were out, people were calling my name, and that familiar surge of adrenaline that came with unexpected attention kicked in.

"LYRIC! Can we get a picture?"

"Oh my god, you're so much taller in person!"

"Is that your girlfriend? She's gorgeous!"

"Laura, right? We love you!"

Here we go.

I grabbed Laura's hand and picked up the pace, smiling and waving but not stopping. This was the balance I'd learned over the years - be gracious but keep moving, acknowledge the fans but don't get trapped.

"Sorry," I called back to the growing crowd. "Late for dinner!"

Which was actually true. We were meeting friends at Carbone in an hour, and knowing that place, being late meant losing your table.

"Is it always like this now?" Laura asked as we finally escaped into a cab.

"Sometimes worse," I admitted. "But also sometimes I can go weeks without anyone recognizing me. It's weird how random it is."

"I don't know how you handle it."

"Practice. And good running shoes."

Carbone was exactly as chaotic and perfect as always. The kind of place where you had to know someone who knew someone to get a table, but the food was worth the hassle. Our group was already there when we arrived - my best friend Marcus, Sophie who worked in fashion, James from my brief stint at NYU, and Elena who was some kind of tech genius and always had the best stories.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Marcus grinned as we slid into the booth. "How was morning television?"

"Exhausting. They make you get up at like five AM for a ten-minute segment."

"The sacrifices you make for fame," Sophie teased. "So tragic."

"I know, right? My life is so hard."

Laura had met this group a couple times when she'd visited New York, but she still seemed a little quiet. I could tell she was trying to figure out the dynamic, which made sense - they were my friends from before her, from the brief period when I'd tried to be a normal college student.

"Laura, tell us about Stockholm," Elena said, clearly sensing the same thing I had. "Are you surviving Swedish winter?"

"Barely," Laura laughed, and I could see her relax a little. "Though my apartment has incredible heating, so I'm mostly just complaining for dramatic effect."

"Very Scandinavian of you," James said. "I spent a semester in Copenhagen and I'm pretty sure I didn't see the sun for three months."

"That's because you never left the library," Marcus pointed out.

"Fair point."

The conversation flowed easily after that - work, travel, relationships, the kind of normal twenty-something stuff that felt precious because of how rare it was in my usual world. Laura fit in perfectly once she relaxed, charming everyone with stories about her art installation and the weird Swedish cultural quirks she was still getting used to.

"So Lyric," Sophie said as we were finishing our pasta, "are you going to tell us about this documentary or do we have to wait for Netflix like peasants?"

"It's actually really cool," I said, trying not to sound like I was doing PR. "They followed a bunch of us around - kids of drivers, team principals, engineers, all sorts of F1 family members. The whole thing about what it's like growing up in this world."

"And you're the star, obviously," Elena grinned.

"Obviously. Though Larke steals every scene she's in, so really I'm just the comic relief."

"That tracks," Marcus said. "Remember freshman year when you tried to explain tire compounds to that girl at the party?"

"Hey, she asked!"

"She asked what you did for fun, not for a physics lecture."

Rude but accurate.

"In my defense," I said, "tire compounds are fascinating when you really think about it."

"This is why I love you," Laura said, kissing my cheek. "Your complete inability to be normal."

"I can be normal!"

"Name one normal thing about your life."

I considered this seriously. "I... put my pants on one leg at a time?"

"Your pants are custom-made by a designer who charges more per garment than most people make in a month."

Damn, she had me there.

"Fine, I'm abnormal. But I'm abnormally charming, so it works out."

As the night wound down and we were getting ready to leave, Marcus pulled me aside.

"She's good for you, man. Laura. Like, really good."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you though? Because you get this look when you talk about her. Like... settled. In a good way."

Settled. I'd never thought about it like that, but Marcus wasn't wrong. Being with Laura felt like finding something I hadn't realized I was looking for.

"Thanks, man. That means a lot."

"Just don't fuck it up by being an idiot."

"I'll do my best."

lyrichamilton posted on his stories 5 hours ago!

Austin was hands down my favorite race weekend of the year, and not just because the racing was always incredible. There was something about Texas that spoke to my soul - maybe because I'd grown up between California, Colorado, and Monaco, but had always been drawn to that whole cowboy aesthetic.

"Finally," I said, pulling my white Stetson out of my suitcase. "Been waiting all season to break this bad boy out."

"You're such a stereotype," Larke laughed from her bed, where she was scrolling through race data on her tablet. "California boy playing dress-up."

"Hey, I spent half my childhood in Colorado. That counts for something."

"Colorado isn't Texas."

"Cowboys are cowboys, sis."

We were driving to the circuit listening to Beyoncé's Cowboy Carter album - a vintage classic from like twenty years ago but still perfect for Austin vibes. When "Texas Hold 'Em" came on, both of us started singing along at full volume.

"This ain't Texas, ain't no hold 'em, so lay your cards down, down, down," we belted out, completely off-key but not caring at all.

"You know that song is literally about how this isn't Texas, right?" Larke pointed out between verses.

"Details," I waved her off. "It's got cowboy energy, that's all that matters."

