#Tiptoe Tuesday

[its-a-beautful-day]

Tuesday - Tiptoe the Rat

These lads have come together to summon some cheese. It's definitely going to take a group effort to eat it all too

Outtakes under the cut

Cheese attracts mice/rats, and cats come to follow. Mini pumpkins, eyeballs, and plushies are all toy shaped so I ended up having some very excited non-helpers during today's photo shoot.

Also the first fabric I laid down was too similar colored to the rats so I switched to the silky black (which is technically a vampire cape). Unfortunately this was even more fun to play on. Luckily it all worked out and the cats won by stealing an eyeball for themselves.

[pink-petal-horns]

Grizzly Bear

Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Just pure sweetness, some swearing because it’s Frank.

Frank Castle was a lot of things. Soldier. Ghost. Walking warpath. And lately?

A damn bear.

The first time you noticed it, he was fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, another one in hand as he ruffled it through his longer-than-usual hair. It was curling at the ends now, thick and dark, dripping onto his shoulders. His beard had grown fuller, too—still neatly shaped, but bordering on wild.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, and something in your brain short-circuited.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said gruffly, not even glancing your way.

“Like what?” you asked innocently, eyes very much not innocent as they roamed his body. “Like you’re a damn lumberjack and I’m about to beg you to chop wood with your bare hands?”

That got his attention. He turned, one brow raised. “You’re weird.”

“And you’re hot,” you countered, completely shameless. “You’re like…a sexy grizzly bear.”

He groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. “Don’t start with that.”

But you did. And you didn’t stop.

You started calling him “Grizzly” when you handed him coffee. You scratched gently at his beard when you were curled up on the couch. You bought him a flannel shirt as a joke and nearly combusted when he actually wore it. He grumbled the whole time, muttered something about “damn woman trying to domesticate me,” but never took it off.

It became a thing.

You’d sneak up behind him while he was working at the table, running your fingers through his hair and whispering, “My big fluffy bear,” until he growled low in his throat—but never told you to stop. He liked it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

And when you brushed his beard after a long day, sitting between his legs on the floor while he leaned back on the couch with half-lidded eyes? That man was putty.

It all came to a head one random Tuesday night.

You walked into the bathroom and caught him in front of the mirror, electric trimmer in hand.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you gasped like he’d committed a crime.

Frank froze, caught red-handed. “It’s gettin’ too long,” he muttered. “Was just gonna clean it up—”

“Clean it up?” You practically lunged forward, snatching the trimmer from his hand. “No! No way. That beard is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

He stared at you, bewildered. “You serious right now?”

“Deadly,” you replied, clutching the trimmer like a weapon. “You do not rob me of the beard. Or the hair. Or the flannel. I need Grizzly Frank in my life.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling low under his breath. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky I’m insane for you,” you said, tiptoeing up to kiss his jaw—soft and bristly under your lips. “You keep this up, and I’m gonna start making you growl for me.”

That earned a smirk. “Already do, sweetheart.”

You looked at him, touched his cheek gently, and sighed. “You’re beautiful like this. Soft edges. Wild. It suits you. You suit you.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked down at you with that unreadable expression that always made your heart stutter. Then, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you slightly as he held you to his chest.

“You’re the only one who sees it,” he murmured into your hair.

“I see everything,” you whispered back. “And I love it all.”

So, he kept the hair. Kept the beard. Kept letting you call him “Grizzly Bear” in public, even though it made him blush behind the gruff act.

And every time you curled up beside him, fingers tangled in that dark, soft beard, he’d nuzzle your cheek and murmur—

“Yours.”

[hamilton-here]

hello hello!

lewis has hinted at having a secret family for years, but no one has ever seen them. her kids like him but still cant fully connect with him until his wife/their mom has a very important meeting out of town and lewis decides to take his step-kids with him with a grand prix weekend.

maybe 2 or 3 kids with an age gap

𝒫𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hey all! Another one-shot completed. I didn’t intend to post this late but I studied a lot longer today than expected. Also Lewis looking mighty fine arriving at Silverstone. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis never truly hid his family. He simply protected them, quietly weaving subtle hints into interviews and moments over the years, leaving the world to wonder but never fully see.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You met Lewis on a rainy Tuesday. Not the poetic kind of rain. No soft mist gliding down windows, no moody puddles reflecting neon signs. This was the chaotic kind: umbrellas turning inside out, coats clinging wetly to your shins and the wind yanking your dignity one gust at a time. The United Kingdom always had a way of feeling theatrical when the weather was miserable and you were in no mood for the spotlight.

You stood outside a hotel lobby, bracing yourself with a pathetic excuse for an umbrella the kind you buy last minute from a convenience store and immediately regret. The networking event had been your colleague’s idea, fuelled more by stale champagne and tiny quiches than any noble pursuit of professional connections. You’d already plotted your escape when the rain decided to turn vertical.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Not because you were laughing like you belonged there. Not because you gravitated toward fame like a moth to a racing flame. In fact, you hadn’t even realised who he was. This charming stranger whose hood hung crookedly, whose sneakers were definitely not waterproof and who looked mildly confused by this weather and the concept of mingling with people who said things like, “Let’s circle back on that.”

The rain angled viciously. You instinctively shifted, nudging your sorry excuse for an umbrella over him.

“You’re going to get soaked,” you said, tugging it his way. “It’s only polite to share.” He glanced at you, amused. “Is it polite, or is it that you didn’t want to stand here alone?” You gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe a bit of both.”

That was it. No lightning bolt. No orchestral swell. Just a tiny spark with a stubborn heart like a tea light that wouldn’t give up in the wind.

And soon enough a spark lingered from that day. The two of you exchanged numbers and it began quietly from there.

Dinners in cozy places with flickering candles and laminated menus. Phone calls that started with harmless chatter and dissolved into sleepy confessions. You tiptoed into each other’s lives with the grace of people afraid to knock over anything too precious.

When you told him about your kids, your voice wobbled just a little.

“I have children,” you said like you were handing him a box labeled ‘Handle With Car’.

He blinked. Paused. Then asked, “What are they like?” Not where’s their dad. Just curiosity, kind and uncomplicated.

You fiddled with the edge of your napkin. “The oldest is fourteen - reserved, keeps their guard up. The middle’s ten, all questions and side-eyes. And the youngest is five.” You laughed softly. “That one’s a barnacle. Sticks to me like glue.”

His smile was immediate, soft. “They sound like good kids.”

Meeting the kids was let’s be honest a sitcom episode.

Your eldest held the posture of someone conducting a very serious internal audit. Their arms folded, their eyes narrowed. If they'd had a clipboard, Lewis would've been under evaluation.

Your middle child regarded him like a puzzle with missing instructions. “So…you drive cars but you can’t figure out how to open a juice box?” Your youngest clung to your leg stubborn, refusing to speak, blink, or be perceived.

Lewis, who could slice through corners at 300 km/h with nerves of steel, suddenly looked like a man asked to perform karaoke in a language he didn’t speak.

But he didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t try to be ‘The Cool Guy’. He just kept showing up with food, a completely incorrect understanding of Pokémon lore and an impressive ability to lose at Uno.

He helped with school projects like he was preparing for an engineering exam, stayed calm during meltdowns and didn’t flinch when glitter got involved. When your youngest finally reached for his hand, you saw it a shift, gentle and profound. Like something inside him had quietly unlocked.

The turning point wasn’t the big stuff. It was a Saturday morning that smelled like burnt toast and mystery stains.

You were sick like can barely move sick. Lewis tiptoed into dad mode, clearly untrained but wildly enthusiastic. He packed lunches. Brushed hair like he was defusing a bomb. Forgot water bottles, but gave pep talks about friendship bracelets. The kids giggled and you half-dead in bed listened with a heart that thudded out gratitude like a drum-line.

Later that night, your eldest whispered, “He’s kind of useless but he makes mum smile.”

And that was everything.

The proposal wasn’t fireworks and helicopters. It wasn’t live streamed or captioned for Instagram. It happened in your living room, amid the couch, sippy cup and a stray sock somehow taped to the ceiling (you never figured out how).

Dinner had ended in giggles and spilled water and your youngest had fallen asleep in Lewis’s lap with spaghetti sauce on one cheek and a toy dinosaur in one hand and Mr Waffles in the other.

He looked across the room, soft eyed, his voice like the hush that follows laughter. “I think we already are a family,” he said. “I’d just like to make it official. You know. Legally. Emotionally. Dinosaur and Mr Waffles included.”

You laughed. Ugly cried a little and said yes. Of course you said yes.

Even with rings on fingers and documents signed, he had his quiet doubts. He still tapped his fingers nervously on the counter when he thought no one was watching, still asked you if he was doing enough. But he never tried to take anyone’s place. He just stayed.

And eventually, that was everything.

He didn’t hide you from the spotlight. He just held up an umbrella when it poured. Tucked you and the kids into a corner of the world where laughter could grow quietly.

He never tried to dim your light. He simply learned how to dance beside it awkwardly, lovingly, sometimes while tripping over Lego.

The first time a journalist asked Lewis about his plans for life beyond Formula 1, he gave one of those trademark Hamilton smiles soft at the edges, just a little bit secretive, like he knew something no one else did. “There’s more to life than F1,” he said, his voice casually laced with truth. “I’ve got my people.”

His fans assumed he meant his engineers. His pit crew. His growing entourage of stylists and strategists. Some speculated he was talking about Roscoe, his beloved bulldog who’d become something of a cultural icon in the paddock. But Lewis had glanced off to the side after saying it, eyes flickering somewhere far away somewhere gentler.

Because really? He meant you.

He meant the half finished drawing taped to the fridge. He meant the matching socks he’d proudly packed for the kids only to discover later they weren’t matching at all. He meant bedtime giggles and pancake disasters and the soft chaos that filled his home. His people were the ones who didn’t care how many podiums he’d stood on. They just wanted extra syrup on waffles and help tying shoelaces.

When another reporter asked about his favourite place in the world, Lewis didn’t even blink. “Wherever they are,” he said simply. The room chuckled. One journalist made a comment about jet-set lifestyles and luxury villas. Someone else said, “You mean Roscoe, right?”

Lewis just smiled again, wide and fond and untouched by fame. But if you were paying attention, his expression softened not for cameras, not for stories, but for something quiet and sacred. Something waiting at home in mismatched pyjamas, asking if he remembered to bring snacks.

Soon, press conferences became a game reporters poking around gently, curious about the man behind the helmet.

“What’d you do during the midseason break?”

“Oh, just spent time with my family. They keep me grounded.”

He never elaborated. Never corrected anyone. They thought he meant extended family. Maybe cousins, a sibling or two.

He didn’t say otherwise.

When asked who inspired him most, he smiled again.

“My family. My wife. My kids.”

A reporter leaned in teasingly. “Wait kids? You’ve got kids now?” He took a sip of water, glanced at the ceiling like he was counting blessings, and let the silence wrap around the moment like a warm scarf. He never confirmed. He never denied. And somehow, that made the mystery even sweeter.

Fans became amateur sleuths. They poured over his Instagram posts like detective novels:

• A dinner photo with five place settings but only four guests.

• A hotel room snapshot where a plastic toy car peeked out from behind a laptop.

• A blurry, late-night video interrupted by soft, high pitched giggles off camera. Lewis had smiled without turning around and murmured, “Back to bed, little one. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The internet exploded.

The hashtags trended:

• #HamiltonFamilyMystery

• #SecretDadLewis

• #RoscoeAndHisSiblings

Speculation ran wild. Reddit threads popped up analysing bookshelf contents and background reflections. One fan insisted they heard someone call him “Lew” in a race day vlog. Another pointed out he always wore the same beaded bracelet a friendship gift, they guessed from a child.

And yet, Lewis never fed the fire. He didn’t tag anyone. No faces. No names. Just crumbs sweet, soft and intentional. Because the truth wasn’t theirs to consume. It was the blanket forts in the living room. The giggles in the hallway. The macaroni art he once tried (and failed) to frame.

Sometimes, the other drivers slipped.

Valtteri Bottas once casually mentioned, “Yeah, Lewis had to rush off for bedtime. His little ones keep him busy.”

The interviewer blinked. “Wait it’s offical Lewis has kids?”

Valtteri’s eyes went wide, a sudden panic flashing across his face like he’d just revealed the ending of a very personal novel.

“Oh - I mean his dog! Right? Roscoe’s basically his kid. Ha…ha…” Too late. The seed had been planted. And Lewis? He never corrected it. Just smiled that knowing smile, like someone carrying the world’s sweetest secret.

In an age where every moment is documented, filtered, and dissected, Lewis had carved out something rare: a sanctuary. He held the world at arm’s length while holding you all closer.

Behind the speed and spectacle was a man who read bedtime stories in silly voices. Who burnt toast on sleepy Sundays. Who danced in the kitchen with mismatched socks and a spoon microphone. If anyone had truly listened they would’ve known.

He didn’t hide his family. He just never handed them to the world. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun drapes itself lazily across the floorboards, casting soft golden stripes through the sheer curtains. It’s the kind of light that should feel peaceful like the start of a slow, gentle day. But your brain is already sprinting.

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the email you’ve read five times now. Final confirmation. It’s no longer optional. This meeting it’s the meeting. The culmination of years of late nights, half finished coffees and doing your best to be everything to everyone.

You sigh, dragging your palm down your face, already aching with the familiar cocktail of guilt and anticipation. A whole weekend away. Away from home. From the kids. From Lewis, whose voice is now coming through the hallway like a game show host narrating a pancake apocalypse.

“Mum?” You look up, startled from your thoughts. Your eldest stands in the doorway, school bag slung over one shoulder, expression calculated but polite always the little diplomat. “Hey, sweetheart. You ready?”

They nod, but hesitate. The lip-biting is your first clue something’s brewing. “Lewis said he’s making pancakes,” they announce solemnly. “He’s…trying again.” You snort softly, tugging on your hoodie. “Trying, huh? That bad?” Their eyes flick upward, as if searching for divine patience. “Let’s just say the smoke alarm’s on standby.” You ruffle their hair gently as you pass. “Go easy on him. He’s already fighting for his reputation this morning.”

The kitchen is a battle zone.

There’s flour on the counter, syrup dripping from spoons and a suspicious crater in the stack of pancakes that suggests someone attempted a flip and failed dramatically. Lewis stands in the eye of the storm, sporting sweatpants, wild bed hair and the wary confidence of a man who’s watched one cooking video and thinks he knows everything.

"Before you say anything," he says, turning to you with the spatula raised like a white flag, "I meant for that one to be crispy."

Your youngest sits on the counter, their legs swinging freely, a glob of syrup painting a sticky trail down one cheek. “Crispy is a nice way of saying it’s dead, Lew,” they chirp.

Lewis gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally betrayed. “Et tu, little one?”

You lean against the doorway, just watching how easily he laughs, how naturally he fits, even if the pancakes aren’t cooperating. Your heart softens. This is what you built together. Imperfect, chaotic, beautiful.

But there’s still a distance. Especially with your eldest.

Lewis never pushes. He’s all warmth and patience, a man who’s memorised everyone’s favourite cereal and knows which child likes bedtime stories with voices and which one prefers quiet. But the invisible line the one your eldest keeps drawn between like and belonging is stubborn.

You see how Lewis notices. How his shoulders fall just a touch when your eldest offers polite thanks instead of a hug. How he watches them with quiet hope.

“Hey, babe,” you murmur, stepping closer as the kids enter a spirited debate over syrup rations. “Can I talk to you for a second?” He turns instantly, brows pulling into concern. “Is everything okay?” You lead him to the hallway, just out of sight. “That meeting I told you about? It’s confirmed. I fly out Friday morning back late Sunday night.”

Lewis nods slowly, the corners of his mouth dimpling thoughtfully. “Got it.”

“I hate being away like this,” you whisper. “Especially now. I don’t want to dump the kids on you -"

“You’re not dumping them,” he says, gently cutting you off. “They’re our family. Our messy, pancake-loving, toy-leaving-on-the-stairs family. I’ve got them.”

Your throat tightens. The word our lands heavy and perfect, like the final piece in a puzzle. “I just worry,” you admit. “It’s not always easy. The walls are still up, especially -”

“Especially with the eldest,” he finishes quietly. “Yeah. I know.” He rubs the back of his neck, then perks up like he’s just unlocked a cheat code. “What if I take them with me to the race this weekend?” You blink. “Seriously?”

“I’d love to. Let them see what I do. The team, the garage, the noise maybe it’ll help. Just me and them. No pressure. No Mum buffer.” He grins, but it’s soft around the edges, full of something vulnerable and brave.

You hesitate. Cameras, crowds, noise it’s a lot. But so is Lewis’s love. You’ve always trusted him with the big things. The loud things. But he’s proven himself with the quiet ones too. “They’d love that,” you whisper.

He smiles big and proud, the kind of smile that steals air right from your lungs. “So would I. I’ll even pack matching socks this time. I’ve learned. I’m evolved.” You wrap your arms around his waist, sinking into the warmth and cinnamon-scented chaos of it all. A pancake flops from the spatula behind you. “You’re a brave man.”

“I’ve faced Verstappen wheel to wheel. I can survive three kids armed with glitter glue and emotional turbulence.”

From the kitchen - a crash, followed by your middle child yelling, “Syrup should not be used as face paint!” Lewis winces. “Okay, maybe pray for me. Just a little.” You chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder. And in that moment in a house that smells like syrup and burnt batter you feel something shift.

Not everything is fixed. Not every wall has fallen. But something’s starting. Something new. Something healing. And maybe, just maybe, this weekend will be the beginning of the belonging you’ve all been waiting for.

Soon enough the next morning is a whirlwind of movement. Socks are being hunted like endangered species, toothbrushes misplaced and re-found and somewhere in the chaos, Lewis manages to balance packing for a Grand Prix weekend while simultaneously tying shoelaces and rescuing a juice box from imminent explosion.

“Lewis, are you sure you’ve got everything?” you ask, half inside a duffel bag, half emotionally unraveling as you do your third round of bag-checking. “Baby,” he says, reaching over and tugging you gently toward him by the waist, “it’s a Grand Prix, not a jungle expedition.”

“Grand Prix with children,” you correct, raising an eyebrow. “That’s practically a jungle.” He grins, kissed by chaos, eyes warm. “I’ve raced through actual rainstorms. I can survive snack time meltdowns.”

You glance down at your youngest, who’s standing like a proud sentinel by the door, wearing mismatched socks and clutching Mr. Waffles the beloved stuffed bunny who’s been through more adventures than most grown adults.

“Do you have Mr. Waffles?” Your youngest beams. “He’s ready to see you win, Lew.”

Lewis crouches instantly, eye level with them, pressing a soft kiss to their sticky forehead. “I’m counting on Mr. Waffles to bring me good luck. He’s got magic fluff, right?”

“Super magic,” they whisper solemnly.

Your middle child zips past, lugging a backpack half their size and mumbling about how they packed snacks, but not sharing them with Lewis unless he “behaves like a responsible adult.”

Your eldest lingers, earbuds in, staring at the floor as if it's made of complicated math. They're at the age where enthusiasm must be cool and emotions come with disclaimers. But you catch the subtle glances they sneak toward Lewis. The almost smile twitching at the corner of their mouth.

Lewis turns, offering his classic lopsided grin. “You ready, champ?” They shrug, arms crossed. “Yeah, whatever.” Lewis doesn’t flinch at the cool exterior. He just nods like they handed him a full sentence. “Right, ‘whatever.’ I’m counting on you to keep me sane this weekend.”

“Good luck with that,” they reply, but this time - this time there’s a glint of amusement in their eyes. A crack in the armour. You swallow the lump in your throat and feel your heart clench in that tender way only parents understand. This is new territory for all of you.

“You’ll call me?” you ask Lewis quietly, pressing your hand to his chest as the kids make their way out to the car with the kind of energy that implies someone forgot their charger again. “Every night,” he promises, his hand resting atop yours. “They’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes at first, but then he gives that wink - the wink and it does.

A few hours later they arrive at the paddock. If Earth had a heartbeat, the paddock would be it. Tools clinking, radios squawking, feet moving with rehearsed urgency. The air buzzes with anticipation and the scent of rubber, metal, and tension.

Lewis slips into his element effortlessly. The kids, however, look like they’ve stepped into another dimension. Your middle child stops in their tracks, eyes wide as saucers. “Whoa. This is where the cars sleep?” Lewis laughs. “They don’t exactly sleep. But yeah, this is their home base. Like their clubhouse.”

The youngest waves at a crew member, who waves back and throws in a theatrical thumbs-up. Another tech holds out a water bottle like a peace offering and Lewis mentally makes note to send them all care packages shaped like chocolate bars and gratitude.

He kneels down to the smallest one again. “Listen, there’s a rule, okay? You go anywhere with me or Angela, but no solo missions. This place is basically a maze designed by a hyperactive robot.”

“Got it,” they nod, gripping his hand tighter and then whispering, “I think Mr. Waffles can be our guide.” Angela greets them like she’s been rehearsing all week. “Finally brought your team, huh?” Lewis laughs, gazing at the three little bodies wobbling around in oversized headphones. “Yep. The most important one.”