The paddock was buzzing with pre-race energy, and I could already see the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders setting up for their traditional pre-race performance. That was another Austin tradition I never got tired of - something about the intersection of American sports culture and Formula 1 that just worked.

"You're not seriously going to do the bull riding thing again, are you?" Larke asked as we parked.

"Of course I am! It's tradition!"

"You nearly got thrown off last year."

"Nearly being the operative word. I stayed on."

"For like three seconds."

"Three seconds longer than most people manage on their first try."

True story. The mechanical bull they set up at Austin was no joke, but I'd been practicing. Well, sort of. I'd watched a lot of YouTube videos, which basically made me an expert.

The bull-riding station was set up near the main fan zone, complete with a proper Western-style arena and announcers who took the whole thing way too seriously. I'd signed up earlier in the week, partly because it was fun and partly because the fans loved it when the teams did the local culture stuff.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, "we've got Lyric Hamilton from the McLaren team ready to take on Tornado Tom!"

Tornado Tom. They'd named the mechanical bull. Of course they had.

I adjusted my Stetson, made sure my boots were secure, and climbed onto the bull. The crowd was cheering, phones were out recording everything, and I could see Larke shaking her head in the background while trying not to laugh.

"Eight seconds is the goal!" the operator called out. "You ready?"

"Born ready!"

Famous last words.

The first few seconds were actually manageable - a gentle rocking motion that made me think maybe I'd gotten better at this. Then Tornado Tom decided to remind me who was boss.

What followed was the most undignified thirty seconds of my life. The bull bucked, spun, and generally tried to launch me into orbit while I held on for dear life. The crowd was going absolutely wild, and I could hear my name being chanted from multiple directions.

I lasted exactly six seconds before Tornado Tom finally won and sent me flying onto the padded mats. But I landed on my feet, arms up like I'd just stuck a gymnastics routine, which got an even bigger cheer from the crowd.

"Six seconds!" the announcer proclaimed. "Not bad for a racing engineer!"

"I demand a rematch!" I called out, earning laughs from everyone watching.

"Maybe next year, cowboy!"

As I walked back toward the McLaren hospitality area, tipping my hat to fans along the way, I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline that came from doing something ridiculous in front of a crowd. This was what I loved about Austin - the permission to lean into the showmanship, to be a little extra.

_______________________________________________

The race had been a disaster for Larke - a DNF on lap forty-three when her engine let go in spectacular fashion. Mechanical failures were part of racing, but they always stung, especially when you were leading the championship and every point mattered.

I found her in her driver's room afterward, still in her race suit, staring at her phone with that blank expression she got when she was trying not to show how upset she was.

"Engine failure sucks," I said, settling into the chair across from her. "But that's racing. We'll bounce back next week."

"Yeah," she said quietly, not looking up from her phone.

"Want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps to go through what happened, figure out if there were any warning signs we missed."

"It's not about the race, Ly."

Oh. That explained why she seemed more upset than a DNF usually warranted. Larke was competitive as hell, but she was also practical about the realities of motorsport. This was something else.

"Want to talk about whatever it actually is?"

She was quiet for a long moment, scrolling through what looked like news articles on her phone. Then: "Do you ever feel like you're living someone else's life?"

That was not what I'd been expecting.

"Sometimes," I said carefully. "What do you mean?"

"Like... everyone expects me to be this confident, fearless racing driver who never doubts herself. And most of the time, I am that person. But sometimes I just want to be eighteen and not have the weight of representing all women in motorsport on my shoulders."

Ah. There it was.

The pressure that we all carried but rarely talked about - the expectation to be perfect, to never show weakness, to always be on.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." She finally looked up from her phone. "And then I feel guilty for complaining because I have this incredible life and opportunities that most people can only dream of."

"You're allowed to feel overwhelmed, Larke. You're eighteen years old carrying pressure that would break most adults."

"I know that logically. But..." She trailed off, then suddenly laughed. "God, I sound like such a privileged brat."

"You sound like someone who's human. Which, despite what the internet thinks, you still are."

That got a small smile. "Barely, some days."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the chaos of the paddock muffled by the walls of her driver's room. Outside, I could hear the post-race interviews happening, the usual analysis and speculation that followed every Grand Prix.

"You know what we need?" I said suddenly.

"What?"

"A Disney movie marathon. When's the last time we just sat around and watched Frozen seventeen times in a row?"

She laughed, the first genuine laugh I'd heard from her all day. "We're not children anymore, Ly."

"Speak for yourself. I maintain that Frozen is a cinematic masterpiece with universal appeal."

"You cried during 'Let It Go' last time we watched it."

"It's an emotional song! Elsa's embracing her true self despite societal pressure to conform! It's basically a metaphor for your entire career!"

"Oh my God, you're right," she said, laughing harder now. "I'm Elsa and motorsport is my ice powers."

"Exactly. And I'm obviously Anna because I'm loyal and charming and have excellent hair."

"You're Anna because you're goofy and talk too much."

"Hey!"

"But also loyal and charming," she added. "Fine. Disney marathon tonight?"

"Disney marathon tonight. But we're watching it at the hotel because if the McLaren social media team finds out we're having feelings, they'll want to film it for content."

"Deal. But I get to pick the movies."

"As long as one of them is Frozen."

"Obviously."

Later that night, we were sprawled across the oversized hotel room couch with room service snacks and a carefully curated Disney playlist. Larke had changed into sweatpants and one of my old hoodies, looking more like a regular teenager than a Formula 1 driver for the first time all weekend.

"You know," she said during the opening credits of Moana, "this is exactly what I needed."

"Disney movies?"

"This. Just being normal for a few hours. Not having to think about championship points or media obligations or what my success means for the future of women in motorsport."

"You can take breaks from being a symbol, you know. You're allowed to just be Larke sometimes."

"I'm working on it," she said. "It's just hard when everyone's watching all the time."

"Well, I'm always watching too," I said. "But not as your engineer or as Lewis Hamilton's son. Just as your annoying big brother who thinks you're pretty cool."

"Just pretty cool?"

"Fine, extremely cool. But don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," she grinned, settling back into the couch cushions.

As the familiar opening notes of "How Far I'll Go" filled the room, I thought about what Laura had said earlier about life in the fast lane. Yeah, we lived at a different speed than most people, with more pressure and scrutiny and opportunity than any twenty-somethings probably deserved.

But moments like this - just me and my sister, eating overpriced hotel room service and singing along to Disney songs - reminded me that underneath all the chaos, we were still just family. Still the Hamilton kids who'd grown up watching animated movies and dreaming about the future.

"Thanks, Ly," Larke said softly as Moana set sail for the first time.

"For what?"

"For reminding me that it's okay to not be perfect all the time."

"Always, sis. That's what annoying big brothers are for."

lyrichamilton posted on his instagram!

liked by larke_hamilton, f1, mclaren, and 2.0M others

lyrichamilton: thank u texas for always showing out n showing love. see y'all next time! 🐴

view all comments......

f1: 🤠 🐎

lewishamilton: rizz

⤷ lyrichamilton: pops.....lmfao 😭

thirstyhoe1234: now that's a cowboy i'll like to ride

enews: Cowboy Lyric!!!

roriehamilton: 🥺🥺

⤷ lyrichamilton: ❤️❤️

randowomanfromthestates: you need to break up with that dutch girl and get with me this comment has been deleted

⤷ ababyblu: girl you gonna get blocked! ly ly don't play about his girl.

⤷ lyrichamilton: ababyblu and don't. thanks for looking out 🙏🏽

[luxnaiadis]

Good Night, Omega

—

Terzo broke up with his boyfriend, Omega, ten months ago. Even though the end of the relationship had been amicable, they never spoke again. At least not until that night when Copia showed up in Terzo’s room, showing him a silly TikTok trend about calling your ex just to say goodnight.

(One-shot not connected to my other AU)

—

It was ten-thirty at night. As expected for a twenty-three-year-old with a messed-up sleep schedule and a life funded by his dad’s money, Terzo wasn’t sleepy. Even though he no longer lived with his father, old Nihil, Terzo lived with his two older brothers and one younger one. Even though their father sent a more than generous amount every month, plus allowances. Of course, there were differences in the amounts, and Nihil had no shame at all about making it obvious which son he deposited the most money to. Luckily, the brothers weren’t like that, and they rarely mentioned the amount they received. However, when Copia excitedly said he’d gotten more than fifteen hundred this month, Terzo felt sorry for him.

Copia was the youngest of the brothers, twenty years old and definitely the most easygoing. At least, the one closest to Terzo. Secondo was only three months older than Terzo — after all, their father was a scoundrel. It was surprising that he had managed to wait five years after his first child — and nothing secretly his favorite — Primo, before having Secondo and Terzo.

And even though Copia was the only one who was the product of an affair where Nihil was obsessed — one could say practically in love — with the woman, a tall blonde with big green eyes, lighter than Nihil’s, named Elizabeth, to their father he was nothing more than just another son. Nihil had eyes for the woman, not for the boy. The kid was a whiner who disturbed his peace and only served to cut into the time he could spend in bed with Beth.

Anyway, the old man had the house to himself now, since he practically tossed his kids into another home as soon as Primo became a legal adult. At least he had the good sense to support them after dumping the responsibility of three lives on the oldest son’s shoulders.

But anything was better than living with Nihil. Even when Copia barged into Terzo’s room without knocking, like right now.

Copia appeared in the doorway like a bolt of lightning without a storm, almost out of breath, holding his phone.

“Terzo,” he whispered, panting, his mismatched green and gray-blue eyes bright. “Have you seen this trend everyone’s doing?”

Terzo looked up from his phone and made a face, setting aside the Buzzfeed quiz with some reluctance. Not that he really cared which Disney princess/Twilight character combo he would be.

“Which one now?”

Without hesitating, Copia threw himself onto his brother’s bed and practically shoved the phone in his face, a TikTok video playing on a loop.

“You call your ex, say goodnight, and hang up. Just to see his reaction.”

Terzo gave a quiet laugh and scratched the back of his neck to hide the twist in his stomach. He felt a knot tighten and squeeze, pulling the air out of his lungs.

“You really think I’m gonna call Omega like that, out of nowhere?” the dark-haired one asked, his voice tense as he gripped his phone.

The name Omega always came with a lump in his throat — a difficult kind of longing he never knew exactly how to deal with.