Angela crouches down, all sunshine and charm. She instantly starts cracking jokes about Lewis being more high-maintenance than the car engines and how she deserves a gold medal for dealing with his ‘fashion emergencies.’ Your eldest, who had been hovering stiffly in the background, lets out a surprised laugh. It’s short. Quiet. But genuine.

Lewis freezes for half a second, like someone just handed him an award. Then he casually shrugs and says to Angela, “Told you they had an awesome sense of humour. Just needed proper bait.” Angela, without missing a beat, adds, “And apparently that bait is Lewis slathering on too much moisturiser before race day.”

It’s messy and loud and fast and Lewis is glowing. You’re not there, but if someone paused the scene and zoomed in on him, they’d see it: the softness in his eyes, the care in every movement, and the quiet pride blooming with every laugh and every curious question asked about tire compounds and steering wheels.

And for the first time, your eldest doesn’t just exist in the background.

They step forward. They watch. And maybe they’re starting to see something in him that’s worth believing in.

The days blurred in the best way. Each moment stitched seamlessly into the next like a family quilt messy, warm, imperfect, but stitched with so much care it practically glowed.

On Friday afternoon, the pit lane walk turned into a spontaneous Q&A session with your middle child turned Button Detective. They peppered Lewis with questions in rapid-fire succession:

“What does this button do?”

“What happens if you press this during a turn?”

“Why are there so many?”

Lewis, confident at first, started strong explaining tire modes, overtake buttons, energy deployment like a man who definitely studied. But by question eleven, he blinked and laughed out loud. “Okay,” he said sheepishly, pointing to one mysterious toggle. “I have no idea what that one does. I’ll get back to you. But don’t tell Fred I said that.”

They cackled, delighted by this chink in the cool driver armor. And your eldest? Quiet, arms crossed but Lewis saw it: the corners of their mouth curled just slightly. Amused. Intrigued.

Saturday’s karting adventure was unhinged in the best way. Lewis took everyone to a local track not fancy, not polished. Just the kind of worn-in place where kids could let loose and helmets didn’t quite fit right.

He made a dramatic show of stretching before racing your middle child, shouting, “Prepare to meet your fate, young warrior!” Then he deliberately lost. Loudly. Hamming it up with gasps of defeat, fake tears and Shakespearean monologues about being dethroned.

Your eldest, who had spent most of the morning pretending to be unimpressed, snorted. Loud. It startled both Angela and your youngest, who immediately tried to recreate the sound.

Lewis caught the moment a tiny glimmer of connection and didn’t say a word. He didn’t push. That was his quiet superpower: waiting, gently.

Saturday’s breakfast was slow and sacred. The hotel dining room was quiet, just the hum of morning clatter and half-awake conversations. Lewis stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Your eldest sat across from him, cereal spoon moving in lazy circles.

“I guess your job’s kinda cool,” they muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Lewis didn’t smile. He just nodded like this wasn’t a revelation but a truth they’d always known. “Yeah?”

They shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d, like.. hang out with the engineers. Thought drivers just show up and race.”

“Nah. It’s a team. No one wins alone.” That lingered in the air. The words meant for more than racing. Your eldest’s lips pressed together like they wanted to say something else. Lewis just let it sit. Let them breathe.

Then came race day. The garage was alive buzzing with tension and caffeine and technical jargon shouted in three languages. Angela tucked the kids safely into their corner. Each got a headset too big for their heads and a crash course in “not touching anything.”

Lewis paced his pre-race routine, glancing over now and then. His heart pounded not from the grid pressure, but because they were here. His people. Before the lights went out, his race engineer chimed in over radio: “You’ve got three very special guests watching you today, mate.” Lewis, helmet on, focused, smiled beneath the visor. “I know.”

Mid-race, something unexpected crackled over the team frequency. A voice tinny and tiny cut through the static: “Go fast, Lewis! Mr. Waffles says you can win!”

Your youngest, somehow commandeering a mic, sent a message straight into his bloodstream. Lewis laughed mid corner, nearly botched a gear shift because how do you stay cool when your lucky stuffed rabbit just gave you a pep talk?

Even your eldest head down, pretending to scroll through something “more important” inched closer to the screen. Their eyes followed the timing tower with intent. Lips moving like they were silently willing the seconds forward.

When Lewis crossed the finish line P2, sweaty, tired, electric it wasn’t the podium he was thinking about. It was them. Back in the garage, surrounded by shouting engineers and celebratory claps, Lewis found his three. Arms wide, heart fuller than any champagne spray could match.

He knelt and pulled them close, hugging all three like he’d been waiting a lifetime. “You did good,” your eldest said, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks pink. “I, um I liked watching you.” Lewis leaned back slightly, resting his hands on their shoulders, eyes soft. “I liked having you here.”

There was a moment. Small. Powerful. “You can call me Dad, you know,” he offered. No pressure. No expectation. Just a space held open. Your eldest hesitated. A flicker. “Yeah maybe.” And Lewis knew what maybe meant. It meant the wall was thinner. It meant “not yet” but “not never.” It meant someday. And someday was a gift.

You hadn’t even made it home before your phone buzzed like it was possessed.

News alerts. Texts from friends who never cared about racing. Group chats exploding with caps lock.

LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH THREE CHILDREN IN THE PADDOCK WHO ARE THE KIDS? SECRET FAMILY? SWEET MOMENT ON TEAM RADIO WHO IS MR. WAFFLES?

You stared at blurry headlines, your stomach a riot. The photos were grainy. Taken from behind. No faces. No names. But enough. Speculation poured in like stormwater through a cracked roof. You called him. Ring two.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis said, like he was answering from a safe space just meant for you. “Lewis.” You could barely breathe. “The photos. The news. It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” he said, voice calm. “I saw them.”

“And you’re okay?” A pause. And then: “I’m more than okay.”

You sat down, the hotel bed hard under you, your heart clawing at your ribs. “This could get out of control. The kids -”

“I protected them,” Lewis replied, steady. Gentle. “You know I did. Their faces aren’t out there. Their names. No one knows who they are.” You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since takeoff. “But now people know you’re not alone.”

His voice softened. “Maybe it’s time they did.” Silence hummed between you. Heavy. Intimate. “I don’t want them dragged into this,” you whispered.

“They won’t be,” he promised. “I won’t let them be.”

Then came the press conference.

Journalists leaned forward like cats ready to pounce, flashing cameras blinding, buzz thick enough to touch.

One brave soul finally asked: “Lewis, we noticed you had some special guests with you this weekend. Care to comment?”

Lewis smiled a quiet one. The kind that meant something. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re my family.”

Murmurs. The room shifted. Another asked, cautiously: “You’ve kept your personal life incredibly private for years. Why now? Why bring them into your world?”

Lewis leaned in, elbows on the desk, voice even but firm. “I’ve always protected the people I love. I’m still doing that. You won’t see their faces. You won’t hear their names. But I’m not going to pretend they don’t exist.” He paused. Let the silence bloom. “They’re my family,” he repeated. “And they’re the best part of my life.”

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@F1Fanatic Lewis Hamilton has a secret family?? And he’s been lowkey dropping hints for YEARS?? I’m emotionally unwell.

@PaddockInsider Respect to Lewis. He set boundaries, protected the kids, and still spoke his truth. Class act.

@DriveToSurviveDrama Me: Crying over Lewis saying his family is the best part of his life 😭😭

@MomsofF1 Protective dad Lewis Hamilton is my new Roman Empire

Then your phone pinged with one final message. From Lewis: Don’t worry about the noise. I’ve got them. I’ve got us.

That afternoon -

The front door creaks open and it’s as if the entire house exhales its bones stretching, its walls leaning in. For two long days it had felt hollow, like the quiet between chapters, like a stage waiting for the actors to return.

Now they’re home.

Shoes are launched mid stride one bounces off the staircase wall, the other lands heroically beneath the living room couch. Jackets fall in puddles of fabric, abandoned like forgotten stories.

Backpacks crash to the ground like weary travellers, half zipped and overflowing with racing stickers, snack wrappers, and the distinct aroma of fizzy drinks and hotel mystery muffins. Laughter rings out in sudden bursts, round and real and impossibly loud. The kind of laughter that shakes dust out of ceilings. The kind that means they were happy.

You're still adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag when you’re swept into a storm of limbs and excitement.

Your middle child bounds forward, practically vibrating. “Mum! You know how race cars go, like, really really really fast?” Their eyes are wide, hands flying through the air to mimic the curves of the track. “Lewis let me sit in the simulator! I almost crashed! Twice! And guess what he didn’t yell at me. He cheered. He said I was fearless!”

Before you can marvel at that, your youngest slams into your shins like a very determined koala. “Angela bought me ice cream,” they announce with reverence. “Before dinner. With chocolate sauce. And sprinkles. And she didn’t tell Lew until after! And guess what else” they lean close, eyes gleaming, “I’m basically famous.”

You kneel instinctively, brushing a curl from their sticky cheek. “Famous? How?”

They beam, clutching Mr. Waffles like a microphone. “I was on the radio. The real radio. Lewis said my message helped him drive faster. Even Mr. Waffles heard me. I’m probably in the paddock hall of fame now.”

And then through the flurry of children appears Lewis.

Backpacks hanging from each shoulder. A crumpled hoodie slipping off one arm. His shirt is inside out, headphones trail from a wrist, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste across his collarbone. He looks like he sprinted through an airport, wrestled with a vending machine, and wrestled children into seatbelts but he’s glowing.

You raise your eyebrow with mock severity. “Ice cream before dinner?” He sighs in surrender, hands raised. “Angela bribed them with cones. I was powerless against mint chocolate chip and moral compromise.”

But then it shifts. As quick and quiet as breath between sentences.

Your eldest leaning against the banister, still and thoughtful has been watching. Their arms hang loosely across their chest, not in defence but like they don’t know where to place all they’re feeling. Their face is unreadable but softer than usual, washed in something between curiosity and uncertainty.

You speak gently. “Did you have a good time?” They glance over at Lewis, still distracted by a half empty bag and the eternal mystery of forgotten toothpaste.

Then, unprompted and low, they say: “Dad let me help with the pit board.”

Time halts.

A toothbrush hangs suspended in Lewis’s hand, caught mid-grab. The youngest turns with wide eyes, clutching Mr. Waffles tighter. The middle child gasps genuinely, dramatically like someone just revealed the twist ending of a beloved movie.

“Hey!” the middle child shouts, scandalised. “You got to say it first? That’s not fair! I called dibs in the car!”

The youngest, arms crossed and lower lip jutting, frowns. “I was saving it. It was supposed to be cinematic. Like…when he wins a race and lifts me in the air like a trophy!”

Your eldest freezes. “Sorry,” they murmur. “I didn’t mean -”

Lewis straightens, toothbrush now forgotten. He turns slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away. His expression is unlike anything you’ve ever seen wide-eyed, heart-in-throat, like someone stumbling upon buried treasure in their own backyard. “You called me Dad,” he says, voice barely above a breath.

Your eldest hesitates. “Yeah I guess I did.” It’s not dramatic. It’s not bold. But it lands like thunder. Lewis crosses the space and gently wraps them in his arms. No speeches. No performative emotion. Just arms. Just presence.

A moment later, two smaller bodies collide into the hug like bowling pins. “Fine,” the middle child grumbles. “You’re Superdad now.”

“I’m sticking with Lew,” the youngest mumbles, patting his cheek. “For now. Trial basis. But if you give Mr. Waffles a tiny helmet, we’ll see.”

Lewis laughs a laugh that crumples at the edges, eyes shining, shoulders trembling. “Sounds fair,” he whispers. “I’ll earn it.”

Dinner that evening is beautiful chaos.

Spaghetti twirls midair, interrupted by stories about race radio bloopers and karting crashes. Nobody finishes their plate because the laughter keeps interrupting and Lewis keeps forgetting which bowl is his. The atmosphere is syrup-thick with joy, bubbling with inside jokes and sideways glances full of new trust.

Bedtime is long and meandering. Stories layer over stories. The youngest insists on two chapters of their favourite book because Mr. Waffles “needs context.” Your middle child insists they’re drafting a race car design that will “definitely be faster than Lewis’s, no offences.”

And your eldest? They linger. They double-check the charger placement beside their bed. And when Lewis passes by with a sleepy wave, they don’t pretend not to notice. They nod. Just slightly. And it means everything.

Later, as you tuck the youngest in beneath the mountain of blankets and bedtime creatures, you hear the gentle creak of the hallway floor. Lewis is there.

Leaning against the doorway, hands folded softly, gaze shadowed with something heavy and golden. You walk toward him quietly. “You okay?” you ask, threading your arms around his waist.

He melts into you instantly, his face finding the curve of your neck. His breath trembles, fingertips gripping fabric like he needs something to hold him up. “I’m good,” he murmurs. “Really good. They called me Dad.” The word is still new in his mouth. Reverent. Fragile. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear that.”

You press your forehead to his, letting the quiet wrap around you both like a favourite blanket pulled straight from the dryer. “I don’t care what the world thinks,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Let them speculate. Let them question. I’ve been guarding this love like glass, terrified the spotlight might shatter it. But hiding it didn’t protect it. It dulled it.”

He swallows hard. “I missed pieces I didn’t know I was allowed to have.” You brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “They’re mine,” he whispers again. “You’re mine. And I’m not hiding anymore.”

And somewhere down the hall, a small voice calls sleepily -“Superdad, can Mr. Waffles have a cape?”

Lewis smiles. “I’ve got them,” he says softly. “All of them.”

Morning eases into the house like a sigh. Light rolls gently across the ceiling, brushing past walls and tucked-in corners, casting a pale glow across tangled bedsheets and sleepy limbs. You blink your way into consciousness slowly, wrapped in warmth and Lewis.

He's beside you, one arm lazily thrown over your stomach, the other curled beneath his pillow. His breath is slow, steady, and faintly tickles the curve of your neck. His nose grazes your shoulder, the duvet still pulled high and soft around your hips. He’s warm like sunlight. Familiar like home. And beautifully, blissfully quiet.

You shift just a little, and Lewis responds instinctively pulls you closer, nose buried now in the crook of your shoulder. His voice is raspy and sleep-drenched.

“Mmm. We don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” you whisper. “The tiny tornadoes are coming.”

As if summoned, there’s a thud.

And then - Giggles. Frenzied hallway footfalls. And then the door bursts open like a weather event.

“LEWWW DAAAAD!” your youngest cries, already airborne, launching themselves onto the foot of the bed with no regard for blanket stability or personal space. Mr. Waffles trails behind like a parachute, landing headfirst in a tangle of covers.

Right behind them, your middle child arrives with blanket cape flowing, pointing dramatically like a general leading a breakfast rebellion. “Today is a scrambled eggs day! Rise and sizzle, Superdad!”

Lewis groans and buries his face into the pillow. “How did they find me? Roscoe, you were supposed to keep watch.”

Roscoe lying stoically at the end of the bed lifts his head, blinks once with world-weary judgment and lets out a long, audible sigh. Then he drops his head back onto the comforter and resumes snoring. Clearly, he’s retired from security detail.

The youngest wiggles between you both, burrowing with stealth. “We smelled toast in our sleep. Real toast. Not burnt dreams.”

“I taught the herbs to love,” Lewis mumbles, trapped under blankets and giggles and small limbs. “Breakfast will be edible. Possibly inspirational.”

You snort into his shoulder as your middle child attempts to grab his arm and tug him toward destiny the kitchen. “Come on, Lew Dad. The masses demand nourishment.” Lewis rolls dramatically, tugging you into his chest. “Betrayed in my own bed. Mutiny in pyjamas.”

“You promised eggs,” says your middle child.

“You promised toast,” adds your youngest.

“You promised warmth and safety,” Roscoe probably thinks, still snoring.

Lewis presses a kiss to your temple and sighs. “Fine. I shall rise and cook heroically.”

“You’ll rise and cook hastily,” you correct, sitting up as both kids tumble off the bed and scamper down the hall in a flurry of cape flapping and bunny-flailing. He lingers a second longer watching you. “I love this,” he murmurs. “All of it. Even the toast demands.”

And then he stands, stretching dramatically like someone preparing to lift the weight of a skillet and three wildly hungry children.

The kitchen is already a battleground of joy by the time you arrive early morning sunlight pouring in like golden syrup across the floor, illuminating yesterday’s trail of cereal boxes, abandoned socks and a toppled stack of race-themed stickers.

Lewis stands centre stage at the stove, armed with spatula, ambition and his signature “Pit Stop Chef” apron, which now boasts a fresh tomato stain like it earned itself a merit badge overnight.

He’s surrounded besieged by the younger two, who orbit him like sugar-fuelled satellites.

“I want eggs not scrambled,” declares the middle child, gripping a fork like a tiny food critic.

“I want toast with personality,” adds the youngest, who’s now assigning motivational affirmations to each slice: “You are brave,” they whisper to one. “You are worthy,” they whisper to another. Lewis flips a slice heroically. “This one shall be extra crispy confidence.”

You stifle a laugh, sliding over to butter the toast with the practiced rhythm of someone who’s lived through sticker attacks before breakfast.

The fridge becomes a makeshift bulletin board: three drawings taped in crooked clusters, all featuring Mr. Waffles in various racing uniforms. One shows him mid-air in a parachute, another coaching Lewis from the pit wall. In one corner, someone’s scrawled: Mr. Waffles believes in you. So should you.

Your eldest walks in sleepily, squinting at the scene. “Is breakfast going to be edible or... theatrical?”

“Yes,” Lewis says without missing a beat.

Roscoe trots in, surveys the chaos from his usual spot near the kitchen rug, and lets out the world’s slowest blink. He sinks onto his haunches, then flops sideways with the weary drama of a man who knows this circus all too well. One soft snore later, he’s out cold again.

Plates begin to fill eggs, toast, fruit slices shaped vaguely like race cars. The kids fight over juice cups, complement Lewis’s “chef posture,” and tape a sticker to his apron that reads WINNER OF BREAKFAST GRAND PRIX.

You lean against the counter with your tea, watching Lewis help the youngest scrape jelly onto toast and point out which herbs he definitely didn’t identify correctly. And somehow, in between the mess and the music, it feels like everything important is already here.

The rest of the day unfolded not in grand declarations or shining spotlight moments but in the quiet, radiant hum of belonging. Nothing scripted. Nothing filtered. Just warmth, laughter, and a rhythm that only a family in sync could share. The kind of afternoon that feels like it’s wrapped in thick wool blankets and crayon fingerprints.

Lewis survived breakfast. Barely. But “barely” was a win.

Not a single piece of toast burned a victory so monumental your middle child declared it “a golden age of breakfast.” They slapped three glitter stickers on his apron in celebration and fashioned a confetti toss from napkin scraps and stray cereal puffs. The youngest dubbed him “Egg Champion of the Universe,” and bestowed upon Mr. Waffles the honour of “Toast Deputy.”

Lewis bowed like a knight in syrup-splattered sweats.

The early afternoon evolved into blanket fort diplomacy. Using two couches, one armchair, a laundry rack, and every spare bedsheet not currently in the wash, your children engineered a fort that qualified as a minor architectural achievement. Pillows served as diplomatic borders. Roscoe’s usual nap zone was absorbed into the territory as “Bulldog Valley” which he surrendered only after Lewis bribed him with a peanut butter biscuit and a solemn vow that the youngest wouldn’t tape any flags to his tail again.

Inside the fort, rules were loose. Time was slower. There was a flashlight treaty, a sticker tax system, and an invisible force field “to keep adult stress out.” Your eldest lingered just outside. Not quite within the chaos, but definitely nearby. Lewis saw them of course he did. He always did. “Need a mission?” he asked, his head poking out of the blanket folds like a spy.

They shrugged cool, cautious then slid down beside him. Lewis handed them a flashlight, leaned in with a wink, and whispered, “Guard the Waffles Zone. No intruders allowed.” They took it seriously. Even when the middle child tried to redecorate the area with glitter tape, your eldest held the line.

Soon came stories.

You read aloud from a family-favourite book, your voice dancing between characters as everyone nestled under the sagging roof. Lewis lay sprawled on his back like he’d been defeated in battle your youngest curled on his chest, middle child lodged under his arm like a cat, your eldest next to you but inching just a little closer with each chapter.

Roscoe snored loudly through the entire session, earning the honorary title of “Emotional Support Bulldog.” Lewis whispered, “He’s dreaming of breakfast awards. I saw his acceptance speech.”

By golden hour, the fort collapsed under the weight of joy and ambition and nobody cared. It dissolved into a backyard race, where Lewis armed with a soccer ball and a backpack full of juice boxes led the charge. Shoes were optional. Rules were invented mid-play.

The youngest, self appointed team captain, waved Mr. Waffles like a rally flag and declared that “every goal counts triple if you yell toast!” Your middle child acted as referee, issuing penalties for “excessive bragging” and “dad wearing socks outside.” Your eldest took their role seriously as strategy advisor, coaching the game from the sidelines and occasionally heckling Lewis with surprising efficiency.

“Penalty for talking too much,” the middle child yelled mid-game.

Lewis gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Freedom of speech!”

Your eldest smirked. “Freedom of silence, maybe.”

Then came the slip.

Lewis attempted a heroic slide tackle (which had no purpose or audience), lost his footing, and landed flat on his back in the grass. For one terrifying second, the chaos paused.

Then he raised both thumbs skyward. “I’m fine. Just testing gravity.”