Copia nodded enthusiastically, like an excited kid, his dark-brown hair — now reaching his ears — falling into his face.

“What if he misses you?”

He stayed quiet for a moment, phone still in hand. Omega’s face flashed in his mind — that goofy smile, the low tone of his voice whenever he said something funny between them. It had already been a few months since they’d broken up. A breakup that had been friendly enough, but one that had still hurt like hell.

They hadn’t fought, there weren’t any shouting matches or irreparable wounds. It was one of those typical misunderstandings that slowly built up in silence. Omega was always too busy with work and college, Terzo always hoping for a bit more time together while also being distant. Messages that took too long to be answered, a promise that ended up forgotten, and an atmosphere that got heavier with each conversation that started light and ended with sighs and a few jabs.

In the end, they sat together in a café one late afternoon and were honest with each other. “It’s just not working right now,” Omega had said, his sad gaze fixed on his cup. Terzo agreed, swallowing his pride and the lump in his throat because he knew it was true. They hugged for a long time before saying goodbye, and after that, contact slowly faded.

And even though they had agreed on it, Terzo never really wanted it to end. Only his pillow knew how much he’d cried that day, crying like he’d never cried before, with his heart aching like it had been trampled.

“Alright,” he finally said, letting out a long sigh. “But it’s just to say goodnight. That’s it, okay?”

Copia smiled like someone who already knew he’d won. And he really had, the moment he appeared in the doorway. Terzo could never say no to his little brother.

“Okay!” Copia replied, excited, already turning to one side and lifting his phone up to record the scene. Not that he actually planned to post the video — no, Copia had a different plan in mind.

Terzo sat still for a few seconds, as if trying to straighten out his thoughts before opening the contact. It was just a silly call, he kept telling himself. But his thumb hesitated when he hovered over Omega’s name on the list. That name still had weight, still made his chest tighten. He was trembling — Copia noticed. His hands were always a bit shaky, maybe anxiety, Copia thought. But now they were trembling even more.

Terzo took a deep breath and tapped the icon to call.

It rang once.

Twice.

On the third, just as he was starting to regret it, the deep voice he knew so well answered.

“Hello?”

Terzo almost jumped to the ceiling.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice more hesitant than casual — nowhere near as breezy as he’d hoped. “Goodnight.”

There was a brief silence between them. Terzo could already picture Omega frowning, lips pursed in confusion. Omega was always adorable like that. Like a golden retriever — clumsy when happy, expressive when confused, and intensely affectionate, always reaching for touch whenever they were together.

“Goodnight?” Omega replied with a short laugh — a bit surprised, a bit warm. “You never call me just to say goodnight.”

Terzo felt his face heat up, his pale skin turning pink.

“Yeah,” he answered, fidgeting with the blanket. “I felt like it this time.”

Copia was barely containing his grin, bouncing on the bed with his phone up like a kid hoping for his separated parents to talk nicely to each other.

“Got it,” Omega said, softer, like the touch of a feather — Terzo could practically hear his smile. “So you were going to sleep?”

Terzo answered quickly, almost on reflex — even nodding, as if Omega could see him.

“Yeah. That was it.”

Omega let out a thoughtful little hum, making Terzo swallow hard. Then his voice dropped, sounding just as intimate as in the old days.

“You sure you’re going to sleep? Because, hmm…” Omega paused for a second. Then, sounding more awkward, he changed the subject. “It’s windy as hell over here. Never really did well with these super cold nights, you know?”

Terzo glanced at his legs tucked under the blanket. Of course he knew. It was the kind of night they’d usually spend tangled up together with some movie playing quietly, laughing at whatever, then dozing off on the couch.

“Oh,” Terzo replied, his voice trembling. “It’s like that here too.”

Silence.

“So…” Omega ventured, sounding more hesitant. Terzo knew Omega was probably staring at the ceiling, blue eyes deep in thought. The same blue Terzo dreamed about on nights like these, when he missed being in his arms and feeling those hands in his hair. “Did you see that trailer for the movie that just came out? The one we always said we’d see together when it released?”

That knot tightened in Terzo’s chest again. For a second, he almost told him yes — that he thought of them watching it together the moment he saw the trailer.

“No, not yet,” Terzo replied, his voice barely a whisper.

Omega gave a short, genuine chuckle.

“You know we could go anytime. Some weekend, maybe. Or a Friday — you always liked Fridays.”

Copia was smiling so big it was like he was seeing a miracle happen, hoping with all his heart that this was a step toward a reconciliation. Terzo shut his eyes for a moment and answered, careful to keep the ache out of his voice:

“Maybe. But right now I’m sleepy.”

Omega sounded almost disappointed.

“Oh… okay. Rest up then,” he said — then quickly added, as if hoping to stretch the conversation. “Or wait. Did you see it’s going to rain tomorrow? A real storm.”

“Is it?” Terzo replied, already hooked, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Mm-hm,” Omega replied. Terzo could tell by his voice that Omega was lying down too. “And I never sleep well when it’s raining. You remember that, don’t you?”

Terzo felt a sudden warmth in his chest. Of course he remembered — remembered Omega tugging up the blankets and pulling Terzo into his arms like a stuffed toy. Omega loved total silence when sleeping — something that had always been a little eerie for Terzo, who preferred background noise, especially rain. If light rain was bad for Omega, thunderstorms were even worse. He needed his essentials for a good night’s sleep: a cozy blanket, a bunch of pillows, and Terzo close enough to hold.

But now the most important part was nowhere near him.

Terzo never had the courage to imagine what those months had been like for Omega on rainy nights.

“I do,” Terzo replied in a whisper, the words slipping before he could catch them.

Omega paused, as if gathering his courage.

“So,” he murmured softly, “if the rain gets really bad and I can’t sleep… would it be okay if I called you? Just to take my mind off it?”

Terzo stayed quiet for a moment, his heart aching with a mix of pain and warmth. It felt like they’d never broken up at all. Even after months without talking, five minutes into a phone call and it was as if time hadn’t passed. The connection was still there — and so was the affection.

“You can,” Terzo replied.

“Great,” Omega answered, relief in his voice. “Goodnight then, Terzo. And… sleep well.”

Terzo swallowed, feeling emotions stirring that he knew he shouldn’t let in.

“You too,” he answered softly.

“Take care,” Omega added before hanging up. The sound of the disconnected call was followed by Terzo’s pounding heartbeat in his ears.

Copia stopped the recording and set the phone aside, grinning wide.

“He obviously didn’t want this conversation to end.”

Terzo dropped his phone to the side and let out a muffled laugh, covering his face with his hands.

“And I obviously have no idea what to do with that.”

Copia gave him a light pat on the shoulder, chuckling.

“You will. Trust me.”

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

I saw tbat you are willing to do httyd prompts

A httyd/bnha where Izuku has a night fury (I can never find any good fics like this that doesn’t have bakudeku it’s killing me!!)

Izuku found the egg when he was around five years old. He hadn't known it was an egg, not until the little dragon hatched from it. Izuku thought it was a rock, even as he was oddly drawn to care for it. The small black dragon had bitten Izuku's hand, though it had no teeth, and Izuku felt a sort of connection.

"A familiar Quirk," the doctors said. "Happens, a child born with the ability to form a bond with an animal. Some Quirks even do have mythological beings become their familiars."

"How did no one catch this before now?" Inko asked, watching as her son played with the little dragon.

"Old age. Some of the older generation of doctors can't fathom the idea of what they were taught being wrong, and if he showed no signs until his familiar was with him, it makes sense." was the general response.

Izuku and his Dragon, named Toothy for the fact that he liked to bite people without his teeth, more of a joke than anything, but he liked it so it stuck, were very inseparable. Inko secured government funding to relocate to a nice, little neighbourhood with a house and yard, allowing Toothy to roam around freely. It was offered to anyone whose Quirk required the extra room. Inko had money to buy a house, but the funding helped get one in a safer neighbourhood.

It was odd for both of them, since the move also resulted in a change of schools and friend groups. Inko had been confused why Izuku didn't have any of his friends come see him off, until Izuku admitted most of them had become mean when his Quirk didn't show up. It was heartbreaking. Especially as Izuku admitted that Katsuki was one of the worst.

Inko herself came to a very uncomfortable realization as well once they moved, discovering that she got along with their new neighbours much better than her old friend Mitsuki. She didn't have to constantly manage their emotions or behaviours, nor did she get touched without her permission. The looks on Inko's new friends' faces when they learned how Mitsuki used to physically force Inko to do things, and how sometimes hands lingered, were eye-opening.

Izuku went to a new school where he made friends with a little boy who had just recently moved to Mustafa, a Sero Hanta. The two were very good friends and spent their days roaming the neighbourhoods with Toothy following behind.

The Midoriya family became very grateful for the move when Toothy grew big enough for Izuku to ride; the dragon wouldn't have been able to fit into their old apartment.

Izuku dreamed of heroics and begged to be able to apply for a Quirk Gym to train with Toothy after turning ten. Inko decided to pick up a second job beyond her romance novels to afford it, where she met a young, handsome man. His name was Yamada Hizashi, and he was quite charming.

Of course, then Izuku outed him as Present Mic when he asked Inko out, but she didn't mind. He was really young, but she decided, what the heck.

She didn't regret it a bit.

-

"Ready?" Izuku asked his friend as they stood in front of UA.

Toothy wrabbled, smiling his gummy smile.

"Alright, let's fly!" Izuku cheered.

He was going to be a hero.

-

I then ran out of steam, plus not, sure where to actually end it sooo notes on the AU:

-Mitsuki did have a crush on Inko and kind of took advantage of the fact Inko's to nice to say no. She never touched anywhere inappropriate but she didn't really ask if she could either.

-Inko and Hizashi are a very cute couple. Inko's a widower at this time as well.

-Izuku and Hanta are best friends. They're also menaces to Izuku's Uncle Shouta, whom Hanta has coerced into helping with parkour for years.

-Izuku gets in of course, and is reunited with Bakugou who is a boy left wildly unchecked. He sees Izuku as a whim and loser, more so for his moving away. Bakugou says Izuku stole Auntie Inko, Izuku says 'it's my mom and your mother drove her away' which causes a fight.