The youngest rushed to him in a panic, the middle child started giggling hysterically, and your eldest somehow already composed walked over and handed him a juice box without a word.

And for a heartbeat, they all stood there. No spotlight. No cameras.

Four hands resting against grass. Laughter shared between breaths. That soft, sacred kind of togetherness that feels like it might live forever.

Later that night, after bubble chaos and bedtime giggles and toothbrush races that ended with toothpaste on the ceiling, the house settled. Peace crept into corners like candlelight. Roscoe was curled in his bed, snoring like a freight train lost in dreamland. The kids were tucked into their blankets, Mr. Waffles clutched with sleepy reverence. The air was still. Safe.

You found Lewis outside on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, head tilted back as he studied stars he probably couldn’t name. But he was quiet not the silence of absence, but the silence of awe.

You didn’t speak. You just sat beside him, shoulder against his, letting the night settle around you. “They’re asleep,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Too quiet?”

He smiled softly. “Not too quiet. Just still. Still feels like the world’s finally exhaled.”

You watched the way his eyes reflected starlight. The way he looked more content than you’d ever seen him. Like someone who finally found the thing they didn’t realise they were looking for.

As the two of you slid beneath the duvet, Lewis turned toward you and pulled you close. “You know,” he whispered into your hair. “I never imagined this.” You nestled into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “This?”

“This life. These tiny humans calling me Dad. A fridge covered in stickers and half-finished art. Roscoe looking personally betrayed when someone sits in his spot.” You laughed quietly, tears brushing your lashes.

“It’s better than anything I’ve ever chased,” he said, voice thick. “Faster than any win. Louder than any applause.” You pressed your lips to his jaw, words catching in your throat. You didn’t need to respond. He already knew.

“And now?” you whispered eventually. He looked down, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and sure. “Now I know what it feels like to truly arrive.”

The world would keep buzzing. Cameras might flash. Tweets might trend. But in this small corner of the universe with love stitched into every blanket, laughter embedded in every creaky floorboard, and quiet joy humming in the gaps between it wasn’t about winning anymore.

Lewis had found home.

And that, he knew, was the only finish line that ever truly mattered.

[giuseppe-yuki]

come over, baby!

rancher!oscar piastri x city girl!reader

w.c.: 4.3k

warnings: curse words, heavy allusions to sex, a little bit of ooc!oscar

summary: oscar sneaks you onto his family's ranch. it doesn't go as smoothly as he planned.

a/n: merry christmas to those who celebrate! :) i know i haven't uploaded a real fic in a hot sec so i decided to whip this up real quick!

picture credits from pinterest :)

your trusty mini cooper gives a sharp beep as it locks behind you. its taillights flashes bright, causing the branches of the surrounding eucalyptus trees to cast a looming shadow over you and the dusty road. once the lights dim into nothing, you glance around the dark dirt driveway that was apparently the entrance to your boyfriend’s family’s ranch, according to the text from him on your phone.

you let out a sigh- you could have easily been snuggled up in your bed in your college dorm, facetiming him on your phone, but no- he decided that you should become a top secret spy and drive two hours to his conveniently “close” family ranch at 9pm on a tuesday evening and sneak into his bedroom on the first floor because he felt clingy and wanted to see you “in-person.” 

it honestly only took a few “no one will knowwww!” and a sprinkle of “come on, baby, pleaseeeeee i want to see youuu!” until you found yourself tiptoeing down the pitch black driveway towards the looming two story family ranch house that was seemingly where your boyfriend was located for fall break. anything for love, you suppose.

you squint your eyes at your phone’s bright screen depicting a lengthy message depicting exactly where to “break in” under the contact name “osc 💕” . park underneath the line of trees outside the metal gates- check. sneak through the broken fence three posts next to the main gates- check. walk down the dirt road towards the main house- currently doing so. 

the ranch house is stunningly pretty, with a big patio that housed a few well-worn rocking chairs, a spattering of wildflowers all around, and a big oak tree with a tire swing framing the whole thing. if you weren’t currently on a mission to break into the house itself to see your boyfriend, you would have stayed to admire for awhile.

you locate the window that your boyfriend mentioned further down in the text- the second one on the left side of the house without a window screen (he broke it playing cricket when he was 12, he said). bingo. it honestly wasn’t that hard to find, considering it was only one with the lights on on the first floor. 

sliding your phone, the only light source that you had, into your pocket, you curve your fingers underneath the window pane and slowly slide it up, making sure to make zero noise. 

the first thing you see when you maneuver yourself all sneakily through the window of the quaint little ranch house’s first-floor bedroom is decidedly not your boyfriend, with his swoopy brown-gold hair and polite-cat smile. instead, a pretty young woman with brown shoulder length hair, cowboy boots, and a silver belt in one hand stops and gapes at you on her way to exit the room. 

shit. 

“w-w-who are you?” she asks shakily, shuffling around the bed in the middle of the room and extending the silver belt in front of her like a weapon. she gives the air a few experimental slashes as if telling you- back off, i have a weapon.

you start to rethink your decisions. this was oscar’s house…right?

scrambling out of your awkward position sprawled halfway the window, you scoot nervously away from the rather dangerous-looking belt before speaking. 

“er, hi,” you say in the most non-threatening tone you can muster up after breaking and entering what you assume is this random lady’s house at an inappropriate time of night. 

she doesn’t even give you a chance to explain that this was all a misunderstanding before she yanks the door next to her open and gets ready to, most likely, call the police on you. 

however, before she is able to bolt out the door, a familiar boy steps into view in the doorway. 

oscar.

he takes a second to take in the situation- you standing awkwardly like that meme of robert pattinson in the kitchen, and the woman holding out the silver belt towards you in a menacing way- before he jumps into action. 

“okay…hattie- i can explain,” he exclaims to the woman, slamming the door closed behind him. oscar runs up between you and the still-stunned hattie, which you assume is his sister. 

“do not tell mom, but it’s just my girlfriend, okay?” he pleads. then, looking at the belt in hattie’s hand, he wrinkles his brow. “-and is that my belt?”

hattie hides the belt behind her. 

“um…no?”

with a single eyebrow raise from oscar, hattie sighs exasperatedly. 

“fine, yes, it is. i came into your room to get it for my outfit tomorrow when i caught your-” she peers around oscar,  “‘girlfriend’ literally breaking into our house!” 

“okay, pause!” your boyfriend says, scooting over to the left a little bit to block hattie’s view of you next to the wide-open window. “first of all, why would you take my belt without asking? second of all, she is not breaking into the house if i invited her in first, and third, again, please don’t tell mum.” 

hattie stares at her brother for a second, then peers over his shoulder to look at you, before crossing her arms. “al-right. i won’t tell- only if you do my night duty stuff for the ranch and i get to keep the belt.” 

your boyfriend doesn’t even hesitate before spitting a quick “okay, fine” before shoving his sister out of the room. 

“fuck. you. i. am. never. doing. that. again!” you whisper-shout at oscar, repeatedly smacking him with the hoodie you stripped off moments ago. screw his puppy-dog eyes and his oddly cute bunny-rabbit smile- you were never trusting him again. 

he laughs between the soft smacks from your college-logoed hoodie and pulls you towards him on the bed, effectively halting your attacks.  

“come on, baby!” he drawls, wrapping his arms around you. “it’s fine!”

your hoodie is abandoned on the side as he slides you towards him. your head automatically slots into the crook of his neck like it was made to be there, and you practically melt into his warm body, effectively dissolving the bigger part of your embarrassment and anger away. 

even when you purposefully cross your arms and face away from him after the hug, oscar knows he has already won the way from the fact that you still crawl underneath his blankets with him like you both always did in your dorm back at college. 

he prods you with a finger when you both are snuggled half-way in the blankets and you know that you can’t turn around to face him or else he’s going to press kisses to your face and then your “i’m a bit pissed” facade will surely be broken. you stay back-towards him, but then, he pulls out the ultimate weaponized piece of knowledge that he knows: your ticklish spots. oscar jams his fingers into your side, giggling, and pokes you until you have no choice to squirm back towards him. 

the way you wriggle around the bed ends up with you slotted underneath him. oscar gazes down at you, head tilted. you blink back at him slowly, watching how his brown eyes follow your tongue as you lick your chapped lips.

“you know,” he whispers in that lilting australian accent of his, “this is more what i was thinking we could do when i told you to sneak over into my room.”

“yeah?” you say, teasingly. “well, i’ll be glad to recreate whatever you are thinking of.”

a shy grin spreads across his face, and he sits up to strip his old faded sleeping shirt off his body. 

you just about salivate, seeing the sight of what you have seen what seems to be hundreds of times- his slightly muscular chest dotted with a constellation of stars that you loved to trace- either during a soft night curled on your dorm room bed, or when you lay, spent, on his chest after a lust-filled night.

before you can stop yourself, you reach out on instinct to trace your fingernail down his torso.

just a millisecond before your finger makes contact with his skin, footsteps sound outside his shut door, and the doorknob rattles, resulting in both of you to snap your heads towards the sound.

with some unbelievable reaction time that should probably get him a seat in formula 1, oscar shoves you underneath his stupid blue bedspread, and throws a couple comforters over your covered body- just in case.

are. you. joking. 

you were never trusting oscar again. what the hell were you gonna say to his parents if they found you underneath his blankets? there’s no way in hell they were gonna be easily persuaded like his sister was with a simple belt. what were you going to say? 

oh, i’m sorry mrs. piastri, for  breaking into your son’s bedroom at 9pm on a tuesday night because your son was feeling a bit frisky. 

absolutely not. you would rather die. 

instead, you settle for freezing as still as you can underneath the pitch-black insides of oscar’s pile of blankets and wait for what just be your impending doom.

the door squeaks as it opens, and you hear the scuffling of house shoes, then a pause. 

the person entering the room speaks first. 

“oscar.” a pause. “who were you talking to? and what- what are you doing with your shirt off? why are you kind of sweaty?”

you clock it as a female parental-type voice, which confirms your suspicions that- fuck- it’s probably his mother. 

your boyfriend shuffles nervously above you.

“mum, what?? talking? i wasn’t talking to anyone- i was talking to myself! also, you can’t just, like, break into my bedroom!” he exclaims a little too quickly. “you have to, like, knock! that’s an invasion of privacy!”

“wow, okay, calm down, oscar!” the woman’s voice shoots back. “why are you so defensive? i just heard voices, and i thought- maybe someone had broke in?” 

another pause.

“were you having some…” she trails off. “some- special alone time? a bit of oscar’s happy time?”

oscar’s mother’s insinuations hit both you and your boyfriend at the same time, and you can’t help but clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh that was bubbling up in your throat.

your boyfriend lightly kicks you underneath the covers, which you could directly translate to shut up right now.

“special alone..?!” oscar stutters out, outraged. “no, mum, i was not having some special alone time! please! mum, i’m fine!”

“alright, alright,” his mother remarks, defeatedly. 

the scuffling sound heads towards the door, but stills before you can hear the door open. 

“by the way, your sister said that you were going to do her nighttime chores for her. i don’t know what kind of silly deal you guys struck up, but i expect it to be done by tomorrow, okay?” she adds.

“okay, okay, i got it, mum,” oscar replies hastily. 

“okey-dokey. goodnight, oscar!” his mother says brightly, before you hear the tell-tale sound of the door squeaking shut.

after oscar makes sure the door is completely closed and his mother’s footsteps have disappeared from his bedroom, he yanks his blankets off of you. 

the cool air flows over you, and you take a breath of fresh air. even if you only spent three minutes, tops, inside the stuffy blankets, it really felt like forever. you are sure your clothes are all rumpled from being squished underneath all that weight. 

“sorry, sorry, sorry,” your boyfriend repeats, grasping you and pecking a kiss to your cheek each time. “that was not part of the plan.”

“mhm,” you mutter back. you didn’t mind, honestly, you were just glad mrs. piastri didn’t notice the suspiciously college-girl shaped lump on her son’s bed. 

when oscar pulls off of you, he flashes you a devious grin. 

“you wanna..?” 

he uses his head to gesture towards the bed.

under normal circumstances, you would have thrown oscar to the bed and done multiple inappropriate things to him, but alas, 1) his mom coming in kind of killed the mood, 2) how could you, when his poor sister was likely, like, down the hall? and most importantly, 3) oscar had promised to do his sister’s chores, and you weren’t about to get mama piastri angry the next morning.

“oscar…” you say, trailing off. “don’t you have to do your, you know, chores?”

the gleam of mischievousness in your boyfriend’s eyes immediately falls flat, and his lips turn into a slight frown. 

letting out a rather exaggerated sigh, he slumps forward for a second before slinking towards the door. 

“leave my own mother to cockblock me…” he mutters, throwing on a black hoodie and green cap. 

you are about to let out a giggle, and pull him back on the bed for looking so cute being forlorn, but then, you realize, no, you have to be the voice of reason. 

“come on, oscar, i may be a city girl, but it can’t be that bad, right? i’ll be here all night!”

you are met with your boyfriend’s classic blank stare. 

“o-okay…what if…i went with you?” you suggest, reveling in the way that his gaze lights up.

“sneak out of the window, and meet me at the front of the house in 5,” he remarks, giving you a soft smile. 

what you expect to see at the front of the house is oscar with a shovel or whatever ranchers use to do their nightly chores, but instead, oscar waves at you from inside an entire fucking glowing atv. it has two seats, and entire mini flatbed trunk area, and to top it off, a covered clear canopy over the entire thing. and you thought the usual ranchers’ method of transportation was a freaking horse?? oscar’s family must have really modernized. 

you whisper a quick what-the-fuck before launching yourself into the atv next to your boyfriend. he flashes his usual bunny-rabbit smile at you, before fiddling with a few knobs on the front of the control panel. to your surprise, an entire heating unit starts blasting warm air towards you out of absolutely nowhere. 

huh??? when did atvs have heaters?? 

you don’t even have chance to formulate your thoughts before oscar starts revving the atv like he’s a freaking formula car driver and takes off into the darkness. 

even if you knew close to zero about being a rancher, you trail behind oscar to make sure he doesn’t half-ass his chores. the first task is checking the lights, which doesn’t seem too hard. 

your boyfriend basically speedruns around the barn that you arrive at, flicking at seemingly random places to turn on floodlights that surround the area. 

“for ‘safety’ reasons,” he had said when you asked. 

you take the time to do a 360 around the barn, noting the goats that glance at you curiously from their fenced off area outside in the chill night air. 

when oscar finishes sprinting around, he grasps your hand and leads you back towards the atv. 

“alright, back to my room!” he gasps breathlessly, as he starts the atv back up. 

your mind drifts to the poor goats outside. 

“er, oscar- are the goats supposed to be outside? i would think they deserve to be inside the barn, warm and toasty, no?”

your boyfriend freezes, hand halfway to the wheel. it’s obvious the cogs in his mind are turning. you blink at him once, before he groans and twists the key into the ‘off’ position for the atv. 

typically, you knew your boyfriend as someone who was really hard to irritate, but god, this was really doing a number on him.

oscar bolts toward the gated area that you saw earlier, and easily jumps the fence into the goat’s area. you can’t help but watch in wonder as he herds all the stubborn animals towards the barn’s entrance. most of the goats bleat at him once in annoyance before charging into the warmth of indoors, but you see a few stragglers still in the outdoor pen. a giggle bubbles up in your throat as you see a goat purposefully wedge itself between the fence and the water trough- just enough so oscar couldn’t reach him easily- leading to your boyfriend exclaim in frustration. 

it was funny- if you saw the shy, introverted oscar that was typically shown to others at the college that you both went to together, you were sure that they would have never guessed he was the type to get pissy, curse at goats, and shake his fist at the sky like an old grampa in the dark of night. 

while he was busy with the stubborn goat, you take the chance to climb over metal rungs of the fence and venture into the barn. it was quite cozy looking, with a thin layer of straw-like bedding covering the floor, round bales of hay lining the walls, and, of course, bunches of goats milling around. sitting on an overturned bucket, you watch as the cute goats settle down for the night, bleating happily. 

all of the sudden, a baby goat, (a kid, you find out they are called, later) runs up to you and nibbles at your sleeve. it’s quite adorable, the way it shoves its head under your hand, urging you to pet it. you comply, of course. 

it kind of reminds you of the way oscar often shoves his head under your hands during a long night study session. when he was almost at his breaking point, too tired to shove any more vocab words and formulas into his head, he would lie on you and beg for you to thread your hands into his hair and massage his head. oscar would probably go mental if he saw you give the baby goat treatment that was typically reserved for him.

speaking of the devil, the second your hand lands on the baby goat’s head, oscar storms in with the stubborn goat from earlier squished to his chest. half of your boyfriend’s pant leg is soaking wet, and judging from the way his eyes are drawn to the spot where your hand was softly petting the goat’s head, he was not too happy. 

“are you…okay, osc?” you ask, already knowing the answer. 

after gently letting the offending goat back towards its mates, oscar stands like the standing man emoji in front of you.

“i would like to go.” he responds, face completely deadpan. 

although the goats were pretty cute, you would pick oscar every time. lightly scooching away from the baby goat, you stand up and brush off the pieces of straw and dirt that it knocked into your lap. the goat, probably slightly peeved at the fact that you were leaving, decides to do a gravity defying (?) leap at the shelf behind you, which contained a small square block of hay. 

much to your amazement, the goat jumps off your bucket, and lands nicely on the shelf a good meter above you. 

“don’t you fucking dare,” oscar warns behind you, apparently already guessing the goat’s next step. he runs towards underneath the shelf and pushes you behind him, all the while keeping a eye on the goat as it steps closer and closer to the bale of hay.

it bleats, and pushes the hay with its nose.

the block explodes in midair, completely covering oscar.

for the second time in the day night, you fight to cover your laugh. the poor hay-covered oscar was just about trembling in anger. you hurriedly drag him towards the exit, all the while thanking the gods that what you thought was a darling little goat didn’t just squish your boyfriend.

“come on, baby,” you comfort, parroting the words he had said to you earlier in the night back to him. “it’s fine.”

he huffs, twisting the key of the atv, allowing the heater to effectively blast half of the hay on him straight into your face.

“oh my god, baby, are you okay?” oscar says, eyes wide. he quickly turns the heater down and brushes a few strands of hay off of your head. 

you pretend that you didn’t just feel a strand of hay go down your throat. 

“y-yeah, no problem,” you cough out. “we can just um, head back if that’s what you’d like.”

“right,” he affirms, voice going back to monotone. 

the atv rumbles quietly as he navigates back to the house.

trying to lighten up the mood and fill the awkward silence in the small space of the vehicle, oscar attempts to crack the world’s worst joke using his lust-craved brain. 

“after all that fiasco, i think i deserve the world’s best hea-”

before he can finish (hehe get it?), you cut him off, pointing outside to a potentially dangerous situation for his ranch’s chickens. 

“oscar,” you say pointedly, “i don’t want to burst your bubble, but was bringing the chickens in one of your sister’s chores? ‘cause they’re currently flapping around in an outdoor area, and i’m afraid there’s like foxes or something that are going to eat them.”

your boyfriend slams on the brake pedal, and peeks over your shoulder, confirming the worst news in his head right now- there was yet another job to be done. 

he just about flies out the vehicle, and before you know it, he has wedged himself into the chicken coop. if there is an award for the fastest time to shove like, 15 chickens inside the line of nesting boxes, he would definitely win first. it’s kind of an insane sight.  you even hear a few “get the fuck in,” which is decidedly out of character for oscar to ever say.

every chicken actually makes it indoors, and oscar doesn’t hesitate to slam the chicken coop door shut with a loud bang.

you wish you can say the actual ride back to the house isn’t tense, but then, you’d be lying. by the time oscar pulls up to the side of the house where the only window still has its lights on is the second one without a window screen, you can feel each breath that he takes thrumming its way into your core. 

he barely has a chance to shut off the atv before you cast a sly glance towards him. 

“do you wanna-” 

the way his brown eyes glaze over in want does all the answering for you.

all you know is that after spending an undisclosed amount of time inside of the atv fogging up the plastic cover of the vehicle, you both stumbled back through oscar’s stupid little window on the left side of the house, where you continued your little escapade within the confines of his bedroom. 

the first thing you realize when you wake up is oscar’s bare skin underneath yours. you’re tucked underneath his arm, and one of your legs is entwined with his. 

you shift in his arms, tilt your head, and use a little bit of force to launch yourself upwards to press a kiss on his cheek from your position wedged next to him. 

oscar mutters a “mmm,” with his eyes closed, but you can tell from the many times of waking up next to him that he’s obviously awake. 

poking his bare stomach with a finger, you giggle. 

“i know you’re awake, oscar.”

“nuh-uh,” he shoots back, eyes still closed, grasping your offending finger with his hand and holding your arm away from him.

you untuck your other hand from under the blanket, and move to boop his stomach again. 

however, before you are able to, the footsteps come to the door and the doorknob jiggles.

oh. my. fucking. god. not this again.

oscar, like the night before, strategically shoves you under his blankets roughly. 

this time, you wedge yourself in a way where you can see the doorway through a crack in the blankets before the door swings open.

a nice-looking woman with straight brown short hair and a white sweatshirt with big block letters that spell out, “y u k i” walks in. his mom, you suppose. behind her stands the girl you saw the day before, hattie, who has her hand clasped over her mouth, trying to stop her giggles from escaping. 

oscar’s mom speaks first, clasping her hands together. 