-Bakugou is moved to 1B and Monoma taken to 1A.

As he grows older, Izuku discovers other aspects of his Quirk that he never got to explore, such as fire resistance and durability.

-Hanta is very straight, so no SeroDeku, but he's also the king of wingmen for Izuku, who has a terrible crush on someone. TBD.

-Inko and Hizashi are together and debating about getting married. After the USJ, when Shouta is out of the hospital, Inko drags Shouta, Hizashi, Nemuri, some of Inko's friends, and Izuku to the courthouse to get it done because heroics is a dangerous job.

-Izuku gets the flame sword.

[ckret2]

Tell me how Scaramouche got Akus number. Is it a business thing a romance thing or a secret third thing that's probably both at once.

Business thing—mostly—although Scaramouche has ulterior motives.

I assume there are government offices where bounty hunters and assassins can report their kills, pick up their rewards, and—if the hunter's a government employee rather than a freelancer—get their next assignment. So no matter where you are in the world, you just need to go to the nearest city to get paid.

Scaramouche doesn't use these offices! He insists on reporting directly to Aku. Which is like, an option, sure, his throne room's open to visitors; but if Scaramouche just finished a job in Australia and Aku's fortress is currently in Iceland, it'll take him a while to get there. And sometimes he arrives to be told "you're five hours late, the fort just relocated" and it takes him a week to find out it's in Madagascar.

(The 2013 IDW comic introduced the idea that Aku's fortress relocates on a fixed schedule—every 30 days it jumps somewhere else in the world and the public doesn't know their planned stops—and I really like that idea so I treat it as canon.)

Scaramouche is very good at his job, and Aku's more indulgent with terrible people who are fantastic employees, so he lets him report in person. But he keeps dropping hints that Scaramouche could be killing like five times as many people if he would go to the local offices like a sensible assassin. Scaramouche insists no, he doesn't wanna report to some dumb pencil-pusher. He's a star, and there's only one person good enough for him to report to.

(Note: this "star" is currently, like, around 150th ranked assassin.)

Scaramouche really is useful, and Aku would really like for him to be more useful—but he's been told by his scientists that they're still working out the kinks on these new robots with emotions and it's important to the data-gathering process to just kinda let them loose and observe how their emotional programming evolves, so it'd be a big help to their research if he'd try to avoid stifling their emerging personality quirks. (Plus, there are very few people who are eager to visit Aku as much as possible. It's not often Aku feels like his company is wanted by someone rather than inflicted upon someone.)

So he lets Scaramouche get away with it, and tries to compensate by giving him a dozen jobs at a time so that he can make a big loop and end up back in the vicinity of the fortress.

But after one too many times where Scaramouche shows up three weeks later than expected—"I finish a job in Florida, I take a boat to Morocco to see you, a storm delays the boat by two days, and when I get there, where do I hear the fortress has jumped to? Cuba!"—Aku goes "would it satisfy your burning need to report directly to me if you did it via phone."

Scaramouche can tell where this is going so he says why yes, yes it would.

Now he has Aku's number.

His ego and productivity increase tenfold.

Aku's got two rules. One: NEVER give his number to anyone, or else he'll kill Scaramouche and/or change his number and not give him the new one, depending on how mad he is—which is one reason Scaramouche has Aku's number memorized rather than stored in his phone. (The other reason is that he has a bad habit of trying to report to Aku mid-battle and keeps losing phones that way.)

Two: NEVER call him about anything except work. And Scaramouche obeys this. Whenever he's finished his current batch of jobs, he lets Aku know, and Aku gives him a few new jobs to keep him occupied on his way back, and when necessary points Scaramouche in the direction of the fortress's next stop. Sometimes he reports in important things—like, if he takes out a group of rebels and discovers they stupidly have an address book full of people who support their cause; or if he learns a certain samurai has lost a certain sword.

He never, ever calls Aku about anything except work.

But Aku didn't say anything about texting.

Now Aku's receiving memes, weird bug pictures, corny flirty lines that fly over his head, and selfies with Scaramouche's victims.

But he really is indulgent with terrible people who are fantastic employees—and Scaramouche is quickly shooting toward #1 assassin—and as long as Scaramouche keeps the phone calls for business and the texts for pleasure, Aku knows he can just ignore the texts indefinitely if he wants so it's no big deal... and frankly, he likes the positive attention. And the weird bugs.

The only reason Aku has a phone with texting at all is because the scientists made him one (it's big) and insisted he keep it so they can reach him in case of, like, science emergency or whatever. They only contact him for business.

So Scaramouche is the only person in the world who can do crap like text Aku "this is you" and send him a picture of a burning saguaro.

[pix-writes]

Yay sleepover!! Top five Sherlock Holmes adaptations GO 💜

Yay! <3 :D

Granada Holmes - No.1 | without a doubt my favourite, sure it can be a little um, rusty at times, but Jeremy Brett is so compelling as Holmes, there's so many layers to him, so many times where you just see a little window into Holmes' emotions or past before he pulls the mask baxk on. Not to mention his collaborations with the two Watsons as well, they are so roommates to lovers and married, that I can't help but adore them together on screen! <3 The stories are for the most part book-accurate, they have a cosy vibe to them and the set has a lot of care and attention put into it that seems rare in today's filming industry, in comparison. Compelling and beautiful and also somewhat nostalgic for me as I watched them all after being introduced to the stories when I started high school, and my little gay heart fell in love with it, so it's been a hyperfixation ever since.

Sherlock & Co - No.2 | Still not 100% on what I think of it as a whole, it is still a fairly new adaptation to come onto the scene, but OH MY LORD amazing neurodivergent representation, it feels so natural, its not shoehorned in, it doesn't feel like it's trying to pander. I have been shouting from the rooftops for ages that Sherlock is ND coded, its part of why I love him so much and finally we get it in an adaptation and done in a decent way! The interactions between Sherlock, Marianna and John are so adorable and they look out for each other so much, Sherlock and John show so much emotions and care for each other whilst they also have times where they rub each other up the wrong way, it's also clear that their differences help each other professionally and personally. It also has times of being totally unserious and funny, which I guess is why its so high on this list because listening on my way back home from work is the best wind-down material ^_^

The Great Mouse Detective - No.3 | Such a sweet adaptation and rattigan is a great enemy, lots of loving references that I later fully realised when I grew up and knew more about the other adaptations/original stories. I love a good animated film. Nostalgic as I always associated this with the times I also watched The Rescuers, the Borrowers, Don Bluth animated films etc etc etc. Not much else to say, really!

Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes - No.4 | It is the one that I am familiar with, Rathbone is an amazing Holmes just because he physically embodies holmes in a way I feel like he's Paget's drawings come to life! However, the filmed stories are often so distorted in such a hollywood way that they kind of lose some of the magic of the acd stories as they are, especially because it sets up Watson as this bumbling fool you can hardly believe is a doctor and Holmes can be so rude to him at times. THough in contrast, they have their sweet moments. Plus there's a movie where he abslutely annihilates the Nazis and I'm kind of weirdly impressed that they thought to combine Sherlock and thwarting Nazis in the same movie, like it makes a lot of sense becuase it was made around wartime, but truly made me realise where Indiana Jones cropped up from lol. Probably the one I was most familiar with as it was always on tcm or some old film channel when I was at my grandparents house.

Guy Ritchie Sherlock Holmes - No.5 | *sighs* see I love RDJ and Jude Law's chemistry together as much as the next person, but I'm sorry I can't fully love RDJ as Holmes, he's not the right fit looks wise and plus there's a certain something in the way he's written that grinds my gears, despite the amusement of how much he puts a spanner in the works when it comes to Watson's settling down with Miss Morstan (also lets not mention how absolutely sexualised and cliche Irene Adler is, jfc) tho Jude Law is an EXCELLENT pick for Watson and brings a certain rougish charm to him that seems unique to the setting of this particular brand of Holmes story, which is packed with a lot more physical danger than you may think the ACD stories initially hold. Its grittier in a way I don't really mind, but at the same time, I miss the cozier armchair aspect being a bit lost within these films. DOn't get me wrong by this expanation, I do love these films, and in contrast it is way better than the only other Holmes adaptation I've watched............ we won't mention that one for the sake of my sanity...... o_o

On the bright side, we do get this ND hastag relatable moment:

But yes, thank you so much mootie for asking me <3 *hugs*

[watsonbee]

I’m so sorry you’ve been struggling with motivation lately, I know how awful it can be trying to piece together even a bit of motivation and creative energy to write literally anything lol, plus the crushing pressure to make it amount to impossible standards is draining to say the least *_* but I truly do hope it gets better ♥️♥️

And I’m honestly not trying to blow smoke here but even if this creative rut last longer than expected I want you to know that you’re writing is fantastic.

I’m trying to think of some super poetic way to convey what I mean but all of your works are undoubtedly kick ass =] everything from the way you describe things, the ridiculous way you’re able to set a scene and atmosphere with words, to the characters themselves, is fully fleshed out and astonishing in such a real way. It’s hard to describe but your writing always feels like a decadent cake with all the fancy boops and bits on it but it’s also filling like a five course meal???? Idk if that makes sense??😭

I can tell from the way you hold your stories you really do love your characters (despite all the evil things you put them through /j) and even if you decide to post something in a few weeks to a few months, or even if you keep all your evil little writings (/j) in your drafts forever just never stop writing. You really do have a talent so don’t psych yourself out—don’t compare it to past or future or others’ writing—just write what you feel like.

I don’t mean to come barging in with this long ass post but this is something I’ve had to tell myself over and over again multiple times ^^^ your writing is worth being written no matter the time, place, or assumed quality. One of the many things that makes your writing amazing is because it’s distinctively you. Please don’t forget that.

Sincerely, a stranger from the internet (I don’t really do the whole interaction thing a lot so I hope this is all coherent and I used the tone tags correctly lol)

maybe ‘all dolled up’ for conditioned whumpee’s bingo card? thank you if you choose to!

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, burning (mentioned) Today must be the special day, and the Ashtray is vibrating with excitement. This is what all his previous existence has been leading up to. He was made for this.