“good morning, oscar!” she exclaims, placing her hands on her hips. “did you want some breakfast?”

“er,” your boyfriend says, staying very still. 

then, you see oscar’s mom approaching you. 

she neatly pulls off the part of the blanket covering your head, effectively blinding you from the bright light from the window, while also turning you into the surface of the sun from the way your cheeks heat up from embarrassment of being exposed literally out of nowhere. 

“and maybe your girlfriend would like some breakfast too instead of being shoved underneath your dirty blankets?” 

when oscar doesn’t answer, his mother shakes her head and sighs. “wow, oscar, i thought i taught you better than treating guests this way.”

you wrap oscar’s blankets around you, thanking god that his mother had not decided to yank all the blankets off your entire body.

hattie decides this is the moment that she cannot hold her laugh anymore and flees the doorway. you can still hear her little giggles in the hallway.

your boyfriend stutters out angrily, “b-but hattie promised-”

“no, don’t ‘hattie’ me. she didn’t out you.” his mother states calmly. “i was a teen too, once. do you really think i wouldn’t see the footsteps in the mud? your giggling at 3am? the quite honestly- nasty- handprints on the fogged up atv plastic? also, the quite obvious lump that was on your bed-” 

she shakes her head, wagging a finger at her son.

turning to you, however, she brightens up significantly. “anyways, i don’t blame you a smidgen for oscar’s actions, darling. call me nicole. now, how would you like your toast and eggs?”

a/n: bonus points if you can recognize what movie + scene i referenced when mama piastri walks for the first time 🤭

[lazysoulwriter]

don’t shut me out — i’d rather hear the hard things. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: misunderstanding, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft!Pedro, hurt feelings but lots of love, happy ending. established relationship.

It wasn’t a big fight. But it was the kind that lingers.

You didn’t yell. No slammed doors. Just that quiet kind of tension that builds in the space between words, where a misunderstanding blooms and neither of you knows how to stop it from growing.

It started with something stupid.

A text Pedro saw on your phone while you were in the kitchen. From someone he didn’t know. Friendly, a little flirty — nothing you asked for, but enough to make something tighten in his chest.

And when he asked you about it — gentle, but clearly bothered — you shrugged.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry.”

He nodded.

But he did worry.

Not because he didn’t trust you. He did. He trusted you more than anyone. But some part of him — the tired, bruised part that still remembered past heartbreaks — whispered that maybe this was how it started. A shift. A turning point.

A distance.

The problem was, he didn’t say that.

Instead, he got quiet. A little colder. Not cruel, never that — but reserved in a way that felt unfamiliar. Conversations felt clipped. His arms felt looser when he hugged you goodnight.

And you noticed.

Because you weren’t dumb. And you weren’t heartless. You just… didn’t understand what you’d done.

So you pulled back too.

And for two whole days, it was like you were tiptoeing around each other. Careful. Polite. Heartbreaking.

It all cracked open on a Thursday night.

You were folding laundry. Pedro was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with an expression that made your chest ache.

“I miss you,” you said quietly.

That broke him.

“I’m right here,” he said. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

“No, you’re not,” you replied, voice shaking. “You haven’t really looked at me since Tuesday.”

Pedro swallowed hard, guilt painting every inch of his face. “I know. I—”

You sat beside him.

“What happened?” you asked. “Just… tell me.”

He hesitated.

Then: “I saw that message. The one from—whoever that was. And I knew it wasn’t your fault. I know that. But I just—” he shook his head, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to be the jealous guy. So I tried to let it go.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. And instead of talking to you, I let it eat at me and now… here we are.”

You exhaled slowly, your hand sliding into his.

“I never replied,” you said. “I didn’t even think to bring it up because it was nothing. But I hate that it made you feel like I was pulling away.”

“I hate that I let myself believe it.”

You turned toward him.

“Next time… don’t shut me out,” you whispered. “I’d rather hear the hard things than go two days without really having you.”

Pedro looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time in days.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For freezing up. For being scared. For letting it get in my head.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until his forehead was against yours.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered. “You just have to be you. Let me in, even when it’s messy.”

Pedro kissed you then — slow and apologetic, all warmth and truth.

And when he pulled away, he exhaled against your lips.

“I love you,” he said. “So much it terrifies me sometimes.”

You smiled. “Good. Means you’re doing it right.”

And that night, you fell asleep wrapped around each other — no space left to misunderstand, no silence left to fill.

Just soft, breathing hearts finally finding their way back home.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[cosmicsmoony]

the first thing that hit them when they moved in together was that the lupin-black household was silent. no screaming mothers. no crying fathers. no signs of internal wars. no bombs ticking. no dread looming. no nothing.

remus would tiptoe around the house, minding the screeching wood and the crackling doors, holding his breath until he found regulus curled up in a corner with a notebook and hands stained with ink. drawing with a small smile on his face, peaceful gaze, and only silence around him. unperturbed by ghosts that still haunted him.

regulus would sometimes get a sense of panic out of nowhere — the whole place a blinding state of stillness. he'd have to run all the way through their backyard just to see, just to make sure. and there he is: remus, sporting gardening gloves and a little watering can, murmuring to the plants as if any sound above that would disturb the flowers.

after a month of living together, they can recognize each other's noises as if it's second nature. regulus' laugh while watching his silly tv shows. remus' long limbs knocking over pots and pans in their tiny kitchen. songs coming from their old record player: jazz on tuesdays, rock on fridays, and folk on sundays. two knocks on the door for "i'm here", three back for "i love you".

they soon learn that a silent house is still a living home. it's peace and comfort and good and theirs.

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Ten

author's note ⸺ hey GANG I hope ur all doing well! Tysm for all the messages I actually LOVEEE yapping with u so pls don’t stop…also I have posted the dates of the upcoming chapters on the series master list if you’re interested hehe >.< pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, smoking mentioned(weed + cigs), reader is being spontaneous... taglist at end, 4.2k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

You hadn’t meant to ignore him. Not really. But somehow, two days had passed without a response.

Monday night, you’d fallen asleep embarrassingly early—half-dressed and on top of the covers, one arm still crooked over your eyes.

And Tuesday…Tuesday was one of those days that just swallowed you whole and drained your social battery. Work was nonstop, your inbox a mess, and you’d ended up meeting your parents for dinner because they happened to be in town. 

Since moving out to the city after graduating, you’d often felt caught between places—never exactly out of place, but never fully settled either. 

It was like living in a space that was both familiar and somehow off, a quiet dissonance you couldn’t quite name. 

You missed home, sure, but when you visited, it didn’t feel quite the same anymore. The last while, that feeling of being “home” seemed just out of reach to you.

Nevertheless, you had a good night with your parents. The night ended with wine, too much laughter, a weirdly long hug from your mother, and a slow walk back to your place in shoes that weren’t built for walking.

By the time you’d made it upstairs, peeled off your clothes, and washed your face, it was already too late—and you didn’t want to open the message again.

Didn’t want to see his name glowing up at you like that. 

Not when you didn’t know what to say. Not when the weight of not saying anything had grown legs and learned to sit in your chest like it paid rent.

And now it was Wednesday.

You stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator, one hand trailing down the front of your coat as the doors sighed shut behind you. 

You stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator, one hand trailing down the front of your coat as the doors sighed shut behind you. 

The hallway greeted you with its usual hush, carpet soft beneath your shoes, the scent of fresh coffee already curling in the air. It was an ordinary morning, in theory.

Your cubicle looked the same as always—chair slightly askew, two pens missing from your holder, a yellow sticky note curling at the edge like it couldn’t be bothered to stay attached. You dropped your bag onto the floor, shrugged off your coat, and sank into the chair with a sigh that came from somewhere deep.

And then you pulled out your phone.

Enough was enough. You were so over the weird limbo of waiting to text him back. So over tiptoeing around a conversation that already had one foot in the door.

You knew exactly what to send him.

Without letting yourself overthink it, you opened Spotify. Thumb steady now, you scrolled down until you found it—the playlist. That playlist. The one you’d made in a different version of your life, with soft evenings and quiet corners baked into every track.

You tapped the three dots.

Selected Share.

Copied link.

Then you flicked over to your messages app. Suguru’s name was still there, second from the top, bolded. That last message staring back at you.

You pressed it open. Pasted the link into the text bar and pressed send.

You locked your phone without another thought and placed it face-down on your desk, like that might stop the ripple it sent through your chest.

Somewhere outside your cubicle, the printer sputtered to life. Phones rang. The world went on.

You had barely taken a sip of your coffee when your phone buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

The screen lit up with his name.

Geto: Wow. Another soul sliver, I see?

Geto: Now I’ve got something worthwhile to listen to while pretending to work. thanks

Your hand stayed still on the desk for a moment, fingers curled loosely around the mug. Heat pressed against your palm, but your attention didn’t move from the screen.

A small shift behind your ribs—tight, quiet.

The tiniest pull at one side of your mouth as your thumb lifted.

You: Don’t act like you weren’t waiting for it.

He was typing before your message even cleared the screen.

Geto: I wasn’t.

Geto: I’d accepted the silent treatment as my fate.

Geto: This is unexpected.

Your jaw moved slightly, a bite pressing down in the inside of your cheek. Not hard. Just enough.

You: Well…you're welcome for the emotional enrichment

Geto: Real generous of you…

Geto: I’ll take my time—can’t go burning through a whole soul-sliver at once.

Geto: Not every guy gets access like this, after all…

You let your phone rest on the desk for a beat, screen angled just enough that you could still see it. Across the room, someone dropped a stack of papers. The hum of the copy machine clicked on and off. A slice of laughter from the break room cut through, then faded.

Your thumb ran along the edge of the phone once, slow.

Then the last message arrived.

Geto: What are you doing after work?

There it was.

No punctuation. No build-up. Just weight, landing soft.

The tension that had held you upright all morning shifted. Not gone—but different now. Redistributed. Heavier in your hands. Lighter between your shoulders. 

Your posture didn’t change, but something underneath it did.

Picking up the phone, you answered honestly. 

Picking up the phone, you answered honestly.

You: Normally I’d say nothing.

You: But the last few days have been non-stop…I think I just need a night in.

You watched the bubble shift to “Delivered,” then locked the screen again, phone flat beside your keyboard.

A few minutes passed like that. No response.

You started working through your inbox—subject lines blending into each other, everything flagged as urgent when it wasn’t. Your fingers moved on autopilot, skimming, archiving, drafting. At some point you picked up your mug again, but the coffee had gone cold.

Your eyes drifted back to your phone more than once.

Maybe you’d read the tone wrong. Or maybe it didn’t mean anything to begin with.

You weren’t even sure why you were still thinking about it.

Then your screen lit up again.

Geto: Totally fair but

Geto: Any chance you want company anyway? You know I’m pretty quiet.

Geto: Thai food on me??

You didn’t answer right away.

There was a quiet kind of intention in the way he phrased it. No pressure, no expectation—just laid out with that offhand tone he always used. 

But Suguru wasn’t someone who invited himself over. He valued his space, liked to get use out of it. So for him to invite himself over on a random Wednesday—easy, but deliberate—landed heavier than it looked.

Your eyes traced the words twice. A warmth stirred in your chest—not giddy, not flustered. Just steady. Like something settling into place.

You: Okay fine, only if you know a place that actually puts flavour in their khao soi…

Geto: Do you even have to ask…I’ll bring the good stuff

You: Okay. Door’s open after 7 :)

Geto: Noted. I’ll knock anyway

Geto: Feels rude not to

You set your phone down, but didn’t look away from it right away.

Somewhere beyond the fabric of your cubicle wall, your manager’s voice called out a reminder for the 10:30 client call—half-chipper, half-stressed. Another email dropped into your inbox a beat later, its notification blinking in the corner of your screen. 

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a washed-out glow across your desk, soft against the backs of your hands.

You dragged your chair in closer, fingers moving to the trackpad as you pulled up your briefing notes for the day. Line items. Status updates. A spreadsheet you'd updated three times this week already. Your cursor hovered, then moved with purpose. 

The first few slides needed cleaning up. 

A title needed shortening. Someone had left a comment in red that didn’t even make sense.

You got to work.

The rhythm came back slowly—scroll, revise, adjust spacing, add bullet points. Fingers tapping into a groove that didn’t ask for much thought. The shape of the day began to reassemble itself around you, familiar and structured. Your breathing levelled out.

But even in the middle of that—beneath the sharp clicks of your keyboard and the low hum of someone’s phone call two desks over—something still stirred just beneath your ribs.

You adjusted a chart. Added a footnote. Reworded a sentence that didn’t need fixing. Then glanced at the time.

Only 9:23.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and clicked into the next slide.

But it kept happening. Every few minutes, your eyes flicked back to the bottom-right corner of the screen. 

9:33…9:41… 9:53…10:07…get a grip…

Your coffee had gone cold by then. You didn’t get up for a new one. Just sat there, staring at bullet points you couldn’t remember writing, watching the cursor blink on an empty line like it had something to say.

Your mind wouldn’t stay put.

It kept folding back to him—soft and uninvited. It felt like a damn fly that just won't stop landing on you.

His voice in your head again: dry, amused, a little too smooth for how offhanded he always pretended to be. 

You could still hear the way he said things—slightly under his breath, like you weren’t always supposed to catch it.

That night on your balcony drifted into view. The smoke. The silence between sentences. The mug with the space cat. 

The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking, but you were…Maybe he knew that and watched anyway, you didn't know.

He was quiet about it. Always had been. Not loud in the ways people usually tried to be with you.

No—he lingered.

And now, here he was again. Not even in the room, but still—lingering. Threaded into your morning like background static. Like something you’d left on by accident.

This is just like him—to hang around in your thoughts like this.

Unrushed. Comfortable. Like he had nowhere else to be.

You minimized the briefing deck, reopened your inbox.

There was still half a day ahead of you. A call to prep for. Notes to clean up. Three emails flagged “urgent” that clearly weren’t they never were.

But under all of it—beneath the noise and the deadlines and the digital clutter—one thing sat clear and steady:

He was coming over to your apartment.

And your stomach wouldn’t stop catching on that fact.

Not nerves. Not panic.

Just something sharper than anticipation. A weightless little knot at the center of your chest, tugging every so often. Quiet. Persistent.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

The day had really turned around for you.

It started small—your inbox clearing faster than expected, the 10:30 call going smoothly, even the printer working on the first try. 

And then, right before you left, your favourite coworker who wasn’t in for a few days handed you a loaf of fresh sourdough, wrapped in wax paper and still faintly warm.

“Made an extra,” she said. “Thought you could use it.”

You didn’t argue.

Now, riding the subway home, the bread sat tucked in your tote, rosemary and salt lingering faintly in the air. 

You stood near the center pole, one hand curled around the metal, the other resting lightly on the strap of your bag. The car wasn’t crowded, but full enough that the space buzzed with soft movement—shoulders shifting, someone clearing their throat, the distant tinny bleed of someone’s music through their headphones.

The train rocked gently beneath your feet. Your weight adjusted with it, knees bending instinctively at each turn.

Your eyes moved without really seeing—past the ads, the streaked windows, the scrolling station names overhead.

Your phone was still in your pocket. No new messages. But it didn’t bother you this time. That quiet, steady feeling was still there—somewhere low in your stomach. Not jittery. Not uncertain. Just a kind of slow, warm anticipation.

You’d said yes. He was coming over.

And for the first time in a while, something about that felt simple.

Not easy, maybe. But uncomplicated. No second-guessing. Just something waiting at the end of the day.

The train slowed. You looked up.

Two more stops.

And then the walk home.

And then him.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

The lock clicked shut behind you, soft and familiar, and you let your keys drop into the bowl by the door with a sound that always marked the end of the day. Your apartment greeted you the way it always did—dim, quiet, a little cool from the window you’d cracked that morning for air.

You moved automatically. Shoes off. Coat shrugged down your arms. Work bag unshouldered and dropped by the couch, its usual resting place like muscle memory. But before you even made it that far, you stopped in the kitchen and unzipped your tote.

The loaf came out last—wax paper warm against your fingers, scent of rosemary and salt unfurling like it had been waiting. 

You stood there a moment, hand still resting beside it.

Then you sighed, turned toward the hallway.

Your reflection caught you off guard as you passed the mirror.

Nothing major—just the slight smudge at the outer edge of your eyeliner, the way your foundation had begun to settle around your nose. Your lipstick, barely there now. A long day’s worth of wear.

You paused.

Most nights, you’d wash your face the second you got home. Hair up, makeup off, cleanser and cool water with a clean, blank feeling afterward.

But tonight…you hesitated.

Suguru was coming over.

And that meant something. Even if it wasn’t a thing, exactly. Even if you weren’t calling it anything. Even if the whole thing was wrapped in casual words and nonchalance and Thai food.

Still. He was coming over.

Your fingers lingered near your temple. Not to fix anything. Just thinking.

It would be easy to leave it on. Just in case. Just to keep that tiny layer of armour. Lip balm, a little colour, a softened line around the eye—something to catch the low kitchen light a certain way.

You stared at yourself a beat longer.

But then you shook your head—small, firm. Almost amused with yourself.

No.

He’s seen you without makeup before. Plenty of times. 

Late movie nights with Gojo. Sunday mornings when you forgot to care. After swimming. After crying. 

Suguru had been there more times than you cared to notice until now.

This wasn’t new. You didn’t owe him a version of you polished at the edges.

You turned the bathroom light on, pulled your hair back, and began your usual routine. Cleanser, water, rinse. The feeling of a soft towel pressed to your face. Your skin underneath felt cooler now. Clean. Unhidden.

You stood there for a moment longer, fingers still damp against the edge of the sink. 

Then, without giving yourself time to overthink it, you peeled your clothes off—layer by layer—and stepped into the shower.

It wasn’t about being presentable.

It was about the day sliding off you, down the drain with the heat and the steam and the tension that had wound itself around your shoulders. You stood under the water until your muscles started to uncoil, until the thoughts quieted, until you could feel yourself again.

No scrubbing. No ritual. Just warmth on your back and a moment to exhale.

You dried off slowly. Pulled on something soft and worn—cotton against clean skin—and padded barefoot back to the mirror.

After smoothing on a fresh layer of moisturizer, you then reached for the one thing you never skipped—your tinted lip balm. 

Not makeup, not really. Just a touch of colour, and you used it religiously—if you could afford to buy one hundred tubes of it, you would.

A final step. A signal that the day was done, and you were back in your body again.

And when you stepped back into the hallway, you didn’t look in the mirror again.

You had no reason to impress him.

And besides—he was already coming over. Just as a friend.

Just as Suguru.

You moved through the apartment in slow, familiar steps, the quiet after the shower settling over you.

In the bedroom, you changed into something casual—comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Nothing styled. Nothing planned. Just what you’d wear on any night in.

Back in the living room, you crossed to the shelf near the window and pulled out your incense tin. You picked a stick without thinking too hard—something light, familiar—and lit the end. After a few seconds, you blew it out, letting the smoke drift upward in slow, lazy curls.

The scent spread gently through the space, warm and steady.

You turned on the lamp beside the couch—soft light, easy on the eyes—and took a step back.

Everything felt still.

Not perfect. Not staged.

But ready.

You crossed to the kitchen, poured yourself a glass of water, and leaned back against the counter, letting the quiet settle a little deeper into your skin. The light from the lamp caught on the edge of the glass, refracting small, watery shapes onto the floor.

After a moment, you picked up your phone to check the time.

6:46.

Still early.

You were just about to set it back down when the screen lit up with a new message.

Geto: On my way

Another one followed almost instantly—a photo this time.

You tapped it open.

It was a quick, close shot: his hand holding a folded-over brown paper takeout bag, knuckles curled around the handles. The background was nothing—sidewalk, a bit of concrete, maybe his coat sleeve just barely in frame—but your eyes caught on the smallest details without meaning to.

The soft dip of veins along the inside of his wrist. The way his rings—two of them, one heavier-looking than the other—sat neatly at the base of his fingers. His nails were clean. His grip relaxed.

He had… nice hands.

You blinked, screen still glowing in your palm.

You hadn’t meant to notice, really. But the image lingered for a second longer than necessary before you locked your phone and set it down, a little slower this time.

The scent of incense still drifted through the room, sweet and woody. Outside, a car passed with its headlights skating across your blinds. You glanced toward the door without moving.

He’d be here any minute now, and you really hoped that he remembered your khao soi…

The apartment felt still, but your nerves had started to hum again—quiet, low..

You crossed back into the living room, picked up your phone again, and tapped it awake. Opened Spotify. 

Scrolled past the ones you usually kept to yourself—the sad ones, the overthought ones—and settled on the playlist you’d made without any real theme. Just the kind of music that made the room feel like yours.

You connected to the speaker tucked on the shelf and turned the volume down low. Just enough to soften the silence.

The first track floated in, slow and steady. The kind of sound that felt like a room you wanted to stay in. Something with a soft beat, warm vocals, nothing that asked for too much attention.

You let it play. Let it settle.

Then you crossed to the couch and straightened the throw without thinking. Tucked a stray slipper under the edge of the coffee table. Wiped a nonexistent crumb from the counter.

And before you could check the time again—there it was. A knock.

Not loud. Not rushed.

Just two quiet taps, measured and certain.

He was early.

You didn’t move at first. Not startled—just still. Like something had clicked into place a beat sooner than expected. A flicker of something low in your chest, not quite nerves, not quite thrill. Just there.

A breath caught in your throat. You let it go. Then moved.

You crossed the floor, your socks making your steps soundless on the rug, and paused with your hand on the doorknob. 

You opened the door, and there he was.

Suguru stood there, completely oblivious that he just sent your stomach into a full somersault ten minutes ago. 

Jacket open, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding the takeout bag by its twisted paper handles. The warm scent of curry and lemongrass drifted up between you, carried in on the quiet of the hallway.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours. Calm, unreadable, but steady.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. Almost too casual. Like this wasn’t something. Like this was normal.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the doorknob. “You’re early.”

His mouth pulled at one corner—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your pulse skip. “Couldn’t help it. The place was faster than I thought.”

He stepped past you without needing permission, brushing by in a way that left the faintest trail of his cologne in the air—clean, a little woodsy, something familiar now. The door clicked shut behind him as you turned.

He dropped the bag on the counter, casual, already at home in the space.

You caught yourself watching the way his hand moved—how the veins in his wrist shifted as he let go of the handle, how the silver rings on his fingers caught the low kitchen light. 

There was something absurdly specific about it. The easy way his fingers flexed. The way they looked as if they’d been sculpted with quiet intention.

You looked away.

He glanced around once, slow. Took in the low lighting, the haze of incense smoke curling from the windowsill, the soft music still murmuring from the speaker before his gaze found yours once again.

“You went full ambience,” he said, voice low. Almost amused.

“Don’t act surprised. I like it when my place feels like mine. Always been a big decorator… don't you remember my place at school?”

There was a pause—quiet but not empty. You watched his expression shift, subtle as always. A small crease appeared between his brows, like the memory had come faster than he expected. Like it caught him a little off guard.

“Your old place…” he said, voice lower now. “Yeah. This feels the same.”

His eyes moved slowly around the room again, but you could tell he wasn’t really looking at the walls or the incense or the books. 

He was remembering something else. Maybe the cracked window frame in your university apartment that you simply never fixed. Maybe the crooked shelf you insisted on keeping there as a ‘happy accident’. Or maybe you, sitting cross-legged on a thrifted couch, light from the hallway bending around you.

He looked back at you.

“Feels like you.”

Then he nodded once, like that was answer enough, and turned to tear the tape off the bag. “Hope you’re still into spicy food. I didn’t hold back.”

“Bold of you,” you said, walking over, “assuming I’ve gone weak in the time we’ve been apart.”

“Mmm. Could never picture that,” he replied without looking up.

You watched as he pulled out a few plastic containers, setting them side by side. And your eyes were locked in on your khao soi, which was smelling ever so fragrant. He popped open a lid and peeked inside, making a small, approving noise. 

“Still hot.”

You grabbed two forks and two spoons from the drawer beside Suguru, handing one set over without thinking. 

Your hands brushed, briefly, the way they always seemed to lately—casual, but not quite forgettable.

Suguru stacked the warm containers in his arms and moved toward the living area. The fabric of his black sweatshirt shifted with him—soft-looking, slightly worn at the cuffs. 

His jeans hung low on his hips, baggy in that way that looked thoughtless but never quite careless, the denim faded in places which made them seem more lived in. He crouched beside the low table, setting the containers down with a soft thud before lowering himself to the rug. 

Cross-legged, back loose against the couch, one arm draped over his knee—comfortable, effortless. 

He looked good like that. Familiar. 

A little too easy to look at.

“Should we use plates?” You said, watching him from the kitchen.

Suguru shrugged with a sly grin, tilting his head like it was the most obvious logic in the world.

“I mean, there’s a first time for everything,” he said, deadpan. “But why waste clean dishes when the containers are already doing the heavy lifting?” 

You smiled, shaking your head as if amused by the effortless ease of his logic. “Yeah,” you said quietly, “that sounds about right.”

It felt so natural, this back-and-forth, the kind of simple comfort of his presence you didn’t realize you’d missed. Normally, you avoided people when you were drained—too tired to carry any weight but your own—but if there was one person who never took from your well, it was Suguru.

Your eyes met his for a moment, and there was no need to say it out loud. You both understood.

With a small, knowing smile, you settled down across from him on the floor, the warm scent of the Thai aromas filling the space between you. The room felt softer somehow—like the quiet in between storms, safe and familiar.

And just like that, you were home again.

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[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚘 || 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which georgia falls a little bit from the stands

Georgia Amoore hadn't planned on being in D.C. long enough to memorize the skyline. When the Mystics drafted her, she imagined long nights at the arena, two a days with the vets, and walking into that familiar wave of white and red with a healthy body and something to prove. Instead, she tore her ACL on a Tuesday morning in her first week of practice. It had been a simple pivot during a shooting drill. No contact. No warning. Just a searing pop and the kind of pain that makes everything go quiet.

It had been weeks since the surgery now. She was off the crutches, walking like she’d forgotten how and learning again each morning. Coach had been good about it, always saying the right things—“You're still part of the team,” “Take your time,” “Your mind's sharp, that’s just as important right now.” But none of it felt like enough. The city felt louder when she wasn’t playing. Her muscles felt foreign in the absence of routine. And the locker room, the one she’d once dreamed of stepping into, now felt like a place she had to tiptoe through, like she was stealing something by being there.

So when one of the player relations reps offered her tickets to the Washington Spirit game, “Get some fresh air, watch women who don’t play basketball for once.” Georgia said yes before thinking. Soccer wasn’t her sport, but competition was still church in any form, and she figured it’d be good to see something that wasn’t the inside of her apartment or the training room.

That’s how she ended up on the edge of the pitch at Audi Field, low enough in the stands to see the sweat fly when someone headed the ball. She watched the players run drills, juggling passes and stretching hamstrings in the warm D.C. dusk, and thought about how long it would be before she could sprint again. Not jog. Sprint. Full throttle.

And then she saw you.

It was almost comedic how quickly her eyes found you. There were many players on the pitch, hundreds of fans already filling in the seats, music thumping from the speakers, and yet she locked on to you like you were the only thing moving in the entire stadium. You were already in motion, weaving through a passing drill with a clipped focus, hair tied back, sweat already painting the back of your neck. It took her a second to notice your jersey number.

Eight.

Her number.

Georgia leaned forward, squinting just to be sure. Dark jersey, Spirit crest over your heart, and the bold black eight centered between your shoulders. She felt her chest tighten in an unexpected way.

“Coincidence,” she muttered to herself, resting her elbow on her knee. “Weird coincidence.”

But you didn’t feel like a coincidence.

The whistle blew and Georgia barely registered the start. She was already watching you move, eyes sharp, shoulders squared, the clean rhythm of someone who played with instinct more than calculation. You weren’t flashy. You weren’t the player diving for every dramatic tackle or yelling for every ball. You played with intention, reading the field like a language. Every time you touched the ball, Georgia’s attention snapped taut. The number eight bent through defenders with effortless grace. You were all motion and stillness at once, and Georgia forgot to be bitter about her injury for the first time in weeks.

It didn’t hurt that you were beautiful.

No one had warned her about that. The way your mouth would quirk when you didn’t get the call you wanted. The way your hands rested on your hips during throw-ins, impatient and poised. The way you ran, shoulders tilted forward like you were leaning into something only you could see.

At halftime, Georgia stood to stretch her stiff knee and leaned back against the seat. She told herself she should go. Traffic would get bad. The sun was dipping. But she stayed. Of course she stayed.

And when you jogged back out for the second half, you glanced her way.

It wasn’t long. A flicker, really. But enough that Georgia sat back down too fast and bumped her bad leg on the seat in front of her. She winced, but grinned through it like a kid caught staring.

The Spirit won. You scored.

A goal that had sealed the match. A clean finish, left foot to far post, after dancing past two defenders with quiet confidence. Georgia had found herself cheering before she could stop it. The people around her had no idea who she was, just a small girl in a Spirit soccer club jersey, clapping a little too hard for someone trying to keep a low profile.

After the match, she lingered. The crowd thinned, the stadium lights casting long shadows. Players wandered about, giving autographs or chatting with family at the rails. Georgia stayed where she was, unsure of why, until you started walking toward the tunnel right beneath her section.

You looked up.

This time, it was longer than a flicker. Your eyes found her. Really found her. She stood up, not sure what she’d say, but her mouth opened anyway.

“You’re number eight.”

You stopped, glancing down at your back like you hadn’t noticed.

“So are you,” you said, gesturing to her. “Mystics?”

Georgia smiled, a little caught. “Yeah. I’m Georgia. I—well. I was drafted. Tore my ACL like… a minute later.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Damn. I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

She shrugged, shifting weight to her good leg. “It happens. You played amazing, by the way.”

You smiled, and it changed everything. It felt less like a polite athlete to athlete grin and more like something real.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, reaching a hand up over the railing. “And thanks. It felt good tonight.”

Georgia stepped forward and took your hand. Your grip was warm. Steady. Not the handshake of someone trying to rush off.

You didn’t let go immediately either.

“Can I ask why you were staring the whole game?” you added, teasing.

Georgia flushed. “You noticed?”

“Of course,” you said. “I notice everything.”

She laughed, more embarrassed than she'd been in months. “You just… you move different. I don’t know how else to say it.”

You tilted your head like that was the right answer. “Well, now you’ve seen me play. Your turn next, right?”

“God, I hope so.”

“Let me know when you’re back on the court,” you said, tugging your phone from your waistband and offering it. “I’ll come watch.”

Georgia blinked at it, stunned. You weren’t bluffing. She took your phone, fingers cold suddenly, and typed her number with careful precision.

You gave her a little wave and a wink before disappearing down the tunnel, the number eight shrinking into shadow.

Georgia stared at her phone the whole ride home, wondering what the hell had just happened, and how quickly she could heal now that there was someone worth playing for.

[cameronsbabydoll]

scc!reader schedule for the week + outfits

a/n: this was soooo fun to make!! let me know if you guys want more of these with scc or with my !readers!

monday — reset & routine

early morning school drop-off

grocery store (only the pretty kind—she’ll drive 20 mins to whole foods)

deep clean day: fresh linens, scrubbed baseboards, vacuum lines everywhere

slow lunch alone with iced coffee and podcasts

quiet dinner with the kids, early bedtime

late-night glass of wine, silence

tuesday — trophy errands & quiet wife

drop off kids, quick blowout and nail appointment

target or home goods for "one thing" (comes home with $200 worth of baskets and throw pillows)

light errands in a dress for the aesthetic

rafe’s home late and quiet, she tiptoes around his mood

makes his favorite dinner even though she’s exhausted

wednesday — mom mode on max

up early for the kids + packing lunches with handwritten notes

after drop off, takes the toddler to a play group

folds laundry while watching a baking show

kids' homework, soccer practice, dinner by 6

collapses on the couch with her robe still on from bath time

thursday — business wife duties

gets ready slowly and quietly, sets out rafe’s cufflinks

attends a evening business dinner with rafe

smiles, nods, compliments his colleagues, never speaks too much

carries a clutch and an ache in her chest

gets ignored on the drive home, cries in the tub alone

friday — date night facade

morning is normal: cleaning, light errands

by afternoon she’s shaving, curling her hair, spraying perfume on her wrists

drops the kids at her mom’s or the sitter’s

date night with rafe: dinner reservation at a dark expensive place

they don’t talk much on the drive home

but they do have some intimate time afterwards

saturday — family or fall apart

pancakes in the morning, messy but warm

kids’ activities (dance, t-ball, birthday parties)

rafe’s mostly absent or irritable, she tries not to cry

movie night on the couch with the kids, she doesn’t touch her phone

sunday — wine and wishing

big breakfast, soft music in the house

afternoon church or brunch with some moms

plans the week's meals, folds laundry, lays out the kids’ outfits

rafe is watching sports, she’s on her second glass of wine

sits in her closet and stares at herself in the mirror

[novvabee]

Training for the Ballet Potter?🩰

summary: James Potter x Reader, James takes a ballet class and crushes on the teacher (you)

cw: sexist remarks? it is kind of just gender stereotypes of ballet I guess, i didn't proof read this so just pretend it's good for me

word count: 2.6K

James thought that he might actually quit. This was ridiculous in every sense of the word. It was humiliating and a cruel punishment for sure.

His quidditch coach had the brilliant idea of signing the whole team up for ballet classes. Ballet, as in, turns and tiptoes and tights. This was emasculating to him, so beneath his training and dedication to the sport he should be practicing. 

His coach announced the classes on the last day of spring training. He stated that they were to attend every class until their season starts, no exceptions. He went on and on about how it would benefit the team to become more agile and graceful. But James didn’t understand the logic at all, he needed to be quick, strong, sturdy. Not exactly what ballerinas are known for. 

His coach emphasized the fact that these lessons were mandatory by stating that those who fail to attend would be cut from the team. He was not joking. A few of his teammates tried to protest, but his coach made the ultimatum. He said that if they wanted to be professionals and play on this prestigious team, they would learn grace and elegance in their training.

James loved and valued his position on the team, so he wasn't so fast to say no to these lessons. He was also trying to become captain of the team this year, and pretending to be excited and grateful for these lessons seemed like a way to earn him some brownie points.

So he pretended to the best of his abilities, he got the team together to encourage or change their attitudes, saying that it would be a great experience for the summer and that it was only three months of these lessons. Well, two lessons every week for three months, but that still wasn’t too bad.

When the coach overheard some of the team still complaining about ballet, he made them run and condition until half of them were throwing up. He was not here to play about these lessons.

“Got your leotard?” Sirius teased James from the couch. He had his head resting in Remus’s lap. 

James had lived with his two best friends since the end of school and he couldn’t be happier. Well, he could do with a little less of the making out and the groping he would catch every now and then, but he couldn’t blame them both, they were happy and in love. He just… didn’t need to see it all the time. And now, he didn’t need to be teased to add insult to injury.

“No.” James replied, rolling his eyes. He grabbed his red workout bag with his team’s logo from the opposite couch that his friends were sitting on and slung it over his shoulder.

“I think it’ll be good for you, Prongs,” Remus chimed in, “You could learn a thing or two about grace.”

James again rolled his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood, he was sore from yesterday’s practice, and was now about to prance around like an idiot for an hour.

“I just need to get through this,” James said. “I want to look good when my coach is choosing captains this season.” 

“Anything for that position, eh, Prongsie?” Sirius chuckled from Remus’s lap. “Look on the bright side though, you’ll be surrounded by fit girls in tight clothes and tiny skirts.” 

Remus smacked the top of his head for the comment, earning an ‘ouch’ and small apology. Remus rolled his eyes this time, annoyed by his lover’s crude statement.

James supposed that there was that to look forward to, he would never say it out loud like Sirius, but he was… intrigued by the idea. His male teammates were all put into the Monday/Wednesday classes with a strict teacher apparently. He was selected for the Tuesday/Thursday classes, which he found out were much smaller and taught by a new, younger teacher. A few of his teammates made sure to let him know how lucky he in fact was, the Monday/Wednesday teacher sounded like a hard-ass and a mean old witch.

Another bright side of the classes was that he would be with Marlene, one of his best friends on the team. If he had to endure this torture, he was glad to do it with her at least. It was actually Marlene who was picking him up so they could go to the lesson together. She should be here in about… now.

James bid farewell to his friends and raced out the door before any of the last minute teasing could make it to his ears, and rushed out to where Marlene was waiting in her car for him.

“Hey,” he greeted her, sliding into the passenger seat of her car which felt much too tiny for him to squeeze into. 

“Ready for the ballet Potter?” she giggled, wiggling her brows as she put the car in drive. James found it quite humorous, the two of them, going to their first ballet lesson. The two of them who look like they should keep far away from anything to do with ballet. James, who was a 6’1 burly man with all the elegance of a rhino and knocked into possibly every piece of furniture he owned on a daily basis, and Marlene, with chipped black nails and a self-cut mullet who looks like she would eat the posh little ballerinas for lunch.

Sooner than he would have liked, they reached the dance studio. Marlene parked and they both just sat there for a moment breathing in deep. He turned to her and saw the look that he himself was wearing. One of regret and annoyance. 

“Come on Marls, it's an hour and then we’re done.’’ James reminded her. 

She groaned but opened her door and slipped out.

They both made their way to the door of the building. He opened it and allowed Marlene to walk through first, pretending that it was just a courteous, gentlemanly thing to do, but in all reality, he was just holding onto any time he could have left not doing ballet.

He stepped into the building and into a crowded area with chairs and fake plants, a waiting room for the parents coming to pick up their little ballerinas from lessons. The waiting room was littered with moms scrolling on their phones and looking at their watches. Great.

James and Marlene had to wait for the teacher to come get them and escort them into the correct studio. Marlene plopped herself in a chair and motioned for James to do the same, but he just stood and lingered around the area.

James heard a door open and the chatter and giggles of many children. He heard many “Thank you miss Y/N”s and “Bye miss Y/N”s followed by a flood of little girls all dressed in colorful leotards and skirts filling the waiting room. The children all ran up to their respective mothers and told them about their lesson and how nice their new teacher was and that they all got stickers and how fun everything was. Some of the little girls eyed James and Marlene up and down, Marlene just stared back until the girls got scared and ran over to their adult.

As soon as the chaos broke into the little waiting room, it left. The last little girl put on her pink sparkly light up shoes and bounded out the door with her parent. This reassured everything that James had already felt; that this was useless, meant for little girls. Definitely not quidditch players, definitely not James.

He heard the door open again and turned to see a small woman, about his age, walk out with a clipboard. Her hair was pulled up into a bun. She was clad in a pink leotard and matching pink skirt, light pink tights, and pink ballet shoes. She was pretty, not in a typical perfect ballerina way, but in an entirely different way. James was definitely not expecting someone like her to be in a studio like this, let alone to be teaching.

Her eyes snapped up from what she was reading on her clipboard and instantly lit up.

“Oh hello!” she squeaked. “Are you two here for the 4:00 class?” 

“Uh, yeah.” James replied.

“Perfect! You’re right on time. I’m Y/N, by the way, I’ll be your instructor. You can follow me right in here to studio B.” she said, motioning them to follow her down the hall to the studio. Marlene stood and the both followed. “And here we are,” She said, turning on the light switch, allowing for a better view of the studio.

It was a very small room with light hardwood floors, mirrors lining the back wall. There were mats stacked up in the corner and two parallel bars mounted on the two walls without mirrors.

“You two can go ahead and set your stuff on the wall with the mirrors and then we can get started with stretching.” she announced chipper.

“Aren’t we going to wait for the rest of the class to show up?” Marlene asked from beside James.

“Oh no, you two are the whole class.” She smiled. “You can think of it more like a private lesson, more one on one.”

Private ballet lessons… Sirius was going to have a field day. He looked over at Marlene who just shrugged and made her way to the mirror wall to set her stuff down. James followed.

“It’s just us?” James whisper yelled to Marlene, trying not to let the instructor hear. 

“Is that a problem?” Marlene asked back. “She’s hot.”

James just huffed and pulled off his jacket, tossing it in his bag. 

“Look Potter, think of it this way,” She tried to reason with him, “Now there’s less people to look like an idiot in front of. All of the embarrassing moves will stay just between us three.” She smiled and James nodded his head, feeling like maybe it was a blessing to be in such a small class. “But… I can’t promise I won't make fun of you or use it against you.” She joked.

“Alright, are you both ready?” Y/N asked sweetly. They both nodded and made their way to the center of the room where she was waiting for them. “Alright first things first, welcome to ballet! My name is Y/N, you don't have to call me Miss or anything like the little ones do, just Y/N is fine” She said, her eyes glowing.

 Marlene was right, she was hot. But James wouldn’t be that forward about it, she was incredibly beautiful. If James could do with a touch of grace, she was bathed in it, dripping in it. She radiated confidence and elegance. James didn’t know what to do with his hands all of a sudden.

“I understand that your coach has signed you both up?” She asked. Marlene nodded in confirmation. “Ok, that is perfectly fine, we teach a lot of different athletes here at this studio. But in all honesty, I am a bit new to all of this,” She blushed, looking to the floor, “I mostly work with beginner classes and children so, bear with me.” 

She looked back at them and smiled. “Now, usually we require ballet shoes, but I won't require them for you two, socks or barefoot will be just fine.” she explained. “It is also better if you could wear things that are a little bit tighter. You don’t have to wear leos, but I need to be able to see the lines of your bodies better, so leggings, shorts, tank tops, those are all great!”

She was so cheery. Not only was she elegant and grateful, but kind and bubbly. James felt this warmth within the pit of his stomach now.

“Lastly, I want you two to have fun. I know that this is very different for you but, I promise I will make it as fun and educational for you so that you benefit the most that you can from this experience.” She finished, eyes sparking again.

“Alright with all that being said, let’s start our warm up!” she said.

Y/N led them through a series of stretches, most just like the ones they did at quidditch practice, others that were uncomfortable and pulled on his tight muscles. She assured them that with time, those stretches would get easier.

After, she led them to the bars mounted on one of the walls. She taught them the different positions of ballet; first, second, third, etc.. She taught them plies and releve, coupe and passe, and other French words he didn’t understand and would need to be repeated to him most likely all summer.

“Good Marlene.” James heard Y/N critique from where she was situated behind him. For all the gripe that she gave, Marlene was actually pretty decent at all this.

All of a sudden James felt hands on his abdomen and back, straightening his back into the correct posture. He was startled but continued on.

“There you go,” Y/N chuckled. “And..” she began but cut herself off by setting her hands atop his broad shoulders, pushing down on them. “You gotta relax, your shoulders are too tense. We don’t want them up by our ears,” She said, demonstrating to him by pulling her own shoulders up. “We want an elongated line from our neck and down our spine.” She explained, relaxing her shoulders and looking perfect. 

Next Y/N ran them through some basic turns and steps and they practiced by repeating them across the floor. James couldn’t believe this but, he was actually getting a pretty good workout. He was using muscles he didn’t even know he had, and he knew that if he dared mention that he was sore from ballet in front of Remus and Sirius, they would never let him live it down.

Time actually flew, and class was over before he knew.

“Great job today.” She said to them both, smiling as James caught her eye.

“I heard you give out stickers.” Marlene mentioned, mischief laced in her voice, making Y/N giggle. James loved the sound, decided that he wanted to do anything, everything in his power to hear that again. Hear it forever if he can.

She walked over to where her clipboard lay on the other side of the room, picked it up, then returned to where James and Marlene were now packing up. She peeled off a smiley face that said ‘awesome’ and placed it on Marlene’s shirt. Marlene smiled and started out the door. 

Y/N peeled another off, a star that said ‘you did great’ and placed it on James’s shirt. She pressed it into the fabric, making sure it stuck. James felt the warmth of her fingers radiate through his shirt and into his skin. 

He smiled at her and made his way after Marlene. He turned back to say “See you Thursday!”

She smiled back, waving goodbye to him and repeating that she would see them on Thursday.

Exiting the studio and climbing back into Marlene’s car, James couldn’t get rid of the goofy smile that etched itself into his face. Marlene looked at him and shook her head. “Don’t make it too obvious, Twinkletoes.” She mocked him with a new and reactive nickname.

“What are you talking about?” James asked, pulling his seatbelt on.

“Your little crush.” Marlene said plainly.

James wasn't going to deny it, so what if he had a little crush on the cute ballet teacher? She was gorgeous and so warm. He liked to see the passion in her eyes when she was explaining ballet to them. 

He couldn’t believe it and he would probably never say it out loud but he was excited for his ballet lesson on Thursday.

i wrote this cause I miss ballet and love the athlete x ballerina trope. also ballerinas are in fact athletes, dance is a sport ❤️🎀🩰 also please let me know if you would like to be added to any tag lists

taglist 🍓: @navs-bhat

[kathlare]

manchild

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie and Lando find themselves tiptoeing between nerves and humor as they prepare for a long-overdue dinner with her parents.

Wordcount: 6.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

June 7th, 2024 - Barcelona, Spain

liked by ciscanorris, jackantonoff, and others

ameliedayman: i wrote manchild on a random tuesday with amy and jack not too long after finishing short n’ sweet and it ended up being the best random tuesday of my life not only was it so fun to write, but this song became to me something I can look back on that will score the mental montage to the very confusing and fun young adult years of life. it sounds like the song embodiment of a loving eye roll and it feels like a never ending road trip in the summer ! hence why i wanted to give it to you now- so you can stick your head out the car window and scream it all summer long!

thank you always and forever for listening and thank you men for testing me!! 🐷🤍

Manchild is out now!!! Video out tomorrow at 10am est

View all 99,781 comments

landonorris: i feel both attacked and in love 🧍‍♂️ → ameliedayman: @landonorris duality of man(baby)

stelladayman: amen. hey, men. iconic behavior → ameliedayman: @stellamaxwell your man is shaking rn and i LOVE that for you

jackantonoff: you ate. nothing left. → ameliedayman: @jackantonoff i’m still full tbh

tiktokdramaqueen: SHE SAID “I CHOOSE TO BLAME YOUR MOM” AND I FELT THAT → dollincrisis: @tiktokdramaqueen feminist theory begins and ends there

gridgirlfan69: this is the most fun breakup song i’ve ever twerked to → softf1era: @gridgirlfan69 her mind is so unserious and powerful at the same time

savnorris: this is revenge heels in music form. obsessed. → ameliedayman: @savnorris can’t wait to scream it at karaoke next girls night

oliviarodrigo: THIS IS SOOOOOOO GOOD WTF → ameliedayman: @oliviarodrigo ur impact was felt. emotionally and legally 💋

lanxamelie: she wrote a feminist manifesto in glitter and rage and i’m living for it

maxfewtrell: i’m not a man-child, i’m just british → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell that’s worse

trackspice: you mean to tell me she dropped THIS while dating a literal f1 driver 😭😭😭 → marryhimanyways: @trackspice yeah he’s lucky she’s in her “i’m healed” arc

misogynymuncher: how are y’all not tired of her pretending to be relatable with a millionaire bf 💀

carlossainz55: i laughed then cried → ameliedayman: @carlossainz55 that’s the goal, thanks for playing

l0v3youlanmelie: if you’re hating this song you’re the reason she wrote it 😭 → paddockprincess: @l0v3youlanmelie if the shoe fits babes

f1wagupdates: it’s the “i like my men all incompetent” line for me 😭😭😭

georgerussell63: as a reformed manchild, this hit a little too close → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 george you still can’t use a washing machine

elysiadayman: when u played me the demo i knew some boy out there just got spiritually punched in the throat → ameliedayman: @elysiadayman and i’d do it again 💋

alex_albon: felt personally attacked but also inspired → ameliedayman: @alex_albon take it as a sign and apologize to lily

lilymhe: i wanna stitch this into a pillow → ameliedayman: @lilymhe i’ll bring the thread, you bring the wine

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The soft warmth of morning light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusting the white duvet in gold. The city outside was just beginning to stir, but inside their Barcelona suite, the world was quiet—until Amelie felt it.

A featherlight kiss pressed just below her ear. Then one to her jaw. Another to her cheek. One at the tip of her nose. A slow trail of them down her neck.

She scrunched her nose, eyes still closed, but her mouth twitched with a smile.

—Lando...— she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

—Mornin’, angel,— came his low, groggy reply, warm breath tickling her skin.

She turned in his arms, blinking her eyes open to find him already watching her. His hair was a mess, curling wildly around his forehead, and his face was flushed with that sleepy, cozy look she adored. But it was the way he was looking at her—like she’d hung the stars above them—that made her cheeks flush.

—Hi,— she whispered, brushing her fingers along his jaw.

—Hi,— he echoed, voice rough, but laced with a smile.

He kissed the corner of her mouth gently.

—Did I wake you?—

—No, just... attacked me with love, I guess,— she teased, nose scrunching again as she yawned.

Lando grinned, nudging his nose against hers. —Exactly how every day should start. Especially today.—

Amelie smiled, sleepy but already glowing. —Mm, today...—

He shifted onto his elbow, still watching her. —You nervous, baby?—

She didn’t speak, just lifted her hand and wiggled it, fingers pinched close together.

Lando raised his brows, teasing. —A little? That’s all?—

She nodded solemnly, lips fighting a grin. —A little.—

—A little,— he repeated with a low chuckle, shaking his head like he didn’t believe her one bit. Then, without warning, he leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss.

Soft, then deeper.

Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his curls as he pressed closer, his body half on top of hers. It was the kind of kiss that curled her toes, slow and heady, tasting of sleep and something she could only describe as him.

She was melting into him when her phone alarm blared from the nightstand.

Amelie groaned, giggling as she pulled back. —Fucking timing.—

Lando rested his forehead against hers, pouting. —You need to change that sound. That thing’s aggressive.—

—It’s supposed to wake me up, dumbass.—

—Yeah, well, my way’s nicer.—

She rolled onto her back, laughing, and then sat up. —I have soundcheck in like two hours. I should get ready.—

Amelie glanced at him as she stood and stretched, her oversized t-shirt slipping down her thigh. —Are you sure you want to come? You could sleep in, or... do literally anything else.—

Lando blinked at her like she was insane. —Ames, of course I’m coming. What kind of shit boyfriend misses his girl’s first time headlining a festival?—

She grinned, heart clenching a little. —The sexy kind?—

He gave her a look. —Nice try.—

She walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying without thinking.

Lando’s eyes trailed her every step, half under the covers still, entirely captivated.

—Where are you going?— he asked, all dramatically betrayed.

She threw a look over her shoulder. —To shower, clingy. I have to look cute tonight.—

He was already getting out of bed before she could close the door. —We should shower together. You know... for the environment. Save water and stuff.—

She laughed, eyes squinting. —Sure. For the water.—

Lando caught her waist from behind as she reached for a towel, lips landing back on her neck.

—You’re such a menace,— she whispered, leaning back against him instinctively.

—I just love you. Is that a crime?— he said dramatically, dragging his mouth slowly to her shoulder.

—We can shower together,— she murmured, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. —But no sex, Lan. I need my throat for tonight. If I start moaning, it’s over.—

He groaned softly, pressing a kiss behind her ear. —That’s such a cockblock, but fine. I can be... respectful.—

—Doubt it.—

—Rude.—

She turned to face him with a smirk and tugged the hem of her shirt off. —But if you behave, maybe you get a reward after the show.—

Lando’s eyes went wide and then narrowed in dramatic excitement. —Oh I’m gonna be so good.—

They both laughed as they stepped into the massive marble shower together, warm water cascading around them.

It wasn’t sexual, not really—just soft touches, shared space, stolen kisses under steam.

Lando washed her hair gently, fingers massaging her scalp as she melted beneath his hands.

Amelie returned the favor, lathering shampoo into his curls while he closed his eyes and hummed. They whispered stupid jokes. He tickled her sides until she squealed and smacked his chest.

She pressed her nose to his collarbone and said, —You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?—

And Lando didn’t say anything at first—just kissed the top of her head and held her tighter.

Because fuck, she was everything.

And tonight, she was going to step onto a stage in front of thousands.

And he’d be there, smiling so big he’d probably hurt his face, watching the love of his life shine like the star she was.

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liked by ameliebangs, strawberrygrid, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie leaving her soundcheck in Barcelona today ahead of her Primavera Sound headlining set tonight

View all 65,039 comments

carbonwagz: lando in his emotional support boyfriend era is everything to me 😭😭

manchildmvdrop: if he’s not backstage scream-singing manchild word for word… we rioting → wagscentral: @manchildmvdrop he’s 100% doing the bridge with hand motions and all

strawberrygrid: they left soundcheck like they were in a romcom and the city was their runway → tracktokgf: @strawberrygrid camera pans, soft lighting, and a Lana Del Rey song in the bg

f1screamz: the fact that she’s headlining and he’s just her biggest fan in the background i’m sobbing → quadrantchaos: @f1screamz lanmelie invented dual careers. she sings, he simps. balance.

softlaunchwho: the way she’s carrying the whole festival on her back

sneakyslowmo: why does every photo of them walking away look like a music video ending → ameliebangs: @sneakyslowmo bc they ARE the music video. track 12. credits rolling.

norrisnation: he smiled the entire walk back like he just got proposed to → girlwiththegridtattoo: @norrisnation in his defense, if Amelie smiled at me once i’d change my entire personality too 😭

wheresmylanmelie: honestly lando being the only man allowed in her era of hotness is the biggest plot twist of 2025

lanmeliefanclub: she’s about to hit the stage and he’s about to hit the floor from simping too hard 😭

primaprincess: can’t believe we live in a world where LANMELIE is REAL and HEADLINING → gridgirlvibes: @primaprincess like we manifested too hard and god got scared

ferrarifiles: lando been smiling like a fool all day…boy is GONE

tapasmami: bro he’s her groupie and he LOVES it → yeschef: @tapasmami he’s 3 seconds away from printing "Amelie’s #1 fan" shirts for everyone backstage

groupiegrid: someone said “i’d never let a man follow me around like that” girl he’s Lando Norris and she’s Amelie Dayman. stay humble. → chaoticcrew44: @groupiegrid nah fr they’re both each other’s biggest fans and it’s actually so cute

lanloverrrr: she looked back to check if he was still behind her 3 TIMES. she’s gone too. → sunsetmclaren: @lanloverrrr she’s literally walking like she’s floating and he’s the wind 😭

gridwagcentral: man left the paddock to carry her water bottle and vibes. that’s dedication. → f1fangurlie: @gridwagcentral that’s husband behavior not even boyfriend

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The faint hum of festival prep buzzed through the walls of Amelie’s trailer. After soundcheck, the atmosphere was calm, a small bubble of calm in the chaos of a major music festival. She sat on a plush chair, draped in a soft robe, while Jared—the stylist, who had been with her for years—worked on the last tweaks to her outfit. Evanie, the hair stylist, was busy wrapping her curls tighter, a fresh departure from the usual sleek straight hair Amelie sported for years. Lola, her makeup artist, hovered nearby blending shadows with delicate precision.

Amelie closed her eyes for a second, enjoying the gentle buzz of activity around her, the quiet camaraderie of her team.

The trailer door opened, and Meredith slipped inside, carrying a large bag filled with takeout containers. Behind her, Lando stepped in with that familiar, easy grin that made Amelie’s chest flutter. His eyes locked on hers instantly.

Lola, noticing the look on Lando’s face, whispered with a smirk, —Lando, don’t you dare.—

Lando’s grin only deepened as he stepped closer, unbothered by the warning. —Don’t ruin my work, Lando.— Lola’s voice was half amused, half pleading, as she tightened her grip on the makeup brush.

But before she could say more, Lando bent down smoothly and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to Amelie’s lips. It was soft, innocent—just a sweet hello. Amelie pulled back laughing, shaking her head at him.

—You’re impossible,— she teased, eyes sparkling.

Lola rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide a small smile. —Okay, now let me fix what you just messed up. Stand still, Ames.—

Amelie settled back as Lola expertly brushed and blended, muttering, —This is why I can’t have nice things.—

Lando moved to help Meredith unpack the takeout, spreading the food across the small table in the corner. Jared hovered to arrange some extra accessories nearby, and Evanie gave Amelie’s curls one last pinch before stepping back.

The team settled around the table, plates in hand, the buzz of chatter rising as everyone dug in. Lando and Amelie had ordered different dishes, but true to form, they shared both, stealing bites from each other’s plates.

Amelie’s laptop rested on the table, the opening credits of Friends playing softly as the group relaxed between bites.

The trailer was warm with conversation, laughter blending with the familiar “I’ll be there for you…” from the Friends theme as Amelie giggled with her mouth full of noodles, one leg curled beneath her on the couch. Lando sat beside her, their food containers balanced between them, his arm stretched lazily behind her shoulders.

—This one’s yours,— she said, nudging a dumpling toward him with her chopsticks.

—That one has chili oil all over it, that’s sabotage,— he accused, raising a brow, but taking it anyway. —You trying to ruin my stomach before your set so I have to watch it from a toilet? Rude.—

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough so only he could hear. —You could watch it from the stage with me. That way, if I choke on a high note, at least you’ll be there to witness my downfall in 4K.—

Lando snorted. —You? Downfall? You could hum into the mic and they’d still scream like you cured disease.—

Before she could respond with something sarcastic, the trailer door opened again.

A gust of warm outside air swept in, followed by the unmistakable voice of her mother.

—Mi amor!—

Amelie’s eyes snapped up mid-bite just as her mom rushed forward and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a tight, motherly hug. The chopsticks nearly flew from her hand.

—Mamá!— she choked, laughing with her mouth still partially full. —You scared me!—

—Look at you,— her mom cooed, pulling back just enough to cup her face. —You look stunning even half-done.—

Amelie flushed, caught between laughter and surprise as her mother fussed over her. Lola stepped aside with a knowing smile, giving them space, while Evanie discreetly adjusted a curl that had been squished by the sudden hug.

—Mamá, you weren’t supposed to be here until later,— Amelie said, voice fond as she stood up, robe swishing around her legs.

Her dad followed in behind, already clapping Lando on the back in a casual, friendly man-hug. —Lando! You surviving all this chaos?—

Lando stood quickly, straightening up with the instinct of someone greeting royalty. —Barely, Mr. Dayman, but I’m trying my best.—

—No need for the Mr., mijo. You’ve earned first-name basis by now.—

—Then you have to stop calling him mijo or he’s going to combust,— Amelie muttered to her mom, who laughed and waved her off.

Her dad grinned, then gestured to the takeout. —You feeding the whole army in here?—

—Technically Meredith is,— Amelie said, tossing her assistant a grateful smile. —But yes. Festival fuel.—

Her mom eyed the food, the half-done hair, and the robe. —And you’re still not dressed? Ay, Amelie...—

—We had a small... Lando delay,— Lola chimed in without looking up, carefully dabbing under Amelie’s eye with a small brush.

Lando lifted both hands in mock innocence. —Just a kiss! Barely even a real one!—

—You smudged her highlighter, dude,— Jared said from across the room, one brow raised. —You touched the canvas.—

—You’ll live,— Lando muttered dramatically, flopping back down onto the couch beside Amelie’s laptop. —I’m basically her emotional support animal at this point.—

—You’re more like a clingy housecat,— Amelie added, grabbing her drink with a grin and sipping through the straw.

—Still cute though,— he shot back, nudging her knee gently.

Her mom settled in beside Meredith, already opening a takeout box like she owned the place, while her dad leaned against the back wall, surveying the room like a general at peace. It felt... normal. Cozy, even.

Too normal.

That’s when Lando froze.

Amelie hadn’t told them.

He blinked slowly, chopsticks still in hand, as his brain quietly exploded. She hadn’t told them. About the apartment. About Monaco. About the cohabitation situation.

He looked sideways at her.

She was busy trying to fish a sesame noodle off her top.

He leaned in, lips barely moving. —Ames.—

—Hm?— she mumbled around her straw.

—You haven’t told them.—

Her eyes flicked up to him.

He gave her a pointed look. A do-you-want-me-to-die kind of look. A your-dad-just-called-me-mijo kind of look.

She blinked. Paused. Then shrugged.

—It hasn’t come up.—

—It’s literally now coming up. There’s a dumpling tray between us and your mother.—

—Shhh,— she hushed, smiling at her dad like nothing was happening. —Papá, can you pass me the soy sauce?—

Lando leaned back, lips parted in disbelief.

—You’re actually insane,— he whispered, handing her the soy sauce instead.

Amelie gave him a sweet smile. —I promise I’ll tell them. Just... not right now. I’m literally in a robe and I have one eyelash on.—

—You had weeks to tell them. You had the entire plane ride to tell them. You had after soundcheck to tell them. You had noodle time to tell them.—

She elbowed him lightly. —I said after the show. Dinner. Wine. Controlled setting. No brushes near my face.—

Lando looked like he wanted to combust. Instead, he stabbed a dumpling and muttered, —They’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna get murdered over spring rolls.—

Across the room, her dad was asking Meredith about the setlist, clearly unaware that his daughter had been living in sin (in his eyes, at least) with a Formula 1 driver in Monaco for weeks.

Lando was now very aware of every single decision he had ever made.

—What if your dad asks where you’re going after the festival?— he hissed, barely chewing.

—Then I say Monaco. No lies.—

—And if he asks why you’re going to Monaco?—

Amelie raised a brow. —Because I live there. With my boyfriend. Who he just hugged.—

Lando stared at her.

She calmly sipped from her drink, unbothered.

Jared caught their silent exchange and leaned over from his seat. —What’s happening? Why does Lando look like he just got a cease and desist from the Pope?—

Amelie didn’t even flinch. —He just remembered I haven’t told my parents I moved in with him.—

Evanie choked on his spring roll. Lola froze mid-swipe of blush.

—You haven’t what?— Jared nearly shrieked.

—Shut up!— Amelie whisper-yelled, waving them off. —You’re going to blow it.—

Lola crossed her arms. —Okay, but, respectfully, how do you forget to mention something like that to your parents? What do they think happens when you disappear for two weeks between shows? That you’re squatting in an Airbnb like a cryptid?—

—No, they just think I'm “visiting Lando,”— she replied, making air quotes. —Technically not a lie.—

Lando buried his face in his hands. —I’m not gonna survive this dinner.—

Amelie patted his knee affectionately. —You’ll be fine. I’ll soften the blow. Maybe wear something that makes you look extra innocent.—

—You’re weaponizing my wardrobe now?—

She grinned, biting into a spring roll. —Yes. This is war. But cute war.—

Her mom turned to them suddenly. —What are you two whispering about over there? You look like you’re plotting something.—

—Just trying to figure out if we have time to squeeze in a nap before the show,— Amelie said effortlessly, smiling wide. —I’m fading.—

Her dad nodded seriously. —Rest up. You’ve got a long night ahead. And after, we’ll all have dinner, sí? You can tell us about what comes next.—

Lando nearly choked.

Amelie just nodded. —Dinner sounds perfect.—

Her mom smiled warmly, completely oblivious. —We’ll bring wine. The nice kind.—

Lando looked at Amelie like she’d signed him up for trial by fire.

She only nudged him with her foot under the table, face completely serene.

Later that night, he would stand on the side of the stage with Meredith, watching Amelie command thousands like it was nothing, her curls bouncing under the lights, her voice soaring like it ruled the sky.

But for now?

He was just a boyfriend, trapped in a trailer, sitting two feet from his maybe-future-in-laws, and very, very aware that he was living in a country with no extradition treaty for what he was about to confess at dinner.

God help him.

-------------

georgerussell63 replied to your story

georgerussell63: you’re down SO BAD landonorris: and proud georgerussell63: you gonna cry or scream first landonorris: already did both backstage

alex_albon replied to your story

alex_albon: bro she’s glowing alex_albon: like actually glowing. are you okay landonorris: no. i almost passed out alex_albon: simp level 10000 landonorris: correct

charles_leclerc replied to your story

charles_leclerc: i would simply not know peace if i were you landonorris: i haven’t known peace since the robe moment in 2023 charles_leclerc: makes sense

maxfewtrell replied to your story

maxfewtrell: she’s the headliner and you’re the groupie landonorris: and? maxfewtrell: just making sure you know your place landonorris: i bring her water and emotional support backstage. i’m doing my job.

oscarpiastri replied to your story

oscarpiastri: why do i feel like you’re crying while posting this landonorris: cause i WAS oscarpiastri: do u want a hug or to be bullied landonorris: both

danielricciardo replied to your story

danielricciardo: i saw her outfit on tiktok danielricciardo: be honest. how close were u to proposing landonorris: the ring was in my pocket. i swear to god. danielricciardo: 😭😭😭

carlossainz55 replied to your story

carlossainz55: hermano… you in love love huh landonorris: bro i can’t even breathe properly when she sings carlossainz55: 😭 get a grip landonorris: i did. on her waist backstage.

lilymhe replied to your story

lilymhe: she looks like an actual goddess landonorris: i know lilymhe: you’re not normal for this btw landonorris: never claimed to be

tchalamet replied to your story

tchalamet: bro i’d fall in love w her too looking like THAT landonorris: respectfully, back off tchalamet: LMAOOO chill i’m team lanmelie

pierregasly replied to your story

pierregasly: she is the moment. landonorris: she’s MY moment. pierregasly: ok shakespeare relax

joshrichards replied to your story

joshrichards: bro u might as well post “wife” and go landonorris: don’t tempt me joshrichards: u whipped landonorris: 100%

ameliedayman reposted your story

ameliedayman: who is that 🤭 landonorris: mine.

-------------

The hotel suite in Barcelona was golden with late evening light, warm and glowy through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The hum of post-show adrenaline was still in Amelie’s skin as she stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a fluffy towel and smelling like eucalyptus and hotel luxury.

From the bedroom came a distinct groan.

—You okay?— she called, already knowing the answer.

—No.—

She padded in barefoot, towel tucked around her chest. Lando was lying face-down on the bed like he’d been dramatically thrown there by fate itself. Shirtless. Socks mismatched. Hair a mess.

—Babe,— she said, amused. —We’re going to dinner, not the gallows.—

He rolled over with a tragic expression. —It’s the same thing if your dad murders me with a steak knife.—

—He’s not going to murder you.—

—You don’t know that.—

She fought back a laugh, climbing onto the bed beside him. —He literally hugged you this afternoon.—

—Yeah, because he thinks we live in separate zip codes and I’m a nice, platonic boy who brings you soup when you’re sick. Not a guy who’s been sleeping in your bed and stealing your oat milk.—

She leaned on her elbow, hair still damp, water beading on her collarbone. —Is that what you think makes him mad? The oat milk theft?—

—It’s the betrayal of trust, Amelie,— he said dramatically. —I lied to the man’s face.—

—You just didn’t clarify. There’s a difference.—

—No there’s not. My mother raised me better than this.—

—You also once lied to your mom about doing your own laundry for three years. So.—

Lando sat up, pointing a finger. —That’s different. That was survival.—

She reached over and gently fixed his chaotic curls with her fingers, combing them back into place.

—Lan. It’s dinner. With my parents. At a restaurant they picked. With a wine list. Not a courtroom.—

He flopped again. —You don’t get it. Your dad’s terrifying.—

—No he is not. He flosses after lunch and listens to Coldplay. You’ll live.—

—He also played rugby and has a scary voice when he gets serious. And he offered me a beer earlier like he was trying to size me up.—

Amelie burst out laughing. —You’re such a man-child.—

—Thank you, I think.—

She kissed his forehead. —Get dressed. You’re wearing the green shirt I packed for you.—

He looked at her, eyes wide. —The one with the little embroidery on the collar?—

—Yes,— she said, smugly. —The one that makes you look like someone’s golden retriever boyfriend who reads books in parks and respects women.—

—You’re dressing me like a decoy!— he accused, eyes narrowing.

—Exactly,— she grinned. —You’re going in there looking like a saint so that when I drop the Monaco bomb, they can’t kill you. They’ll be too busy thinking about how nice your collar is.—

Lando groaned and let his head fall back onto the pillows. —I’m gonna throw up. I’m actually gonna throw up. What if your mom cries? Or worse, what if she smiles sadly? That’s so much worse.—

—You’re spiraling,— Amelie said calmly, smoothing his hair with one hand and reaching for the TV remote with the other. —Here. I’m putting on Modern Family while you change so you can remind yourself what white suburban peace feels like.—

Lando mumbled something that sounded like “bury me” and forced himself upright, trudging toward the suitcase like a kid being sent to military school.

Amelie flopped back onto the bed with a content sigh, watching him struggle to find the shirt she’d neatly folded for him.

—Middle pouch,— she offered lazily.

—Why is your packing system better than mine?—

—Because I have a brain and don’t throw socks in with chargers and snacks.—

—Unnecessary personal attack but okay.—

He pulled the shirt out with exaggerated care, holding it up like it was a holy relic.

—If this shirt doesn’t save my life tonight, I want it buried with me.—

Amelie peeked up from the bed. —You’re being very dramatic for someone who called me “bratty” for not getting emotional during a Pixar short.—

—That dog had no one,— Lando said, deadly serious, slipping the shirt over his head.

Amelie’s laugh was instant, warm, and so fond it softened every edge of her. She watched him button the shirt wrong once, then fix it without help, still muttering about oat milk and steak knives.

When he finished, he turned to her with a nervous smile. —Do I look lovable?—

She nodded slowly, sitting up and reaching for him. —You look like a man I would absolutely lie to my parents about cohabitating with.—

He groaned again and buried his face in her neck. —Why are you like this?—

—Because you love me like this,— she whispered into his ear, arms wrapping around him as his shoulders finally dropped.

They stood like that for a beat, still damp hair and warm skin, a soft moment wrapped in terrycloth and nerves.

Then, her phone buzzed.

Meredith: Your mom says we’re leaving in 10. Wear flats. Your dad’s wearing actual leather shoes for once.

Amelie pulled back with a sigh. —Come on, man-child. Show time.—

Lando took a deep breath. —If I survive this dinner, I’m proposing with a juice box ring.—

—If you survive this dinner, I’ll let you pick the playlist on the way to Monaco.—

He beamed. —Even if I add Coldplay just to charm your dad?—

—Especially if you do that.—

And with that, she tugged him toward the door, hand in hand, leaving behind the fluffy hotel peace and stepping into the soft Barcelona night.

-------------

liked by sunshineglow, wagspy, and others

ameliesvibes: Amelie stepping out for dinner in Barcelona tonight looking absolutely glowing in that effortless chic vibe 🔥✨ Rumor has it she was with Lando and her parents, but all eyes were on her solo moments captured — queen energy only 👑🍽️

View all 55,022 comments

sunnysideup: ames looking like she just stepped out of a movie 🎬🔥 → redcarpetdreams: @sunnysideup icon energy only

gpfanatic99: not gonna lie, if i was lando i’d be starin’ at her all dinner too 👀❤️ → speedjunkie: @gpfanatic99 priorities fr

momof3: love seeing her shine on her own too, but yes, lanmelie is my fave 🥰

barcelonabeat: can someone confirm if lando was really there or nah? 👀 → amesvibes: @barcelonabeat ppl say yes but we got only ames pics… mysteryyyy

hatersgonnahate: overhyped couple, pls 🙄

sunshineglow: ames looks like she owns the whole city, lowkey queen moves 👑 → lanmelie4ever: @sunshineglow facts, she’s the vibe!!!

sunnyvibes: ames looking like she owns the whole city tonight 🔥 → lanmelliegang: @sunnyvibes literally the glow up is unreal

racequeen23: bet lando was lowkey sweating thinking about dinner with the parents 😂 → gpdrama: @racequeen23 he’s probably rehearsing compliments in the mirror rn lol

madridfanatic: if lando didn’t take a hundred pics, did it even happen? 😭

chillvibesonly: why she gotta look this good without even trying? queen behavior 👑 → amefan99: @chillvibesonly icon status confirmed

justafan45: imagine being that lucky to sit across from her at dinner lol → chaoticwags: @justafan45 lowkey me every night in my dreams

heatwave12: lando probably triple checking his outfit before dinner, classic 😭 → streamwatcher: @heatwave12 lmao the man’s nervous energy is peak boyfriend material

sainzslays: i KNOW she ordered for him at dinner she gives “i’ll have the wine list pls” energy → wagspy: @sainzslays and he just nods like “same for me”

softforlanmelie: parents dinner?? this is husband behavior idk what to tell u

tracksidebabe: someone said lando was nervous??? real

pitlaneprincess: ok but why do i feel like ames was like “don’t be weird” before walking in 😭 → blondesinatrolley: @pitlaneprincess she absolutely did then kissed his cheek and he melted

sundazeddd: lando’s roman empire is just her in that little black dress ordering tapas → cornermerchant: @sundazeddd his mind? GONE

thisshipfloats: lanmelie dinner era... we are NOT normal about this → user1965: @thisshipfloats we never were and we never will be 💅

-------------

The restaurant smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something buttery sizzling over flame. There was a flicker of candlelight at every table and the occasional clink of a fork against a plate, the ambiance low and intimate and—most importantly—neutral territory. No one could get murdered over a tapas platter, right?

Amelie was two glasses of Rioja deep, cheeks pink from the wine and the warmth and the knowledge that Lando kept brushing her thigh under the table like he was grounding himself with every pass of his knuckles.

Her mother, Victoria, was enthusiastically telling a story about a hummingbird she’d seen that morning from their hotel balcony—her gestures graceful, her nails a coral pink that matched the gauzy scarf she wore.

Her dad, Elias, was nodding along, sipping a beer with his usual slow, deliberate movements. He hadn’t said much yet, but he didn’t need to. He was the kind of man whose silences held as much weight as his words. Lando hadn’t stopped fidgeting since the olives hit the table.

—So, Lando,— Victoria said, setting her glass down with a pleasant smile, —how’s the travel schedule coming along for the summer?—

—Busy,— he said, quick, polite. —Pretty much all over the place. We’re back-to-back in July. But we have a break coming up, and I’m really looking forward to it.—

Elias hummed. —Do you rest during those?—

—I try,— Lando said, and Amelie could feel the exact moment he started sweating under his collar. —But... uh, Amelie’s schedule’s usually worse than mine, so we kind of just…collapse in the same timezone and hope for the best.—

Her mother laughed. —Sounds about right.—

Amelie felt the flutter rise in her chest. Now or never. The timing was as good as it would ever be. Lando’s knee bumped hers again, like he could feel the mental storm brewing next to him.

She set her wineglass down. —Okay. So. Speaking of timezones.—

Lando froze.

Her parents both turned to her, attentive but unaware.

She straightened a little in her seat, brushed her hair back behind her ear, and tried to ignore the way Lando’s hand slid under the table and latched onto hers like an anchor.

—So,— she said again, more bravely. —I’ve been thinking a lot about…life logistics. Touring, filming, everything. And Lando and I have been trying to juggle everything as best we can. And... it’s worked. Surprisingly well, actually.—

Victoria tilted her head. Elias was unreadable.

Amelie took a breath.

—And we’ve talked about it, and I’ve thought about it, and I feel really good about this decision. Which is why I wanted to tell you guys now. In person. At dinner. With food around, so you can’t yell.—

Lando choked on air. Her mom blinked.

Amelie pushed forward. —I’m moving in with Lando. In Monaco.—

There was a long, dense pause. A kind of stunned silence that made Lando go very still beside her, like if he didn’t move, he might not be noticed.

—Oh,— her mom said softly, blinking again.

Elias’ face didn’t change, but his beer stopped midair.

Lando, under the table, whispered, —You actually did it. Oh my God.—

Amelie squeezed his hand so hard he let out a tiny squeak.

She turned her gaze to her parents, eyes wide, heart pounding. —I know it sounds fast, but it’s really not. We’ve been together for a while, and I’ve practically lived out of a suitcase in his apartment since February. It just makes sense now. We love each other. And we want to build something. Together.—

Victoria was the first to speak again. Her voice was calm, careful, but not cold. —That’s a big step, sweetheart.—

—It is,— Amelie agreed, shoulders squared, voice firm despite the flush in her cheeks. —But it doesn’t feel big. It feels… right. I’m not eighteen and running off to live with a boy who wears trucker hats ironically. I’ve thought this through. And we’ve made it work across oceans and cities and timezones. This just feels like the next chapter. A good one.—

Victoria looked at Elias. Elias looked at Victoria.

Lando looked like he wanted to melt into his chair and disappear forever.

Amelie could feel her heart doing pirouettes in her chest. She was suddenly hyperaware of how quiet the restaurant had become—or maybe that was just in her head. A nearby server clinked down a fresh basket of bread somewhere and Amelie thought, if my dad doesn’t say something in the next five seconds I’m going to become a puddle on this Spanish tile floor.

Finally, Elias cleared his throat. His voice was slow, deep, thoughtful. —Have you signed anything? A lease?—

Lando blinked, clearly not expecting that to be the first question.

Amelie shook her head. —No, not yet. We wanted to tell you before making it formal. But we’ve talked about it for months. He has the space. And… I’m happy there. It feels like home.—

That last part made Lando glance sideways at her, eyes soft and stunned.

Victoria’s lips twitched, like she was fighting between fifteen different emotions. She reached for her wine, took a slow sip, then said, —Well. I hope you at least make him clean out a drawer for your skincare.—

Amelie let out a breathless laugh. —He already has. And a full closet rail. And part of his fridge.—

—Part?— Victoria raised a brow.

—Okay, like… seventy-five percent,— Lando muttered, finally finding his voice. —She keeps putting tiny glass jars of weird pickled things in there and yelling at me when I knock them over.—

Elias exhaled a sound that might’ve been a chuckle. Might’ve.

—You’re the one who stores energy drinks like a feral college student,— Amelie shot back, nudging him.

—You’re the one who stores sea moss. I don’t even know what sea moss does.—

—It’s good for your skin and immune system.—

—So’s sunshine but you yell at me when I don’t wear SPF.—

—Because you’re English and fragile,— she replied.

Victoria held up a hand, laughing now. —Okay, okay. Domestic bliss confirmed.—

Amelie looked at her parents again, trying to read between the smiles. Her mother looked amused but thoughtful. Her father was chewing slowly, like he was digesting more than just the food.

And then he looked at Lando.

Not with menace, not with disappointment—just with that signature stillness that always meant he was choosing his words carefully.

—You’ll take care of her?— he asked simply.

Lando nodded immediately, jaw clenched like he’d been waiting for the moment to swear an oath. —Always. I promise.—

Elias looked at him for a beat longer, then turned back to his plate. —Good.—

Amelie blinked. —Wait. That’s it? No dramatic fatherly warning? No “she’s still my little girl” speech?—

—No,— Elias said plainly. —You’re not a little girl. And I trust you to know what you’re doing. Even if I don’t love the speed of it.—

Amelie softened. She reached for her dad’s hand across the table, squeezing it once.

Victoria sighed dramatically. —I was really hoping I could guilt you into staying closer to home by buying you new Le Creuset.—

—You can still do that,— Amelie offered sweetly. —I’ll take it with me.—

Her mom shook her head with a rueful smile. —You’re really doing this, huh?—

—I am.—

She leaned into Lando’s side, and his arm instinctively wrapped around her chair.

—Well,— Victoria said, raising her glass once more, —to terrifying choices and brave daughters.—

—And golden retriever boyfriends who respect women,— Amelie added, lifting hers too.

Lando flushed scarlet. —I do respect women.—

—We know, babe,— she whispered with a grin.

Elias clinked his glass against hers gently. —Just don’t forget to call home.—

Amelie smiled. —I won’t. I promise.—

They sipped. Lando exhaled a full-body breath of relief. And for the first time all night, he let himself laugh—really laugh, warm and wide—as Amelie laced their fingers under the table and leaned her head on his shoulder like she already belonged there.

Because she did.

And soon, officially, she would.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

yoga

words: 1.2k

warnings: sexual assault!! (not from rafe), established relationship, brief violence but its nothing more serious than a shove, rafe is a bit grumpy at first but hes a softie for his girl

“can't believe you're dragging me to this dumb shit.” rafe grumbles, both yoga mats tucked under his arm.

“oh come on, it's an intermediate class! it'll probably be challenging.” you enter into the room, spotting a good place for your mats near the back of the room as you navigate through the people who arrived even earlier than you.

“besides.” you hum. “it's good to stretch those big muscles of yours.” you poke rafes bicep with a sly smile on your face, getting on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

rafe grumbles something under his breath, but the frown is gone from his lips as he lays out your mat and then his.

you both sit, arranging your other workout supplies, only one large water bottle shared between the two of you, rafe insists there's no need to bring two, liking when you're at the gym and have to come over to him to take a drink.

“people take their shoes off?” rafes face scrunches up as he looks around the room.

you can't help but giggle. “you don't have to if you don't want to, baby.”

“yeah, im definitely not.” rafe resists the urge to leave, call it quits on this class. he looks at you, reminding himself who he's doing this shit for.

“ive never taken this guy's class before, you know i always go to ashleys on tuesdays and thursdays.” you keep your voice lowered as the instructor walks into the room, greeting a few people before heading to the speakers to get the music for the class setup.

“yeah, i like ashley better than this guy.” rafe is extra thankful he agreed when you dragged him away from his weights. something about this guy already irks rafe.

you roll your eyes at rafe, chuckling softly.

“alright, hello everyone.” the instructor says, stepping to his mat at the front of the class. “i see some new faces so let me introduce myself. im christopher and this is intermediate yoga. if at any point a pose is too difficult for you, feel free to modify or drop into child's pose…”

he continues with his normal speal that you tune out, favoring to watch rafe in the reflection of the mirror, admiring your boyfriends handsome features.

“shit.” you mutter under your breath, too distracted to realize that the class had started as you quickly get into the first warm up poses.

the class flows naturally into the harder moves, the instructor walking around the room on occasion to double check no one is extending themselves too far or arching their back improperly when they're not supposed to.

you move into downward dog upon his instruction, your eyes flickering over to rafe as his shirt falls down his torso slightly, revealing his muscled abs.

you yell when a pair of hands suddenly grab your hips, pulling you a couple inches backwards.

“just correcting your form, dear.” christopher says.

you swallow harshly, feeling your cheeks heat in embarrassment at being so distracted and shouting out.

“you okay?” rafe asks, not caring that the instructor is still standing just a few feet away.

“yeah.” you quickly nod. you know rafe is probably resisting the urge to beat the shit out of him for touching you, not realizing it's quite normal in these classes, although ashley always asks your permission beforehand.

“now lower yourself onto your stomach.” the instructor comes to stand behind you again, so you make sure you're doing everything properly with the highest level of fluidity you can.

“and now spread your legs. sit back into your heels and lower your belly button to the earth. arms extend forward for wide childs pose.”

you can practically feel the instructors eyes still on you, and you know from the way rafes head is lifted that he's paying very close attention to his movements.

he leans down next to you and places his hands on your thighs, going to adjust your pose again, but you gasp when his hands don't slide to your hips and instead onto your butt.

rafe is onto his feet in a flash. “get your fucking hands off her.”

he doesn't wait for the instructor to react, pulling him off of you and pushing him into the wall. you flip to sit, as everyone else in the room does to watch the scene unfold.

“i was just correcting her form!” he quickly defends himself.

“as if.” rafe scoffs. “you were fucking groping her ass. get the fuck out of here and i never want to see you at this gym again, consider yourself fired.”

“fired?” christopher shrieks. he's not a small man, but he looks pewny next to rafe. “you can't fire me!”

“would you rather me call the police on you?” rafe grunts. “i prefer to handle shit on my own but if that's what you want…”

“you can't prove anything.” christopher says.

“i… i saw it too.” a woman next to you stands up, coming to your defense even though she doesn't look 100% sure about it.

“and he touched me inappropriately the other week.” another woman stands up. “i thought i was just being sensitive but if he's doing this to other women…”

the rest of the class nods in agreement, clearly this is a pattern with this creep.

“now get the fuck out.” rafe shoves christopher away. “and never touch another person without their permission ever again.”

everyone's eyes are on christopher as he leaves, fleeing in obvious fear.

“baby-” rafe drops down onto his knees, both his hands cupping your face. “are you okay?”

“i-” you bottom lip quivers before tears run down your cheeks. rafe moves quickly, scooping you into his lap and holding you tightly against him, letting your emotions run their course.

he watches as the other women and couple spread out guys collect their mats, understanding they aren't getting a full class today before they head out of the room.

“im so sorry, baby.” rafe coos softly. “he'll never touch you again. i won't let anyone hurt you.”

you sniffle into his shirt, grappling with what just happened. you tilt your head up to look at rafe, needing to see the softness in his eyes.

“i love you.” rafe says, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“i love you.” you tell him, moving quickly to press your lips together in an actual kiss, letting yourself find comfort in his mouth.

you pull away with a content sigh, wiping your face with your palms before you slide out of rafes arms. “im… im okay.” you say honestly, glad nothing further happened. “thanks to you.”

“come on.” rafe stands. “let's get our mats and get out of here. ice cream?”

“mhm.” you nod, knowing rafe is going to be doting over you for the rest of the week, keeping an even closer eye on you than usual.

you walk out of the yoga room and down the hallway into the lobby, seeing the crowd of people with mats tucked under their arm taking to the director of the gym.

“there he is!” the woman who spoke out about his inappropriate touching says. “there's our hero!”

you smile at rafe. your hero.

sfw taglist: @bejeweledreverie @winterrrnight @ethanthequeefqueen @ladyinbl00d

[redhoodsdeer]

I love your writing and was wondering if you could do something fluffy with Jason Todd.

My birthday is on Valentine’s Day and I was wondering if you could write about Jason celebrating reader’s birthday on Valentine’s Day.

Like making her breakfast in bed or showering her with gifts, or making the whole day about her.

👉🏼👈🏼

cookies'n love (aka in love jason todd x reader)

prompt: where the reader is already used to not celebrating her birthday, because it's on a day where all her friends are celebrating with their valentines, it turns out that her very excited to celebrate boyfriend has something to say about it.

a/n: hi, i'm back with a really really late request (i'm so so sorry), and i know valentines day were a whole month ago, but happy late birthday! i changed a bit of what you'd requested, but keep the soul of it (jason in love), i hope you like it!

english is not my first language.

It was around 8AM when you woke up to the shattering noise of several things falling, your bright eyes blinking away the sleep, while a very sleepy you moved towards the source of all the noise.

Now, dating and living with a vigilante boyfriend for so long, it's expected that a loud noise early in the morning could be absolutely anything, especially when your boyfriend is Jason Todd.

But still, you're not sure anything could have prepared you for the sight of your huge boyfriend, in your pink kitchen apron, trying to quietly tidy up the mess of cookie cutters and cake shapes that were scattered across the counter.

With a heart-shaped cupcake pan in one hand, and an oven mitt in the other, your boyfriend's eyes meet yours that were incredible confused, sleep long forgotten in the surprise of the situation.

"Jay? You're baking? At eight in the morning on a tuesday?" Your sleepy voice comes as you walk into the kitchen, helping him tidy the mess of baking pans and cookie cutters on the counter.

"Babe, you're not supposed to be awake, it's your birthday, you should sleep until 10AM while your handsome boyfriend bakes cookies for you."

And just then, you smell the distant scent of vanilla and the very close smell of burning. Spotting the pan of burnt cookies cooling near the sink. "Huh, don't you think you overcooked it a little, Jay?"

You blink your pretty eyes at him while trying to be as sweet as possible about it, because your boyfriend with zero cooking skills had gotten up early to make cookies for you, just because it was your birthday.

And you knew, that for some people, birthdays were a big deal, but they just weren't for you, not since you were 12 years old, when all your friends started having boyfriends and you were left behind, your birthday being replaced by cards and cheap chocolate.

But, Jason actually cared about your birthday, cared enough to try to bake you cookies, and your heart warmed at the thought, not knowing what you had done to deserve him.

You watch him slowly wither at the comment about the burnt cookies. "Yeah, I guess, but there's another batch coming out that's going to be perfect." He says, shining up again.

And a silly, lovestruck smile appears on your face as you stand on your tiptoes covered by colorful socks to reach his face and shower him with loving kisses.

"Don't worry, Jay, they're perfect, all of them." You say as you kiss all over his face, feeling his smile appearing and he placing his hands on your hips, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing and placing you sitting on the, slightly less messy, counter.

"Yeah? Is that what you think? I just feel bad for waking you up from your sleep, you already sleep badly enough without me knocking over the whole kitchen." He jokes as he now returns the kisses on your face, forgetting about the burnt cookies in the sink and the cookies baking in the oven.

"Don't be, now we can do it together, maybe I'll even teach you my secret recipe" A smile playing on your sleepy face.

His smile widens as you wrap your arms around him, wanting to stay as close to him as you can, as if to ensure that he is real. "Oh yeah? I'll hold you to that promise, huh" he teases as he kisses your lips softly.

"They say the secret ingredient is only found in the highest mountain, and you're only worthy of the recipe if you love a Jason Todd, so it's not for many." A laugh comes out of him as he grins goofily, kissing the tip of your nose.

"Happy birthday, silly."

[cloverrwritess]

Title: BREAKING NEWS | part 4

Ian Hecox x Fem!Padilla! Reader

Request: Yes | No

note: this is the end of the fem! padilla! reader series! 🫶🏻

MASTERLIST

We started giving out hints to our fans while filming for youtube like pairing together in teams, whispering in each other's ears and laughing, and sitting next to each other all the time when we were scheduled for videos together.

Ian and I started posting on instagram with pictures of us.

ianhecox ✔️

❤️ 23.7k 💬 439 ↪️ 70

ianhecox ✔️ she said "happy hour on a tuesday" @namepadilla

Comments

user1638 they’re not even hiding their relationship at this point

-> user1739 right lmaoo

user0486 been waiting since 2018 for this to happen

angelagiovanagiarratana and none of yall invited me???

-> ianhecox sorry only both of us got the invitation

co_mill invite shayne and I next time!

See more…

________

namepadilla ✔️

❤️ 19.4k 💬 367 ↪️ 35

namepadilla ✔️ forced him to buy sylvanian families with me ☺️

Comments

co_mill adorable omggg

-> namepadilla right!

shaynetopp its so tiny

-> ianhecox like you lol

-> shaynetopp guess who's leaving smosh the second time

anthonypadilla interesting...

-> user9492 OHHHHHHH

-> user2918 they haven't told him 🫣

user2103 this is like watching shourtney all over again

See more...

________

Ian and I were giggling on his bed just reading the comments on our recent posts.

“We might need to tell a certain someone about our relationship” I played with his hair and stared into his eyes.

“You mean Anthony? I really don’t want to get my ass beat by him, we already reconciled like a married couple who almost got divorced”

I chuckled “I don’t want to be the reason why he leaves again”

“Don’t think like that. He will support us, I'm sure of it”

________

I texted Anthony a day later to join me for lunch in a restaurant near the smosh hq. I felt my hands get sweaty just thinking of telling him about Ian and I’s relationship.

Once he arrived, we gave each other a hug before we sat down and ordered what we wanted to eat.

“So I have some news for you” I played with my food on the plate from how nervous I was on telling him.

“Let me guess, you and Ian?”

I closed my mouth and stared at him while slowly nodding my head up and down.

“Listen, I’m not mad, I’m actually so happy for you guys. I’ve seen how Ian has been tiptoeing his feelings towards you for years now, I knew one day he wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself” Anthony shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

“We’re all adults now, you know how much I care for you and I want the best for you, I know he will treat you better than your other exes did”

I heart felt full from how much Anthony was so supportive. “Thank fuck, I thought I was going to be the reason about Ianthony breaking up again”

We both laughed and spend the entire lunch hanging out.

________

Going back home after telling my brother about my relationship with his best friend felt like a thousand pounds were taken away from my shoulders.

I unlocked the door from Ian's place with a key he gave me and put my jacket on the clothing rack before closing the door.

I saw Ian sitting on the couch, watching the tv—a cooking show was playing. "Hey, I'm back"

I walked towards him and gave him a kiss on his forehead. "How was your day?"

"It was great, how did it go with Anthony?"

I played with his hair "It went great, better than I thought it would"

"Told you, he won't mind. You need to stop overthinking too much"

"I know"

________

The next day, we both decided to finally hard lauch our relationship on social media.

ianhecox ✔️

❤️ 40.9k 💬 673 ↪️ 89

ianhecox ✔️ kept these pictures from years ago, knew it would important one day. @namepadilla

Comments

co_mill is this a confirmation or…

-> ianhecox yes

-> namepadilla yes

shaynetopp finally holy shit

phatchanse @angelagiovanagiarratana pay up

-> angelagiovanagiarratana fuck you

user3940 just opened instagram and now my day is better

tomeybones congrats guys!

anthonypadilla treat her right or I’m leaving smosh again and taking her with me

-> ianhecox on god

-> namepadilla that just gave me an ick never say that again

arashalalani_ mom and dad omg

________

namepadilla ✔️

❤️ 39.5k 💬 479 ↪️ 54

namepadilla ✔️ took you years to finally man up @ianhecox

Comments

anthonypadilla brother in law?

-> namepadilla jesus christ

-> ianhecox 🫣

co_mill YESSSSSSSS

shaynetopp look at this old couple

angelagiovanagiarratana sobbing hard right now

user3048 NOT ANTHONY COMMENTING BROTHER IN LAW 😭🤍

-> user2048 RIGHT I’m actually crying

user1098 I basically grew up watching Ian fall in love with [reader]

erindougal the office were making bets, thank you for making me rich this week

spennser I can finally stop cutting out multiple clips of you guys giggling like highschool couples. So happy for you guys.

filmingamanda mom and dad of smosh ft. anthony

________

Seeing everyone so supportive of our relationship made me so happy, I can’t wait where the future takes me now that I have him on my side.

[End]

[muniimyg]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ chaebol!jungkook (4) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ *nsfw*

series m.list // taglist closed.

note: have safe sex & don’t be like these two <3

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @kekerrreke @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

monday

jungkook comes home around lunch time. no words can describe how happy he is to see you half asleep on his couch with bam curled up with you. it's weird. his heart has never matched the pace of his dick before.

he wakes you up by joining you. as he lays his body on top of yours, you wrap your arms around him. he snuggles in closer, leaving kisses on your neck. "what'd you tell your husband?" he murmurs. you sigh as you play with his hair. "told him i went to visit my cousin, jiun."

he nods along, "that makes sense. didn't she just give birth like three months ago? three months is a good time to visit a new born." you're shocked by his memory. "how'd you remember—"

jungkook laughs hearty as he sits up and pulls you with him. "you wouldn't let me cum in you for like two weeks then. got all paranoid about having my baby or some shit."

you shrug. "having your baby wouldn't be so bad."

jungkook's eyes dim. "if you didn't have a husband, right?"

tiptoeing, you plant a kiss on his lips. "aren't you my husband?"

that night, jungkook fucks you like you're the only thing that matters to him. he missed you so much that he had no time to buy condoms. his heart goes on overdrive when you tell him it's okay. you say, "you can fuck me raw. i wanna know how you feel... give this to me, okay? give me all of you."

so he does. in so many ways, he gives you himself.

tuesday

the morning starts off with sex.

the coffee you brewed for the two of you goes cold as it sits on the nightstand, untouched. tangled in his bedsheets, you can't help but giggle at every gentle touch he places on you. it's different. sex with him has never felt like this before. it feels like lightning.

jungkook shoves his cock inside you for the nth time, causing you to squeal. as he towers over you, you moan at the sight of his chain dangling. you feel every inch of his cock pump inside of you, each stroke hitting your g-spot. it's so insane. like, you've never liked sex so much before this. before him.

in the back of your mind, you wonder if you can ever let this go. could you ever forget about this? how tuesday morning sex feels like with the man that you're practically forbidden to be with?

it doesn't matter.

right now, it's him. he's the only thing you see and feel... and he feels like a dream.

as the day goes on, jungkook does a lot of sweet things you never expected him to do. he helped dress you. he started you a bath. he made you lunch. he asked you a lot of questions about your family, ultimately trying to get to know you more. at one point, he looks at you a little too fondly.

"what's with the look?" you ask, hiding your face with your hands.

jungkook moves them, bringing them to his lips. kissing your hands, he looks at you with the sweetest eyes. "you're... evergreen. you know that? you blow my mind. that's all."

you cover up the fact that your heart melted by smirking and taking his hands back. "yeah, yeah... you know what else i can blow?"

wednesday

jungkook can't say he hates this.

you tied him up and spent the past hour edging the shit out of him. between you two, your sweat and pre-cum could fill buckets. he loves the way you're out of breath. he loves the way you're gliding your pussy against his dick, struggling not to cum.

"j-just put it in, wifey." you feel shivers go down your back as he calls you that. "fuck me like you love me."

you freeze.

"like i what?"

jungkook hisses. "s-shut up."

you shake your head. "no. say it again."

jungkook struggles with the rope. "untie me."

"no. say what you said again."

"why don't i show you instead?"

that's all it takes. you untie him and he fucks you like he loves you. as you cum and feel him throbbing inside of you, you want to say it. you want to make a confession. instead, you mumble his name in between kisses and hope he simply knows.

thursday

jungkook spends most of his day at work. he textes you a million times, acting all clingy. you text him back with the same energy and enjoy your day with bam. you clean his penthouse a little and start on dinner.

you make his favourite.

when he comes home, his fatigue posture goes away the instant you greet him at the door. "jungkook?" you peer out of the corner, bam following you.

"hey," he smiles, collapsing into your embrace. "d-did you cook? it smells like—"

"yeah," you flush. "i did. i also made seaweed soup."

"it's not my birthday," he laughs, taking his shoes off. he holds you by the waist, guiding you to the kitchen. over the stove, he watches as you lift the lids off the dishes.

"i saw your calendar when i was tidying your study. your birthday was a few months ago but the date was empty? you didn't celebrate with anyone, did you?"

jungkook blinks at you.

"so i made you seaweed soup. at the very least, we can celebrate together. i hope that's okay—"

jungkook kisses you.

then, he fucks you against the kitchen counter. against his kitchen island, he has you bending over. at one point, you jump on him, legs wrapped around like it belongs there. he brings you to his couch, and lifts your legs. jungkook eats you out for a good hour. he plays with your pussy, switching from fucking you to fingering you until your squirt. when you do, you stain the cashmere throw blankets he has on his couch. it's okay. he'd display them if he could.

jungkook has your legs in the air for so long, they hurt so bad. to soothe them, he runs you both a bath. sitting in his bathtub together, you two giggle uncontrollably over the bubbles and bath salts. you two are so close. so intimate.

he kisses your shoulders. he kisses behind your ear. he kisses every part of you that he can.

by the time you two clean up, the meal you prepared is cold. as you put on your pjs, jungkook reheats the food. you join him by wrapping your arms around him, hugging his back. his heart is filled with so much love as you two sit down and eat together. you feed him a few bites of the soup, sing him happy birthday, and cuddle him to sleep.

that night, he hates your fiancé the most.

friday

jungkook invites his friends over.

at first, you're nervous. completely confused why he would do such a thing, but when you meet them.. you get it. they're all so funny and sweet. it confuses you how jungkook has such a douchey personality when he has such amazing friends.

"i've never seen him like this," his friend jimin comments. "he explained the whole thing to us... and obviously, we've been begging him for months to give up and stop bothering you... but after meeting you; i get it. if i were him, i'd hate your husband too."

you don't know what to feel. a part of you is upset that jungkook would talk about your life with others but another part of you can't help but feel flattered.

when his friends leave, you pick a fight.

jungkook doesn't yell. he apologizes instantly and tells you that he would kill his friends if they ever outted you. you take his word for it, but still hate the feeling.

"make up sex?" he suggests.

you roll your eyes and shove his chest. "get over yourself, you big mouth, ignorant chaebol kid—"

jungkook grabs a hold of your wrists and pulls you close. he throws you over his shoulders and takes you to the bedroom where he shows you just how sorry he is.

you accept his apologies 5 orgasms later.

saturday

jungkook makes an effort to make sure you aren't seen exiting his penthouse. he hires security and makes sure your husband isn't around. for the first time ever, jungkook takes you on a date.

he brings you to an outdoor movie. it's set up on this little hill that overlooks a field of flowers. he tells you that it's his grandmother's field. that he grew up running through them with his brother and one time, he got stung by a bee. he refused to come back ever since.

"why are we here then?" you ask, feeling a little bad at the memory he has.

"they're pretty," he answers simply. "you're pretty. it made sense."

you smile at him. tilting your head, you kiss him. he chases your lips when you pull away. moving closer to him, you lean against him. he holds you as close as he can, watching the sunset and wondering if this is how it will feel like forever.

if every flower field and every sunset from here on out will remind him of you.

sunday

he was dreading for this day to come.

he hoped the world ended by now... because it will. the moment you walk out his door tonight, it will.

jungkook is an angel the entire day. you two wake up slow as the sun shines through his curtains. you two have a quickie in bed. you make brunch together. lazily cuddle on the couch and watch each other's favourite movies.

just like that; it's over.

he looks for every excuse in his head. he wonders if he should just print the divorce papers for you already—but that didn't make any sense. you weren't even married to him yet.

he still had a chance.

jungkook thinks fast. he wonders if he should do it. if he should take his grandmother's ring out from his nightstand and offer it to you. he should, shouldn't he?

then, just as he's about to excuse himself to get the ring—your fiancé calls. you pick up after the second ring.

"hey, love..." you say gently, offering jungkook a smile and excusing yourself to his study.

he curls his fists and wonders just how selfish he could be. he concludes that it doesn't matter. if he could have you—he'd give everything else up. he'd do it. he really would.

but when you come back, your warm eyes break his heart.

"what'd he say?" jungkook asks, breaking the silence.

"he asked how my trip was going. he asked when i'd be coming home... and if we could move the wedding up."

jungkook's heart breaks.

"up by how much?"

you gulp. "next month."

he has no words. all he does is nod and back away. you move forward, wrapping yourself around him.

"we have a few more hours left," you comfort him. "let's be together for a little longer.. okay?"

he looks at you, utterly conflicted.

then, you kiss him and his mind clears.

you'd win.

no matter what he says or does, you'd win. you'd win him, you'd win your fiancé. but fuck that because it doesn't matter who you choose. you'd always have jungkook.

he kisses you until you're out of breath. he fucks you in such a fulfilling way, you swear you see stars. it's so different from the other times. it's loving. it's wishful. every handful of your breast he squeezes, every lick of your pussy, and every thrust he shoves his cum in deeper inside of you—it's mesmerizing. it's unforgettable. it's everything you've ever wanted and ever thought to want.

jungkook gives you everything. every plea you whimper, every kiss, and every touch in between you two—he tries his best to remember.

jungkook fucks you like there's no tomorrow.

because there isn't one.

this was the end.

[mariahcarreyyy]

love tropes with max?

# send me a driver and I’ll tell you which love tropes i associate them with ! suggestive themes 18+ below

mariahcarreyyy's 2k celebration announcement post

Look, I was going to say 'enemies to lovers' because, well, have you seen Max? But let's talk about Max and a nanny/caretaker!reader.

He and Kelly broke it off a while ago, but Max couldn't handle saying goodbye to Penelope, so they settled for split parenting. Sometimes, though, Max would have to leave for short periods of time—media duties, race weekends, etc.—and that's where you came in.

A friend had recommended you to him, and after signing multiple contracts and NDC's, you were officially caring for P on all days of the week except Tuesdays (you suspect it's because Max is always home on Tuesdays). Anyway, at the same time that you had grown incredibly fond of his daughter, she had too.

It was not hard, Max thought; you were undebateably beautiful.

He tries to dismiss his heart soaring whenever you'd laugh at his poorly made jokes. He tries to ignore the urge to touch you if he were in the same room as you—hands gripping your waist to slide past a tight hallway, back pressed against yours to help you reach P's cartoon cup on the top shelf of the kitchen—all not so platonic or discreet.

Max would insist you stay for dinner most nights, despite you not having any real reason to. You'd never agreed to something more enthusiastically in your life. His blue eyes soften as he watches you wipe some of the pasta sauce off the corner of P's lips.

It awoke something primal in him.

He wants to have you here, sitting and giggling before him, forever. For as long as you'll have him. If you even want him. After his daughter had been successfully tucked in bed without a refuting sound, he'd come back to a clean dinner table. Glancing through the kitchen aisle window, he could see your figure wiping the dirty dishes in the kitchen.

Grinning cheekily, Max tiptoes behind you, cockiness fading into adoration when he hears you humming some Dutch songs he'd play around the apartment. He shakes his head, his eye on the prize. Just as you'd been placing a plate on the dishrack, Max grips your shoulder blades, whispering a hushed 'boo'.

Your heart nearly fell out of your ass. A loud yelp escaped your lips, your fingers loosening around the plate. Max's eyes widen, and he holds the plate before it shatters onto the ground in all his driver reflex glory.

Turning to face him, both your cheeks tint pink when you register how close Max is from reaching for the plate behind you; chest grazing against your nipples, a shared minty breath shared between you, identical flushes on your faces.

Like magnets, the two of you push past the tension in the air, and your lips meet halfway. His massive hands burn through your clothes, one on the swell of your ass and another cupping the side of your neck, deepening the kiss and squeezing lightly.

You gasp at the momentary constriction, a pathetic moan escaping your mouth. Max swallows it, takes it as an opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, and smiles against them when you pull him flush against you.

"Max," you whimper, lips close enough to brush against his.

"I know, I know, liefje," he coos, tucking his hands underneath your thighs and hauling you onto the kitchen counter, snickering at your loud gasp when he pulls you to sit on the edge.