Some workers come in, clasping a beautifully shimmering golden collar around his neck. He doesn’t move, even as it strains against his throat as he painfully swallows. It is wonderful. To be adorned with such a collar, more expensive than some of the other, lesser objects, is all the praise he needs. 

Ashtray is gorgeous and pure. Untouched. He is a fast learner, something that can’t be said for every Companion Object. His Handler said, it made him special. 

A different pair of workers enters his pen, holding a flowing blue gown and ribbons of the same colour to decorate his hair and wrists. Glowing on his porcelain skin.

They talk in hushed tones, but Ashtray doesn’t try to listen. Ever since they transferred him, he hasn’t understood a single word. Even his Handler now talks in a tongue he can’t comprehend, and Ashtray doesn’t know what happened, what he did Wrong.

He can’t be that bad, because if he was Bad, he wouldn’t be decorated, he wouldn’t be sold in such a celebratory manner. 

When the workers are satisfied, they clink an equally golden chain to his collar and lead him to the next room, where his Handler waits for him. He grasps the chain and pulls Ashtray close, nearly making him trip. But Ashtray is Good, so he gracefully catches himself. 

For the first time in what must have been weeks? Months? Ashtray understands a single word. An Order. 

Handler Thorn holds Ashtray, struggling not to choke as the collar constricts his burned throat, up to his face, and whispers in his ear, „Behave.“ 

Despite the underlying threat, Ashtray feels a rush of warmth blooming on his chest. He knows he will behave. It is written in his DNA. Ashtray cannot exist if he doesn’t behave. The two are intertwined. 

His Handler leads him through the big black door, that he has never consciously passed, not even when they transferred him. This time, he is awake and aware of every motion. 

At first, Ashtray blinks against the blinding light. Then his eyes fall upon the person he was created for. He steps towards her and immediately drops to his knees, in one perfect, fluid motion.

His Mistress wears an elegant, silky black suit and bright red heels, complementing her blushed lips. She is everything his soul yearned for. 

When she opens her mouth, her voice washes over him like a warm shower. His heartbeat quickens, a blissful feeling spreading in his chest. For the first time since he opened his eyes, Ashtray feels Whole. Fulfilled. 

His Mistress crouches down gracefully and holds his face in her flawlessly manicured hands. Lightly, she twists his head left and right, looking for any blemishes.

She finds none. Of course. 

Her satisfied grin rushes through his veins like a drug. 

Ashtray is glad, he lives up to her high standards, despite the last-minute change. He can still feel the remnants, his throat an open sore. Though Ashtray has gotten used to the constant burning of a cigarette, the feeling of the soft, sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat boiling, while strapped to a table, is a memory Ashtray struggles to contain. 

His only saving grace is the knowledge, that it will never be repeated. There is no need, when his voice was forever swept away by the scalding water poured into him. 

It is good this way. Another step to perfection he always strives for. 

Why would an Ashtray need to speak when being pretty and useful is all he needs to be?

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump @opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump @saffitaffi, @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl, @thatbigbrownbird let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[thekitsandthekats]

now is this next story gonna be a five plus one that gets progressively more sexual or is that format too restrictive to what i want to do mmmm

[arolesbianism]

Oh god is that a comicfrin drawing where they have whimsy quick someone throw that guy into a decades long timeloop

[kitamars]

hi (my pockets explode and ginhiji doodles fall out) i won’t even try to justify myself

[xxplastic-cubexx]

can i be Weirdly Specific with you guys again and say i always fixate on mags' tricep whenever i play

[witchygirlaud21]

Modern/normal life Highschool AUs

Luffy: sophomore failed a class or two so he’s in some freshman classes which is how he became friends with chopper. The cafeteria lady’s worst nightmare. Gets sent to the principals office a lot but normally doesn’t get in that much trouble. Teachers know him because of Ace and Sabo. Freshman year they were like well I hope you’re better than your brothers but then it turned out he was 10 times worse.

Zoro: sophomore. He also gets sent to the principal a lot because he and luffy tend to get into a lot of trouble but nothing extreme ever happens because Mihawk makes big donations and he’ll threaten the school. Like a C average thanks to cheating and Nami’s tutoring. He’s in forever debt to her because of how much she has to help him with school.

Nami: sophomore. First met luffy in zoro because they were helping her get away from trouble after causing said trouble (they all still got detention) always makes jokes about ditching them but she doesn’t have any other friends and she loves them too much (though she’d never admit it.) has no classes with Chopper, luffy, zoro, or Sanji because she’s in all the smart kid classes. She has an art class with usopp though and maybe an ap class with robin. Tried out for a school play and got casted as a random who had like five lines and died before act two (yes this is a reference) popular because she’s friends with luffy and zoro.

[so-very-small]

the tiny, inside the walls, hyping themself up: It’s totally fine. Everything I’ve seen from this human shows that they’re kind, level headed, and normal. There’s utterly nothing wrong with this human, and I can totally befriend them! I shouldn’t be scared at all!

the tiny: *peeks out hole in the bathroom wall, looking up at the giant before them*

the giant, in front of the bathroom sink, obliviously doing their nightly routine: *removes their dentures*

the tiny, has no concept of what dentures are, who just saw this behemoth remove all the bones and flesh from its own mouth in one swift pull, without a flinch of pain: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck