#like the entire performance i was smiling

[pedroscurls]

touch starved (one-shot)

summary: logan agreed to go out with wade, having been promised a low-key night, but he should've known than to trust wade for his word. he didn't agree to spend his night at a strip club and he's just about ready to leave until he sees you. pairing: worst!wolverine x fem!reader content warnings: explicit smut (18+, mdni), porn without plot, lap dance, grinding / humping, striptease, one night stand (you take logan back to your apartment), unprotected p in v (be safe folks!), cowgirl, reader takes charge (and logan's more than happy to let you take the lead), oral - m receiving, swallowing logan's release. basically this story is all about catering to logan and his needs 🙂‍↕️, reader description (only clothes and hair), no use of y/n. word count: 3k a/n: coming at ya with yet another one-shot of logan filth lol. my own headcanon is that logan / worst!wolverine is touch starved (just as much as he craves to be part of something bigger than himself). anyway, hope y'all enjoy - it's a spicy one 🤭 song: closer by nine inch nails

“You promised a quiet night out, Wade,” Logan snarls at the other man, hand gripping his glass of whiskey. It’s too loud in here, the music blaring from the speakers, the flashing dark red lights illuminating mainly the stage where women are performing. There are plenty of men surrounding the stage, alcohol in one hand and dollar bills in the other.

“I promised no such thing,” Wade grins. “I said let’s go out and you agreed.”

Logan’s jaw tightens and he looks at Wade with narrowed eyes. “You’re a fuckin’ liar.” 

Wade laughs. “Come on, peanut! Have some fun. Let loose. Just sit back and relax–”

“I’m leavin’,” Logan interrupts, downing his entire glass before slamming it on the table. He stands up and gets ready to turn on his heel when he catches a glimpse of you at the corner of his eye. He turns slightly and watches the way your smile meets your eyes. You don’t look like you belong in a place like this, the other women wearing too much make up and revealing so much that it leaves little to the imagination. But you… You look absolutely breathtaking and Logan feels like he can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away from you.

Your hair cascades past your shoulders, your make up remaining light and natural. You’re dressed in an all black sheer robe with a lace cuff and satin waist belt. The robe is loosely wrapped around your frame, giving Logan a glimpse of your sheer mesh bra, the top of your bra trimmed with lace and when you undo the belt of your robe to reveal your lower half, he feels his breath catch in his throat. Your panties – or rather, your thong – matches the same style of your bra. 

It’s so innocent in comparison to the other women in the strip club, and yet, Logan can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. It’s only when he hears Wade’s voice that he finally looks away, even though he’s yearning to just look at you again.

“Oh, someone’s caught your eye,” Wade grins, swaying in his seat. “Want a private dance, Mr. Wolverine?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Logan says. “Like I said, I was leavin’–”

“So soon?” you interrupt and glance between both men. You flash a smile in Wade’s direction who looks like he’s about ready to combust with excitement. He’s sipping his drink with a straw, grinning in your direction. Then, you glance over at Logan whose eyes stare directly into your own. 

“Actually,” Wade says. “How much for a private dance…” he trails, staring up at you as he waits for you to say your name.

“Kitty,” you finish for him. “You can call me Kitty.”

“Very fitting,” Wade winks. “Well, Kitty, it’s my friend’s first night out in a very long time and I figured I can treat him to a private dance.”

“That’s very nice of you,” you respond, but your eyes never leave Logan’s. You can see his eyes flit over your frame, lingering on your exposed skin.

“Listen, you ain’t have to and–”

“How about the first one’s on me?” you interject. 

“Sweetheart,” Logan mumbles. 

You bite your lower lip and gently reach up to rest a hand on his arm. You can feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt, can feel him flex it underneath your fingertips. Logan inhales sharply as he looks down at your hand, clearing his throat at your soft touch. 

“His name’s Logan, by the way,” Wade chimes in, cutting through the tension with a quiet giggle. 

“But only if you want to, Logan,” you whisper, moving your hand down his arm and to his forearm. You bat your eyelashes up at him, trying to ignore the obvious attraction you feel towards him. Truthfully, you’d rather spend the rest of your night with him rather than give dances to other men in the club – men who didn’t look like Logan. 

Logan feels his resolve diminishing, but when he hears his name leave your lips, he nods slowly. “Y– Yeah, sure.” 

“Great, come with me.” You smile and gently take his hand in yours. He looks down at it, taking notice of the way his large hand encompasses yours and he allows you to lead him towards the back of the club and into a much more private room. 

Once inside, Logan hears the door shut and he turns to face you, his eyes lingering on your frame. He watches you walk towards him, hips swaying to the muffled sound of the music until he feels your hands rest firmly on his chest. 

“You’re a shy one,” you point out, tongue darting out to lick your lower lip. 

“Not shy,” Logan mumbles. “Just bein’ respectful, sweetheart.” 

“Sexy and a gentleman?” you smile. “Mind if I keep you for the rest of the night?” you tease.

Logan feels a blush rise in his cheeks and lets out a quiet grunt when he feels you push him back against the large sofa. He stares up at you, eyes obviously now trailing your frame. He keeps his hands on his lap, though he yearns to reach out to touch you. 

“Logan,” you whisper, moving your hands to rest on the backs of the couch as you lean in until your lips are mere inches from one another. You’re slightly bent over to be at eye level with him and you smile, catching the way he clears his throat. “If you don’t want to do this, all you have to do is say so, okay?” 

“Okay,” he responds quietly. 

You smile and gently press a soft kiss on his cheek, slowly pulling away to see that his eyes had fallen shut. You turn on your heel and walk over to the speaker to put on a couple of songs that you normally play when you give a private dance. Pressing play on the first song, you then turn around to face him once more. He looks so large in this room – his legs spread open on the sofa, broad shoulders and chiseled muscle beneath the fabric of the flannel he’s wearing. This was only ever a job to you, never finding anyone all that interesting or attractive, but Logan – well, you’d risk your entire job if it meant you can have him for one night. 

As the first song plays and filters the room, your eyes meet Logan’s who is staring at you with an anticipated look on his face. His eyes move along your legs, up to your midsection and then up to your breasts and back down. Slowly, you remove your robe and let it pool around your ankles as you strut towards him. Your hips sway with each forward step and Logan lets out a shaky breath. 

Once you’re standing in front of him, between his legs, you lean down and gently brush your lips against the corner of his lips. His facial hair tickles your lips and you pull back enough to stare into his eyes, lips slowly grazing his own. “You can touch me,” you whisper and move your hands onto his strong shoulders, slowly straddling his hips. “To be honest, I’d let you do anything you’d want to me,” you say quietly into his ear. 

Logan’s large hands immediately move to your hips, gripping it tightly as you sit firmly on his lap. He’s so hard and he feels so embarrassed, but the look on your face when you feel him alleviates some of the uncertainty he’s feeling. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve felt a man’s erection while giving them a lap dance, but it is the first time that you actually let out a quiet moan as you slowly roll your hips against his own, to the beat of the song. The tension between you thickens in the air and you stare deeply into his eyes as you try to remember the routine that you normally do for this song. 

You let me violate you 

You let me desecrate you 

You let me penetrate you 

You let me complicate you

Logan’s hands slowly move from your hips to your thighs, his fingertips digging into the meat of your flesh as your hips roll against his. He clears his throat and watches as your eyes flutter with each movement. He has to wonder if this is all part of your act, that maybe you’re just acting like you’re enjoying this. 

“Logan,” you whisper, moving to slightly lean back in his lap. You move one hand from his shoulder to reach behind you and rest on his knee as you lift your hips before coming back down on his lap. Logan groans quietly, almost inaudibly, as he moves a hand to splay on your abdomen, slowly moving it upwards towards your breasts. 

I wanna fuck you like an animal

I wanna feel you from the inside

I wanna fuck you like an animal

My whole existence is flawed

You get me closer to God

When his thumb brushes against your nipple, feeling it peak beneath the sheer fabric of your bra, he has to wonder if maybe he crossed a line. Logan moves his hand away from you but you grab his wrist and move it back over your breasts. He smirks and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he leans forward. 

You let out a quiet moan and feel a wetness settle between your legs that you have to lift your hips off of him, not wanting to stain his dark jeans with your arousal. Slowly, you stand back up and hear him let out a quiet, disapproving groan. You stand between his legs, moving one hand in your hair as you use the other to run along your body, grazing your own breasts and down between the valley of your thighs as your hips sway to each beat of the song.

You tear down my reason

(Help me) it's your sex I can smell

(Help me) you make me perfect

Help me become somebody else

Logan can smell your arousal, can smell just how excited you are and the uncertainty he felt earlier is now completely gone. His hands move up your legs, fingertips hooking into the thin waistband of your thong, but he feels your hands move to rest over his. 

“Logan,” you say quietly. Even through the music, he can hear your voice, can hear the desire and yearning in your tone. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“I want to take you home,” you admit, moving to sit back on his lap. “I know it’s very unprofessional, but–”

Logan grins. “Then take me home.” 

—

Logan had told Wade what happened, the other man all too excited for him. He hadn’t expected this night to turn the way it did and there’s some part of him that doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but when he sees you step out of the club with that same sweet smile that meets your eyes, he pushes those feelings out of his mind. Because all he can think about is what’s going to happen next. 

The drive to your apartment was short and the moment you step out of the car, Logan’s quick to follow you. He steps inside of the apartment with you and you shut the door behind him before you’re on him almost instantly. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and Logan’s hands move to rest on your hips. You stare up at him before you lean up to press your lips firmly against his. 

Logan groans instantly against your lips, eyes falling shut as he follows your lead. You move one hand down his chest to his abdomen until it reaches the waistband of his jeans. He feels your tongue slide past his lips and he whimpers against you – he fucking whimpers. Logan’s used to being the one in charge that it takes him by surprise when you’re more than willing to take control. 

When you undo the button and zipper of his jeans, you pull away. Your gaze darkens at the sight of him and you bring him further into your apartment, once more pushing him against your couch as he sits down with a grunt. Standing in front of him, you pull down your shorts and panties in one motion, grabbing the ends of your shirt to lift over your head. You stand in front of him, completely bare and exposed for him that Logan doesn’t know where to look first. 

You’re so fucking breathtaking that he feels his manhood strain against the fabric of his jeans. Logan slowly pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs, catching the way your eyes widen at the sight of his erected length. He smirks to himself and undoes the buttons of his flannel, pushing it off his shoulders. 

“Fuck me,” you whisper under your breath. “You’re so fucking hot, Logan.” 

Logan bites his lower lip. He doesn’t have time to respond, to tell you that you’re the one who’s so fucking hot because you straddle his hips and take hold of length. He groans at the feel of your hand wrapped around him, lining him up to your opening. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to last – it had been such a long time since anyone’s wanted him like this, since anyone looked at him the way you did. 

In his universe, everyone hated him. 

But in this one – Logan has a second chance at living life the way he should have in the first place. 

When you slide down his length, Logan’s hands move to your hips. He groans loudly, your walls surrounding his length – so warm, so wet, so tight. Your walls slide down every inch of his length until you’re seated fully on his lap. He looks up at you, sees the way your eyes flutter. 

“God, you’re so deep,” you point out with a quiet moan, moving your hands to his shoulders. Holding onto him, you slowly begin to lift yourself before you slide back down. You can feel every inch of his throbbing manhood within your depths and he fills you so fully in a way that you’ve never felt before. 

He shifts to lie on his back on your couch, staring up at you. Your hands move to rest on his chest, rolling your hips forward and backward. You can feel the hair at his base brush against your bundle of nerves with each movement, quiet moans escaping your lips. 

Logan moans in surprise when you reach for his hands, lacing your fingers together as you press them above his head. He knows that he’s so much stronger than you, but he finds that he likes being at your mercy. You’re gripping his hands so tightly, pressing your joined hands further into your couch as you begin to bounce along his length. You lift yourself until his tip is the only part of him that’s within your depths before you slide back down, your tight walls sliding down each inch of him.

“Sweetheart, fuck,” Logan groans, squirming slightly against your grip. He feels your walls begin to tremble around him, can feel you tightening even further around his manhood. 

“Lo– Logan!” you exclaim, moaning loudly as you slam down onto him. You shut your eyes tightly, slowly moving your hips forward and backward to ride out your high. You release his hands to brace yourself on his chest, the feeling of his hair at his base providing just the right amount of friction. 

Logan feels a tightness building in the pit of his stomach and he gently lifts you off of him. You gasp, whimpering at the sudden loss of him before you realize that he’s close. You move down the couch and settle yourself between his legs as you take hold of his length, stroking him with a firm grip as your lips wrap around his tip. 

“Fuck!” he groans, not expecting you to fucking suck him off. Logan moves a hand in your hair, tangling his fingers in your locks as he guides you along his length. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t and when you hollow your cheeks to apply more pressure around him, Logan tosses his head back against the couch. 

It’s sloppy, spit trickling down your chin as you keep your eyes focused on him. You move along his length, flattening your tongue on the underside of him as you feel each throbbing vein against you. Logan’s grip around your hair tightens and he lifts his hips slightly off the couch to push himself further into your mouth, feeling his tip hit the back of your throat as you gag around him.

Slowly, you pull away from him and smile. “Come for me, Logan.” Then, you wrap your mouth around him once more and bob your head rapidly, stroking his base. Logan shuts his eyes tightly, the tightness building once more as he lets out a loud moan. He gently pushes your hand away as he grips himself, using his free hand to pull you back from your hair as he releases into your mouth. He opens his eyes to look down at you, his seed filling your mouth and you eagerly swallow. 

Logan groans, stroking himself to release every last drop of his spend into your mouth. You smile against him – you fucking smile with his cock in your mouth – and it’s an image that Logan will never forget. When you pull away and lick your lips, swallowing every last drop, you lean up on your knees and stare at him.

“Yum,” you grin. 

Logan’s breathing heavily, moving one hand to rest behind his head as he looks at you with a small smile. “Didn’t expect this to happen tonight,” he admits. “But I’m glad it did.” 

“Stay the night?” you ask. 

Logan nods and sits up, gently pushing you onto your back as he settles himself between your legs. “Oh, sweetheart, I ain’t even done with you yet.”

[rom-e-o]

Belisma/Guinevere watching Emmerich interact with small children as they're out and about in public.

Maybe they're standing in line somewhere and there's a parent in front of them with a toddler and the little tyke is just staring intently at Emmerich and he just gives a little smile and wave. Or maybe makes a funny face. And the toddler just breaks into a grin and giggles in the cutest way.

Maybe they're out doing errands and come across a lost little boy, so scared and crying and not sure where his mum/dad is, so they "go on a side-quest" (lol) to reunite him with Mum/Dad. And Emmerich carries him, first in his arms, then transitioning him up to his shoulders. And he and the boy are chatting the entire time, the child's tears and fear completely forgotten. The little boy laughs in delight and marvels at how high up he is on Emmerich's shoulders.

Maybe they're on a date, getting some ice cream and a little girl starts crying because she dropped her cone on the floor. So Emmerich steps over to Mum/Dad who already looks completely strung out and has a brief exchange before ordering another cone exactly like what the little girl had and gets down to her height to offer it, having a quiet little conversation that makes the little girl smile and giggle as she takes her new ice cream.

Maybe on a stroll they come across some children. One of them is seated on the ground, obviously in pain, holding a wrist or ankle or something and is in obvious distress the others are all freaking out trying to figure out what to do. Here comes SuperEmmerich (or maybe AwesomeEmmrich because Superman is probably Awesomeguy in the au😅) to the rescue sweeping in to ask what happened. The other kids probably scram because they don't want to get in trouble. After discovering the injury isn't very serious just quite painful, Emmerich heals the child, all while speaking soothingly and drying their tears. Then he and Isma/G'iney safely escort the child home.

Maybe they're in a waiting room somewhere and there's a little girl there who is clearly quite bored and getting fussy. Emmerich can't help but start performing some of his prettier magic spells for her entertainment. Before long the tyke is laughing and clapping, completely entertained and demanding further pretty magic: "Again! More! More!"

Every interaction he has with little ones, whatever it is, is just so natural and sincere and gentle and kind. Wifey is just slathering him with tender kisses at the end of the day, praising him and admiring him for his golden heart.

Awww. Okay, firstly, I love this. Also, it gives me a reason to wax poetic about this side of him, haha.

So, we see Emmrich being a nurturing, kind presence, even in the face of calamity. Specifically, helping unite a child with their parent. We see him act that way with little Mila as they search for her father as literal hoards of darkspawn attack.

The Siege of Weißhaupt, where this happens, is a grueling battle. It's an endurance test of waaaaves of enemies.

Your team gets tested.

Yet, even as the team talks about the hopelessness and comes to terms with the fact that this might be their last stand, Emmrich still speaks to Mila calmly and reassuringly. He also asks her good questions and listens to her answers.

He reassures her that her father is okay, and to keep going. He's a calming influence.

And she's reunited with her father. All is well!

So, I can totally see him being a sweet and caring guy that puts kids at ease. He knows that a friendly wave or a kind gesture goes a long way, especially for an innocent soul. He has some experience with those early days with Manfred too - cleaning up messes, helping him walk, etc.

I LOVE him replacing the ice cream cone for the child that dropped theirs ("It's such a simple gesture, but it makes everyone feel better") and him performing simple magic for the child in the waiting room as well ("You learn to never take it for granted. What's mundane to you is extraordinary to another.")

He's such a nice, sweet guy, and very patient. It makes sense why he could rear Manfred the way he does - he very much treats him like his child. He uses a guiding hand and is always patient. If he scolds Manfred, it's pretty gently.

Belisma/Guinevere sees all these instances, at it just exemplifies what they love about him. He's an intelligent, esteemed man of wealth and status, yet he'll stop everything to brighten a child's day. He's never too good for anything, and he's never patronizing or condescending to them either.

"No wonder Manfred is such a fine gentleman already," she says after giving him a long smooch, "Look at his example."

"Oh, you mean today? My dear, nothing I did was admirable. Just being a good samaritan, as we all should."

"I think it was. I think I loved watching you be so gentle and caring with those children ... fatherly, even. You're a good role model."

"F-Fatherly? I don't think ...do you really think so? Maybe?"

"Oh, definitely." <3

Wifey's already imagining him cradling their baby a few years out, and it's the most easy image in the world to conjure.

[pivotandscrape]

rockstar!natalie scatorccio headcanons

natalie scatorccio x gn!reader

content: modern au, nothing but fluff, no use of y/n

an: hiii this is my first time writing i hope i did a good job!! ik it’s v short but i’ll be posting more soon trust💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼 this isn’t proofread

rockstar!nat who performs in random locations like parks, clubs, basements etc. with her band

rockstar!nat who invites you to all her shows and gives you tickets for spots that are right upfront so she knows exactly where you are, stealing glances every now and then

rockstar!nat who’s the bassist and lead singer of her band

rockstar!nat who was performing in a park near your university, and of course, she gave you and the girls tickets that were for the front row

rockstar!nat who’s written quite a few songs about you and your relationship with her, she and her band actually performed two or three of them on stage

rockstar!nat who looked so hot in the leather jacket, tank top, plaid skirt, red tights, and black doc martens you helped her pick for tonight, the smoky eye she did tying the whole look together

rockstar!nat who got distracted when you smiled at her from the crowd, making her get all flustered and miss a few of her parts. she may act tough, but inside, she’s just a big softie :3

rockstar!nat who amazed everyone in the audience with her bass playing skills and vocals, they all were jumping and singing along for the entire duration of the concert

rockstar!nat who ran into your arms as soon as she stepped foot off stage, giving you a quick peck on the lips, hers forming into a toothy grin soon after

“was i good?? i sang some of the songs i wrote for you!!”, she asked you that as if she weren’t aware of the fact that you were staring at her in awe the whole time while she was performing. she loves when you praise her, which is why she constantly fishes for compliments, even though she doesn’t need to because she knows that she’s one hell of a musician. despite you knowing about this trick of hers, somehow, you always seem to give in, “you were amazing as always, nat!!”

rockstar!nat who everyone has eyes for, but only has eyes for you

[aventurineswife]

greetings, scar, jiyan, aalto and calcharo saving a teen!reader from a TD attack/outburst?

“Let the grown ups do the work”

Tags: Aalto x Reader, Jiyan x Reader, Calcharo x Reader, Scar x Reader, Teen!Reader, Platonic, Found Family(?), Protective.

Warnings: Mild violence, Brief moments of peril and fear, Mentions of violence and threats, Inaccurate fighting scene (totally not because I can't describe the original).

The air around you grew heavy as the Tacet Discord slithered closer, its amorphous form pulsating with chaotic energy. Your legs trembled, rooted in place by fear. The discord emitted a guttural screech, extending a tendril toward you.

“Careful now, don’t breathe too deeply.” a soft, amused voice interrupted the chaos.

A faint mist began to rise, shrouding the area in a ghostly fog. From within, a figure stepped forward, his sunglasses glinting in the dim light. Aalto's carefree smile belied the precision in his movements as he raised his hand, the mist around him coiling like a living entity.

“Now, now, let's not be rude to the kid.” Aalto quipped. The mist solidified into jagged spikes, striking the discord's tendrils mid-air. Each movement was fluid, like a performance.

The Tacet Discord roared, lashing out blindly, but the fog thickened, obscuring its vision entirely. Aalto approached you, crouching down with a reassuring smile. "Stay still. The mist doesn’t harm those who don't resist. Trust me, I’ve done this a hundred times.”

With a flick of his wrist, the fog surged forward, enveloping the Tacet Discord. Its screeches softened into silence, and the chaotic form dissolved into nothingness.

Aalto offered his hand, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose to reveal his calculating eyes. “You okay, kid? Free of charge this time.”

The Tacet Discord loomed over you, its amorphous shape crackling with unstable energy. You tried to run, but a tendril of chaotic matter wrapped around your ankle, dragging you closer.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the battlefield, and a commanding voice cut through the roar of the discord. “Hold on.”

Jiyan descended like a whirlwind, hair flowing as his Resonance Mark glowed fiercely. With a sweeping motion of his arm, the air around him condensed, forming the ethereal shape of a teal dragon. The Qingloong roared, its presence pushing the discord back momentarily.

The discord shifted its form, attempting to retaliate, but Jiyan was faster. He struck with precision, wind blades slicing through its chaotic mass. Each movement was calculated, his stance steady and unyielding.

The dragon coiled protectively around you as Jiyan extended a hand, his piercing yellow eyes meeting yours. “Stay close to the Qingloong. I’ll handle the rest.”

With a final strike, the discord disintegrated, leaving the area eerily calm. Jiyan turned to you, a hint of a smile softening his stern expression. “You’re safe now. Let’s get you home.”

You stumbled back, heart pounding as the Tacet Discord’s amorphous form surged toward you. Its chaotic energy radiated menace, and you felt the weight of despair crushing your chest.

“Interesting. So this is what frightens you?” a smooth, almost mocking voice echoed.

Scar emerged from the shadows, his mismatched eyes glinting with curiosity. He tilted his head, a dramatic smile spreading across his scarred face. “Don’t worry. The lamb’s shepherd is here.”

With a theatrical gesture, Scar summoned sharp, crimson energy spikes from the ground. They shot upward, piercing through the discord’s form. The creature howled, shifting its shape to evade the onslaught, but Scar only laughed.

“Ah, but you’re playing my game now.” he said, his voice low and menacing.

The discord lashed out, but Scar sidestepped effortlessly, his movements almost lazy. He raised a hand, and a burst of energy erupted, scattering the discord into fragments.

Kneeling beside you, Scar offered his hand, his smile softening slightly. “You have spirit, little lamb. Stay close to me. No discord will touch you again.”

The Tacet Discord closed in, its formless body pulsating with chaotic energy. You tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the creature’s oppressive aura.

A sharp crackle filled the air, and a shadowy figure landed between you and the discord. Calcharo’s gray eyes burned with focus as his Resonance Mark flared to life. “Stay down.” he commanded, his voice cold yet protective.

Electricity surged around him, arcs of bioelectric energy forming phantom-like shapes. With a sweep of his arm, shadowy thorns shot forward, pinning the discord in place. The phantoms howled, tearing into the creature with unrelenting force.

The discord retaliated, sending a chaotic wave toward Calcharo, but he stood firm, absorbing the energy with calculated precision. His coattails fluttered as he unleashed another wave of shadowy thorns, reducing the discord to a harmless mist.

Calcharo turned to you, his expression softening slightly. “You’re safe now,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

[greedbent]

Maybe this was proof, then: that the pair of them weren’t entirely proper with their means of handling what the great majority of humanity feared most. (Not that Kaz could blame them; he often wondered if it was so much death itself that was so unsavory, or simply the idea of running out of time—of not being able to do the things you’d set out to do.) Though he’d been the one to crack a smile as if they discussed little more than this morning’s weather, it was Baizhu who went a step further . . . and when a sudden laugh burst from his chest, Kaz regretted that he actually jumped.

His hands tightened on his cane before it managed to slip, and some juvenile part of him was pleased that the fit (a laughing kind, as opposed to the usual coughing) likely kept his company distracted in the meantime. Both against that sorry little fright, and the way Kaz found himself staring, because . . . well, damn it all. As if it wasn’t already clear as day that the doctor had a way of catching Kaz off-guard, here was another example for the ledger. And he might as well be writing this all in his own blood, for pity’s sake.

It took him longer than it should have. Again, Baizhu’s chiming giggles plucked at a strange string within him—a stitch somewhere Kaz had forgotten existed—and before he might’ve had the opportunity to piece together just what was so outstandingly hilarious about their conversation . . . Baizhu beat him to the chase.

Something—or someone—came back, then, for the barest of moments. He knew what it was. He knew who it was. And he knew, with those convictions in mind, why his face heated just slightly, why he felt a lump in his throat and had to forcibly swallow, why a restlessness reawakened in the fidgeting of his fingers. And he knew why he had to bury it back down as efficiently as possible.

“I just prefer not having to perform a summoning ritual on your lost soul next time I need you,” Kaz supplied, and though he shrugged as if uncaring toward this all, that little smirk came back. “I find ghosts difficult to work with.” He, too, turned his gaze to meet Baizhu’s—and likely another nail in his own coffin, ironically; the man was looking at him with a new and unbridled earnestness that threatened to bring back what Kaz had just pushed down.

Though, distantly, he had to question whether pushing it down just meant holing it up in that part of himself where Baizhu had already burrowed.

Kaz himself couldn’t help a quiet chuckle as he looked away. “I wouldn’t expect you to. It doesn’t fit your nature to give up on anything,” he said, pausing only briefly before adding, “or anyone.” It was clear exactly who “anyone” meant here. Kaz didn’t waste his breath elaborating. It was becoming more and more evident he never needed to with Baizhu.

When that final playful remark hit him, it had a surprisingly opposite effect to most everything else, sobering the humor on Kaz’s face right up. He cocked his head to peer back. “We’d manage, but have a much more difficult time of it,” Kaz admitted. “There’s no one else quite like you.”

Of all the times for Kaz to crack a smile, it would be during such depressing talk of death, wouldn't it?

Baizhu loathed these conversations with his patients. He hated admitting defeat to such cruel realities: acknowledging the mortality of mankind to someone who was suffering the most for it; acknowledging that he couldn't save everyone no matter how deeply he wanted to.

Death was the ultimate insult. Merely speaking of it sickened him worse than the "disease" that would bring his own death to pass.

But in this moment? Perhaps it was that rare, would-be out-of-place curve upon the other's lips that helped Baizhu stomach it. An even rarer sentiment straight from Kaz's heart certainly did a number on the doctor's own, and Baizhu soon found himself mirroring the expression. He had the good grace not to dwell on the admission, however, merely listening to the other's stance on such a hopeless situation.

It was relieving to hear that his assumptions had been correct. But in an extraordinary turn, his jest about his own "value" actually seemed to strike a nerve. Baizhu's countenance sobered as he caught the signs, his brows raising expectantly (or, dare he say, hopefully) at the halting beginnings of a rebuttal. And it was a rebuttal—but in a manner so absurd that he would never have expected it from Kaz of all people.

Your time won't come soon. Oh? Is that so?

Baizhu had no control over the shocked laughter that burst from his chest. "Is that what it means to be one of Kaz Brekker's investments? I'm not even allowed to die without your permission?" Wasn't that a delightful notion? For someone so rational to state such a thing as if it were a decision Kaz himself could make...

Though it was much too late to hide it now, he did make a futile attempt to stifle his giggles behind a hand over his mouth. Still, there was no hiding the mirth crinkling around golden eyes. All at once the heavy weight of this conversation eased from his shoulders. He was far too amused and flattered to leave room for anything else.

"I'll take it as a compliment," he assured before his laughter could be misconstrued. Taking a moment to compose himself, Baizhu's smile softened. "You've already done a great deal to help; I couldn't possibly ask more of you. Besides, what happened to 'only playing the game when you know the outcome,' hm?"

He shook his head, but there was a distinct warmth in his voice, "I appreciate your eagerness—truly, I do." And he lingered on that sentiment for a moment, earnestness passing in the lock of their eyes. "But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that an illness like mine isn't an opponent that can be predicted, much less controlled. Even I can't say for certain when it will finally run its course." Not even Changsheng knew that answer, as infuriating as it was.

"But don't worry; I don't intend to go quietly." Baizhu had long ago resolved that death would have to drag him away kicking and screaming. "I don't care for leaving things unfinished, either; I have plenty of my own reasons to fight for every moment I can get." Soon enough, that glint of cheekiness returned to his gaze. "Not to mention that I shudder to think of what you and your Crows would do without me."

[widevibratobitch]

i am the nicest person ever. practising ensembles with me when you dont fucking know your part even tho you had over a week to learn it is a JOY because i am NICE and KIND and HELPFUL and UNDERSTANDING. but there will come a day when i snap. and today was almost that day.

[mer-se]

Prima facie round two. 5/17 🎭🤍

[insectwmn]

three months until eimugi anime <3

[cockinator3000]

so the main kcon stage is at 10 am i think...and assuming i'm fr staying up until 5 for bonedo i'll def wake up late..... enha probs won't perform until the show's almost over....and i'm going out tommorrow around noon so i'll be waking up around the time kcon starts anyway to get ready even if i didn't want to and then i'll be there by the time enha appears....i'm set it seems

[tender-rosiey]

from me to you — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this takes place in chapter 268, soo sort of spoilers ahead? also long live gojo satoru; gojo leaves you a letter 🙏

“y/n-sensei, there is a letter for you as well!”

that catches your attention, and you look up at the first years. you tilt your head slightly, and yuuji hands you an envelope.

you gently take it from him, and the first thing you notice is “wifey” written on it then the doodle of satoru with his blindfold on. you feel your throat tighten, and your hands shake slightly.

you let out a small breath then shakily open the letter.

hey, honey!!

it first reads.

I feel like there is still much I didn’t tell you in our last meeting, so here I, your beautiful and handsome husband, am writing them down.

you swallow lightly, and a small smile appears on your face as you imagine satoru saying that, then you continue to the next line.

first, I changed all your computer passwords to variations of “satoruisthebest” at one point. your confusion was so cute!!

you quirk an eyebrow at the admission, but when you rack your brain, you remember that one day when you couldn’t log into your computer.

what you vividly remember was satoru being sat beside you the whole time, and now that you think about it. he was smiling so widely the entire time, letting out small chuckles every now and then. oh, that sneaky man.

“satoru, I am telling you it’s broken!”

“sweetheart, we spent over 2000$ on that. if it broke, then we could easily sue the company,” he chuckled, arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“2 year guaranteed top performance my ass!”

you smile at the memory. it was pretty satoru of him to do that. your eyes then move to continue reading.

second, there are times when I would tell megumi that you would be coming with me, then he would turn and leave me when he found out I was tricking him.

your eyes glance up at said boy who is sat across of you. he made it out alive, despite everything. he suffered so much, but he made it.

it makes you relieved, and you can imagine satoru being bloody proud of him and saying something along the lines of ‘you handed sukuna’s ass to him, very cool!’

no matter how much megumi had frowned and grimaced at satoru’s presence or antics. it rooted itself as something—safe and familiar.

you can’t count on your hands the times when you and satoru would visit the siblings, and nobody really said it, but these meetings did all of you a favor, a chance to kind of wind down. maybe act like death might actually not be looming tomorrow.

it feels like just yesterday when megumi would cling to you when he got really sad or nervous, after so much time spent getting comfortable with each other.

he grew up well, you think, eyes gliding to next.

third, I hid your uniform every two to three weeks, so you have to stay with me.

at that, your eyes widen a bit. satoru’s schedule was pretty packed, but he somehow managed to squeeze time for quality time between you two.

it tugged on your heartstrings, and you made sure he knew how much you appreciated it, not a single space on his face left without a kiss. however, finding out that he went out of his way to make you rest and stay.

satoru’s care really showed in his actions, and you feel like this is the biggest proof of it.

“satoru, have you seen my uniform?”

“nope! maybe, it is a sign to stay home today? you’ve been working so hard, wifey!”

you cupped his face, pulled him down to your height, and kisses his cheek, “you’ve been working harder, ‘toru. let me take off some of the load at least.”

“we could both stay!”

“you’re kidding, right?”

“I already told yaga; I miss you!”

you try to stop the reminiscing further and try to compose yourself before reading the rest.

fourth, I’m the one who kept adjusting the thermostat. I just wanted an excuse to cuddle.

a fond yet melancholy smile appears on your face. you kinda figured that one out. satoru’s favorite pastime was cuddling, so it’s no surprise that he would go out of his way to create the need for it even further.

add to that, once you went to get some green tea and saw him from the corner of your eye teleport to the thermostat, click something, then teleport back to bed.

you figured that the room being chilly that night was not an exception in the middle of july.

“babeeee, it’s so cold! let’s cuddle!”

“maybe the problem is with the thermostat?”

“I checked! I think cuddling is the best solution.”

you giggle as you recall the moment, one of many similar. your heart feels a bit lighter as you go through the letter. something satoru managed to always do even in person.

he would plaster sticky notes, get you trinkets, and even pull pranks on other just to see you smile. feeling more encouraged, you keep on reading the letter.

then you feel your chest constrict so tightly that you might just throw up.

fifth, I am really gonna fucking miss you.

you read the line over again, and you purse your lip in hopes of silencing any noise that may come out as you feel the lump in your throat return, even worse than before. your breathing starts getting more difficult.

your grip on the letter tightens, and you find yourself thinking back to the good times. memories of late nights spent in each other’s arms, thinking about everything and nothing at once.

hushed whispers of confessions and quiet giggles as you reminisced on your highschool days. tight hugs when recalling the sad moments and the departure of a certain someone.

“you know, y/n, I think we might just be made for each other,” he said one night. you hummed and looked him in the eyes.

“three am thoughts?”

“three am admissions,” he grins slightly, “I am made for you, and you’re made for me.”

you remember him pulling you closer and kissing your forehead, while you teased, “and what would you need little old me for, so much that I got made?”

he feigns thinking then closes his eyes, burying his face in your shoulder, “grounding me.”

I love you. I really do, but you should know that already, right?

your eyes drift down to the corner of the paper, and that is when you feel your tears start free-falling. there is drawn a chibi satoru besides a chibi you and between them is a heart.

the chibi satoru is giving yours a big smooch, while she laughs. you never thought that the day your jealousy burns would be because of drawings, and drawings of you and your own husband, nonetheless.

“but wow, gojo-sensei is shit at writing letters,” you hear nobara remark.

megumi responds with a small chuckle, “I am fine with mine.”

“what about you, y/n-sensei?—”

the trio becomes silent as you let out a sob. a watery smile makes its way up your face as you kiss the letter gently and murmur, “so shitty.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will tell @callmemirro

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[totalswag]

hii, I’m not sure if you take request still but if so is there a possible way you can do a drew x singer!reader one shot take on how Sabrina “arrests” her fans before performing Juno for being too hot but the reader does it to Drew during her shows please 🫶🏼

arrested for being too hot — DREW STARKEY

authors note THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS!! my request box is still open so feel free to send me any ideas regarding singer!reader or regular fic ideas you’d like me to write. this was so much writing too. thank for all the love on my last fic lovies <3

taglist ⤕ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set.

summary "arresting" drew, your boyfriend, during your show before performing your song from your new album.

warning(s) none!

You are on tour for your new album in-front of thousands of fans almost every night. You worked hard on this album and it turned out wonderfully. If it weren’t for the amazing fans of yours, you don’t know where you’d be in your career— they are the reason you are doing this.

Half way into the show— going amazing. The crowd tonight isn't disappointing you. Everything you've hoped for on this tour. You've performed eighteen songs and about to go onto your nineteenth. Played musical spin the bottle not long ago which was really fun.

Before Juno, you begin with a small "skit" where you call someone out in the crowd, arresting them for being too hot. This became a thing after your first show of the tour and doing it ever since. Plus, fans absolutely love it. Interacting with your fans has always been something you did and create those bonds.

Drew, your boyfriend, is attending the show with Madelyn Cline, a mutual friend and cast-mate of Drew's. You told him earlier today you wanted to arrest him in the middle of the show to get the audience excited and it would be fun.

Drew was all for it, and he didn't want you to tell him what you were going to say—he prefers surprises.

Your pink, glittering, dazzling clothing was sparkling in the lights. You pressed your free hand to your brow as though you were looking around for a call. With security, you could see Drew and Madelyn making their way to the front.

You begin by adjusting your earpiece while moving around the stage in your long skirt. "You guys know that moment when you are in a room filled with such beautiful looking people that you start to feel overwhelmed?" When fans applaud, you smile.

"Oh, girls, I think I just seen my future husband in the front row! Oh my god, girls, come here, come here," you say anxiously into the microphone, beckoning them over and waving your free hand.

You turn to face Drew as the girls approach you, asking, "Do you see that gorgeous looking man over in the front row with his arms crossed in the tan shirt?" You speak into the microphone aloud, pointing to Drew in the crowd.

Your girls joyfully waved at Drew while placing their hands on your shoulder. As Drew blushes on the big screen, the crowd reflexively turns up the volume in the arena. 

"What's your name handsome?" With your head cocked slightly to the right toward your shoulder, you inquire in jest. 

"Drew!" You can hear him when he places his hands on the side of his lips. He gives you a childlike smile and a flushed face.

You say, "I'm sorry I couldn't get that?" as though you couldn't hear him. Leaning forward more, you place your free hand behind your ear.

He shakes his head and utters "Drew!" a little louder. 

"Oh my Drew, I must say that you must be a magnet because you drew me in" brings a smile to your face. Your tone indicated that you were trying quite hard not to laugh, yet you kept your calm brilliantly.

Fans had their phones out, capturing the entire interaction. Nobody would have expected Drew to be the person arrested at your gigs since the tour began.

"Drew, you are under arrest for being too hot," you say aloud, smiling and pointing at him— fanning yourself, moving your hips side to side as the sound of sirens going off with blue and red lights behind.

You put your left elbow against your girls shoulder, "guys do you ever just see someone so good looking that you just don't know what to do and all your clothes fall off in that moment" your long skirt slips off smoothy.

"Like your brain just like malfunctions and like I just wanna handcuffed to you now like," one of your girls puts the pink fluffy handcuffs into your hand, you kneel down, "do you know what I mean? Will you take these from me?"

Drew is overwhelmed in this very moment— it's very obvious how much you are affecting him. Drew gives you a gimme me gesture with his fingers, ready to catch the hand cuffs.

He takes them in his hands, looks down, and feels the smooth texture of the fuzzy. He tilts his head to the side before slowly glancing up at you with a smirk—keep in mind that he's still on the big screen.

"We're gonna sing this one to you, Drew."

Juno's song intro starts playing. You wave goodbye to Drew and Madelyn as you return to the center of the stage. You could hear the two begin speaking to fans in the distance.

Drew and Madelyn met you in the dressing room following the show. After giving Madelyn a hug and thanking her for attending the event, you moved to approach Drew and put your arms around his neck while grinning.

"That was insane," Madelyn exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. "What about the full call-out and the handcuffs? Iconic! "You're the talk of the night; everyone is crazy about it."

You giggled as your face heated up. "It seemed right." "You should have seen his face!"

She laughs, "I got the whole thing on video, I'll send it to you later."

"I'm going to give you two some alone time, but you did such an amazing job tonight and looked so hot doing it," Madelyn adds, taking your hands in her and wiggling her brows. 

"Thank you, babe. I love you always," you say, hugging her before she leaves you and Drew alone. 

When you close the door, Drew comes behind you, placing his arms around your waist and kissing you on the cheek, making you laugh with the tenderness of his lips.

"I'm so proud of you baby, you did such an amazing job on stage and looked unbelievable in your outfits made me feel like the luckiest guy in the entire world." He expresses emotionally, which uplifts you. 

"Coming from you, it warms my heart baby. Forever grateful to have you in my life," you smile softly, leaning against his chest, feeling that sense of warmth you always feel whenever you are with him.

"And I'm forever grateful for you" he quietly responds, kissing the top of your head.

"So what are we gonna do with those pink fuzzy handcuffs?"

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[hyperlexichypatia]

As I keep shouting into the void, pathologizers love shifting discussion about material conditions into discussion about emotional states.

I rant approximately once a week about how the brain maturity myth transmuted “Young adults are too poor to move out of their parents’ homes or have children of their own” into “Young adults are too emotionally and neurologically immature to move out of their parents’ homes or have children of their own.”

I’ve also talked about the misuse of “enabling” and “trauma” and “dopamine” .

And this is a pattern – people coin terms and concepts to describe material problems, and pathologization culture shifts them to be about problems in the brain or psyche of the person experiencing them. Now we’re talking about neurochemicals, frontal lobes, and self-esteem instead of talking about wages, wealth distribution, and civil rights. Now we can say that poor, oppressed, and exploited people are suffering from a neurological/emotional defect that makes them not know what’s best for themselves, so they don’t need or deserve rights or money.

Here are some terms that have been so horribly misused by mental health culture that we’ve almost entirely forgotten that they were originally materialist critiques.

Codependency What it originally referred to: A non-addicted person being overly “helpful” to an addicted partner or relative, often out of financial desperation. For example: Making sure your alcoholic husband gets to work in the morning (even though he’s an adult who should be responsible for himself) because if he loses his job, you’ll lose your home. https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/08/opinion/codependency-addiction-recovery.html What it’s been distorted into: Being “clingy,” being “too emotionally needy,” wanting things like affection and quality time from a partner. A way of pathologizing people, especially young women, for wanting things like love and commitment in a romantic relationship.

Compulsory Heterosexuality What it originally referred to: In the 1980 in essay "Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence," https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/abs/10.1086/493756 Adrienne Rich described compulsory heterosexuality as a set of social conditions that coerce women into heterosexual relationships and prioritize those relationships over relationships between women (both romantic and platonic). She also defines “lesbian” much more broadly than current discourse does, encompassing a wide variety of romantic and platonic relationships between women. While she does suggest that women who identify as heterosexual might be doing so out of unquestioned social norms, this is not the primary point she’s making. What it’s been distorted into: The patronizing, biphobic idea that lesbians somehow falsely believe themselves to be attracted to men. Part of the overall “Women don’t really know what they want or what’s good for them” theme of contemporary discourse.

Emotional Labor What it originally referred to: The implicit or explicit requirement that workers (especially women workers, especially workers in female-dominated “pink collar” jobs, especially tipped workers) perform emotional intimacy with customers, coworkers, and bosses above and beyond the actual job being done. Having to smile, be “friendly,” flirt, give the impression of genuine caring, politely accept harassment, etc. https://weld.la.psu.edu/what-is-emotional-labor/ What it’s been distorted into: Everything under the sun. Everything from housework (which we already had a term for), to tolerating the existence of disabled people, to just caring about friends the way friends do. The original intent of the concept was “It’s unreasonable to expect your waitress to care about your problems, because she’s not really your friend,” not “It’s unreasonable to expect your actual friends to care about your problems unless you pay them, because that’s emotional labor,” and certainly not “Disabled people shouldn’t be allowed to be visibly disabled in public, because witnessing a disabled person is emotional labor.” Anything that causes a person emotional distress, even if that emotional distress is rooted in the distress-haver’s bigotry (Many nominally progressive people who would rightfully reject the bigoted logic of “Seeing gay or interracial couples upsets me, which is emotional labor, so they shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public” fully accept the bigoted logic of “Seeing disabled or poor people upsets me, which is emotional labor, so they shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public”).

Battered Wife Syndrome What it originally referred to: The all-encompassing trauma and fear of escalating violence experienced by people suffering ongoing domestic abuse, sometimes resulting in the abuse victim using necessary violence in self-defense. Because domestic abuse often escalates, often to murder, this fear is entirely rational and justified. This is the reasonable, justified belief that someone who beats you, stalks you, and threatens to kill you may actually kill you.

What it’s been distorted into: Like so many of these other items, the idea that women (in this case, women who are victims of domestic violence) don’t know what’s best for themselves. I debated including this one, because “syndrome” was a wrongful framing from the beginning – a justified and rational fear of escalating violence in a situation in which escalating violence is occurring is not a “syndrome.” But the original meaning at least partially acknowledged the material conditions of escalating violence.

I’m not saying the original meanings of these terms are ones I necessarily agree with – as a cognitive liberty absolutist, I’m unsurprisingly not that enamored of either second-wave feminism or 1970s addiction discourse. And as much as I dislike what “emotional labor” has become, I accept that “Women are unfairly expected to care about other people’s feelings more than men are” is a true statement.

What I am saying is that all of these terms originally, at least partly, took material conditions into account in their usage. Subsequent usage has entirely stripped the materialist critique and fully replaced it with emotional pathologization, specifically of women. Acknowledgement that women have their choices constrained by poverty, violence, and oppression has been replaced with the idea that women don’t know what’s best for themselves and need to be coercively “helped” for their own good. Acknowledgement that working-class women experience a gender-and-class-specific form of economic exploitation has been rebranded as yet another variation of “Disabled people are burdensome for wanting to exist.”

Over and over, materialist critiques are reframed as emotional or cognitive defects of marginalized people. The next time you hear a superficially sympathetic (but actually pathologizing) argument for “Marginalized people make bad choices because…” consider stopping and asking: “Wait, who are we to assume that this person’s choices are ‘bad’? And if they are, is there something about their material conditions that constrains their options or makes the ‘bad’ choice the best available option?”

[julymusings]

simplicity

out there they're afraid even of the killer's shadow, and here i reside in his heartbeat like a home

or; the big bad red hood has a soft spot only for you [3.4k]

jason todd x fem!reader; tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff; aggressive unwanted advances, implied roofie attempt, violence & blood, slut-shaming; Jason “my girl can wear whatever she wants I can fight” Todd; in da clerb, we all fam ⎯ based on this !

A humid, crowded, upscale club isn’t the most ideal way to spend your Friday night, and Jason knows this. Frankly, it’s not his either, but as the owner of the humid, crowded, upscale club, he had to make some appearances at his own business.

“It’s a night out,” he had said. “Let’s make the most of it.”

If you’re being honest, it’s also not the worst way to spend your Friday night. Not when Jason dressed up so deliciously, in a fitted t-shirt, jeans, and his leather jacket. Not when he took you to a booth in the corner of the club and had them bring over your favorite drinks and snacks with the order to keep them coming. Not when you got to wear that cute little black dress that’s been hanging in your closet for months with your favorite strappy heels, the ones with ribbons that wrapped around your ankle and tied into a bow in the back. Not when Jason sat you on his lap and settled a large hand on your thigh, where it stayed the whole night.

All in all, you would say you’re making the most of it. 

You’re sipping on your drink, chatting about something or the other with your boyfriend. He’s half listening, half drawing circles on your thigh and pressing kisses to your shoulder when one of the employees finds you. She’s freaking out because one of the performers hasn’t shown up, and there’s no one else to go in her place.

Jason huffs. He lifts you off his lap and sets you down on the seat. “I’m sorry, baby, I just gotta take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be here.” You smile over the rim of your glass.

He looks around for a moment, then gestures to someone across the room. One of the bouncers make their way to you.

“Just keep an eye out,” he tells him. “I don’t trust these entitled country club fuckers.”

He gives a curt nod. Jason leans in close, smirking, and says, “Especially not when you look like that,” and gives you a quick kiss before disappearing into the crowd with the employee.

A couple minutes later, a crash snaps your attention towards the bar. A young, college-aged-looking man is berating a waitress while a mess of shot glasses litter the floor around them. The waitress looks about to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” the bouncer says to himself. Then to you, “Gimme a second.”

You move to the edge of the booth to watch as he goes over and tries to pacify the man, but that only seems to make him angrier. He shoves the bouncer, yelling about “shitty customer service.” 

You don’t get to see what happens next, though, because your field of vision is obscured by an enormous, very shiny, and very douchey silver belt buckle. You look up for its owner, and a greasy-looking, white-haired man looks down at you. 

“Hey there, sweetheart.” A fake gold tooth catches the flashing lights and it glints in your eye. Uninvited, he slides into the booth across from you. He places a drink on the table, sliding it towards you. “You look thirsty. Got this for you.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got one.” You hold your own glass up.

He rolls his eyes. “Pretty thing like you should be takin’ advantage of all the free drinks you could be gettin’.” His smile sends a chill down your spine.

“Again, I’m fine,” you say, a little harsher. “My boyfriend has brought me plenty of drinks already.”

He laughs. It’s a high-pitched, scratchy, wheezing sound. Like a kazoo. “I don’t see this boyfriend of yours anywhere. He should know better than to leave you alone. I’d treat you much better than him.” His eyes travel down your neck and stay there. You stand from the booth and take a big step back. It’s not entirely personal; no matter how much of a threat he may be, Jason is a worse one. And if he’s still in this neighborhood, never mind this building, you fear for this man’s safety much more than your own. But the man follows, bringing the cup with him. “Come on, honey, it’s a compliment. Show a little thanks. I don’t bite.”

You don’t have to be the world’s finest detective to know that is most definitely a lie. Or to know to avoid that cup at all costs.

You could just rebuff him, walk away. But you’re willing to bet he’d just move on to the next woman. One who’s probably a little less sober, and a little less aware of her surroundings. You feign a stumble and knock the drink out of his grip. It tips toward him, drenching him with its contents. He chokes out a shocked gasp.

“Oops,” you deadpan, not at all trying to hide your indifference.

“You bitch,” he snarls. He lunges forward, snatching your wrist. You try to pull it back, but his grip is iron and bruising. “I was doing you a favor. Do you see anyone else here looking at you?”

You’re suddenly grateful you didn’t put up much of a fight after Jason came home from patrolling one night insisting he show you some self-defense moves. Far be it from you to cause a scene, but this guy isn’t giving you much choice. You employ the cardinal rule of women’s self-defense: go for the crotch. You shift your weight to your non-dominant side and launch your dominant knee right into his groin. The sharp metal edge of his belt buckle slices the skin just above your knee, but it shocks him enough to release your wrist and double over. The same leg used in your attack plants itself on the ground, and you use the momentum to pistol your opposite fist forward. It collides with his nose in a bone-cracking cross. Your stacks of studded rings didn’t do him any favors, either. He cries out in pain. His hands fly up to cover his nose, and the cup falls from his grasp and shatters on the floor, garnering the attention of some surrounding patrons. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“You’re gonna fucking pay for that.” His tone drips with poison. He reaches into his coat pocket and brandishes a switchblade (because of course. You’re not surprised, though. It is Gotham). You look around in a panic, hoping to find Jason towering somewhere over the crowd. He’s not there. A few guys who work for him, though, have since taken notice of the commotion and are making their way towards you. You know they won’t make it in time. You weren’t scared a moment ago, but you definitely are now. Jason only briefly covered disarming techniques, and you didn’t have his practice to stay calm in situations like these. He steps closer, shoes crunching over the glass shards, and you step back. You’re backed into a corner, literally. Your back is pressed against the table. His eyes are glassy and void of color.

There is a resounding pop when the man’s knife-wielding hand is yanked to the side. Too fast for your brain to register, he thuds against the table next to you and the knife clatters to the ground. You look over and see Jason, one hand pressing his face into the table and the other twisting the man’s arm behind his back. 

When his men finally reach you, Jason is seething. They look almost as afraid as the man, whose whimpers are muffled by the pressure with which he’s flattened against the table.

“Who the fuck let this happen,” Jason glowers. Uncomfortable glances are shared between the men, all sharing the same sentiment; we fucked up big time.

Jason’s livid gaze flits back and forth among them. His veins flex against his forearms, rippling with effort. It looks like he’s putting all his strength into incapacitating the man, but you know better. He’s putting all his strength into restraint. The look on his face is cold and steely, with hardened, venom-green eyes and a clenched jaw. This isn’t Jason, the sweet boyfriend, or Jason the easy-going yet respected club proprietor. This is Jason the crime lord. Jason the anti-hero. This is the Red Hood. Who makes his own rules and kills anyone who breaks them. It’s a bit off-putting for you to see him like this; he’s never like this with you. He’s always just…Jason. Your Jason.

One of his men speaks up. “We’re sorry, Boss, we were keepin’ an eye like you asked, but there was trouble up at the bar.”

Jason scowls. “Trouble that required all of you?”

At their silence, he rolls his eyes. “Idiots,” he says under his breath. He jerks the man up to stand, the hand that was pressing him to the table now gripping the back of his shirt collar. “Someone take care of this.” He shoves the man in their direction. Hard. One of them catches him. “And for fuck’s sake, check him for anything else.” 

While they’re busy patting him down, Jason turns back to you. You get whiplash from how quick his demeanor changes. Though still tense, the rigidity of his expression is long gone, replaced with tender concern.

“Are you okay?” His wide eyes scan you up and down, searching for any signs of injury. You manage a nod, still a bit stunned by his apparent shape-shifting abilities. “I’m so sorry, honey, this is my fault. It’s my fault for leaving you alone.” He pulls you close for a hug and kisses the top of your head, murmuring further apologies into your hair.

You pull back and cup his face in your hands. “It’s okay, Jay, I’m fine. I promise.” You lean in to kiss him and feel his shoulders relax.

“Jesus, man, sorry! Wouldn’t’a come on so strong if I knew she was your whore. How much did ‘ya pay for her, anyway?” His voice rings from behind. Jason tenses up again. When he pulls back from you, he’s gone. He’s like Jekyll-turned-Hyde when the combatant that lay dormant inside him reassumes his body.

He turns around, but his large frame shields you from seeing the scene unfold. You place a hand on his arm, a silent message of support, and you can feel him vibrating with anger. His hand comes to rest over yours and gives a reassuring squeeze.

“You know what?” You can’t be sure who he’s speaking to, but you can hear the eerie smile in his tone. “I’ll take care of this.” He faces you. “Can you give me a minute? Is that okay?” His voice is calm.

You know he would stay if you asked him to. And you never would, but you know he would go outside and kill that guy if you asked him to. And maybe you’re feeling a tad vindictive after the whole ordeal, so you just say, “Okay.”

He kisses your forehead, squeezing your hand once more. “I’ll come find you,” he says, stepping away, and you nod.

“Ross,” he commands. “Take her to the office. Get her whatever she wants.” Jason then speaks to all of his men. His tone drips with disdain. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about who’s getting fired for this.” You catch some of his men flinch.

He grabs the man by the collar once again and stalks towards the exit, dragging him along.

You’ve met Ross once or twice, though never exchanged more than a few words. He smiles at you. It’s amiable, if not slightly nervous. You know where the office is, but you’re still grateful for the guide. The mesh of moving bodies under dim lights makes all four corners of the room look the same. With the adrenaline wearing off, your hands ache and you become acutely aware of the stinging shock that shoots up your knee when you walk on it but, persevering, you follow him to the back. He holds the door that reads ‘RESTRICTED - DO NOT ENTER’ open for you, and you smile in thanks.

Various employees, servers and performers alike, mill about in the back hallways. You know some of them, having met in passing during other visits to the club, and offer polite greetings as you walk by. When you arrive at Jason’s office, Ross unlocks the door for you and you step inside.

It’s a nice office, noticeably homier than it was when you and Jason met. The first time he brought you back here it was just a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet. You perched yourself on his desk while he sat in his chair and you teased him for not having a place for guests to sit, saying something about ‘men and their awful interior designing skills.’

“It’s not ‘bad skills,’ it’s cost-effective. ‘M runnin’ a business here, baby. If you need a place to sit that badly, you can sit right here.” He joked, patting his lap. And he said it with such conviction you believed him, but the next time you visited there was a brand new, plushy suede couch pushed against the wall.

You find a seat on said couch and try to get comfortable despite your protesting joints. From here you can spot a framed photo on Jason’s desk; the two of you smiling while bathing a shelter dog at the Wayne Animal Sanctuary. But while you smile at the camera, his gaze is trained on you.

 Ross stands in the doorway, stoic as a bodyguard should be. “Do you need anything?” He asks you.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“‘Course. I’ll be outside. Just yell if you need anything.” He moves to exit, but pauses. “Look,” he says, “We’re all really sorry about what happened. It was our fault. You have every right to hate us.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “God knows the boss does.”

You purse your lips, unsure how to respond. Technically Jason did instruct them not to leave you alone. But really, the only person at fault is that horrible man, and he was currently getting what he deserved.

“It’s okay, Ross,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t blame you. And Jason’s not gonna fire any of you, okay? I won’t let him.”

He exhales. “Okay, you—yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He loiters awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. “Listen, Todd’s always been a great boss. But it’s no joke when it comes to you. Don’t know exactly what happened, but after meeting you, he’s just…different. Not sure if I believe it, but after the first time you were here, one of the bartenders swears they heard him whistling. Anyway, just mean to say…we’re glad he has you.”

His sincerity warms your heart. You thank him, and he assumes his post outside, closing the door. 

At last in decent lighting, you take the time to examine yourself. Your knee, knuckles, and wrist are splotchy with bruises. A small scrape rests just above your knee from you were scratched. There’s a splattering of blood on your knuckles and on the rings you’re wearing. You grimace, the reality of what just happened settling in. Someone pulled a knife on you. If Jason hadn’t been there…the thought leaves you cold.

There are voices on the other side of the door, then receding footsteps. After a few seconds, a knock.

“Baby? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” you call out. Jason enters, locking the door behind him. There are some smatterings of blood on his hands and face, and he’s holding a first aid kit. Your immediate instinct is that he’s the one who needs first aid.

“Are you okay?” You ask as he kneels on the floor in front of you. “Did he hurt you?”

Jason tilts his head like a confused puppy, eyebrow raised. Just like that, The Red Hood is gone. He’s Jason again. He speaks softly, with a hint of his usual boyish charm. “Should I be insulted by you asking me that?” He picks up your un-injured leg and places the foot on his thigh, beginning to unravel the ribbon wrapped around your ankle. He removes the shoe and places it to the side, then repeats with your other foot. But when he moves it, your knee twitches and you wince. He frowns but doesn’t say anything. He sees the way your eyes travel between all the spots of blood. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, none of it’s mine.”

You sigh in relief. “You didn’t…kill him, did you?”

He chuckles, lightly massaging your foot. “Nah…did you want me to? ‘Cause I can still—”

“No.”

He smirks at you, before leaning down to press a kiss to your bruised knee. It’s so gentle, so loving, it completely contradicts the bloodstains that adorn him. As his hands move up to your calf, your hand moves to his hair, fingers threading through the white streaks and pushing them back so you can get a better view of his eyes. They’re a silky teal, bordering on sea green. They remind you of lake trips in the summer, and ice skating during the holidays.

“How bad is he? Like, on a scale of ‘he can walk it off’ to ‘he needs to go to the hospital.’”

Jason pauses his movements, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“He…he’s walking himself to the hospital.”

There’s not much you can say to that. After all, you gave him to okay to go fuck that guy up.

From the first aid kit, he retrieves a box of Band-Aids. They’re the children’s ones, decorated with cartoons and various characters. A specific one catches your eye, and you pick it out of the carton.

“Robin? Really?”

Jason breathes out a small laugh. “One of my guys’ daughter loves him.” He unwraps the bandage and sticks it over the scratch. You admire the small red plaster. Jason traces a finger over the emblem in the center, a black and yellow ‘R’.

He moves from your leg to your hand, gingerly laying it in his palm. One by one he slides each of your rings off. They’re not particularly special, but you still like them and you try to protest when he tosses them in the trash. He’s quick to assuage you with promises to buy you new ones with, hopefully, less blood.

"Did you see how good I got him?" You suddenly feel shy asking such a question. Like a child seeking validation.

"I did see," Jason says. And there's not a hint of condescension in his tone. "I'm proud of you. You remembered what I taught you."

You beam under his pride.

He uses a sanitizing wipe to remove the droplets of blood from your knuckles, kissing each one along the way. He reaches your wrist last. There’s a purple hand-shaped mark that wraps around it, and he stares at it. You can see his thoughts race at sixty miles an hour, and you know he’s beating himself up about it.

“Hey.” The hand in his hair moves to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I promise. I love you.”

He leans forward to press his forehead to your wrist. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry.” He places gentle kisses on the purple skin. “I’m sorry. I love you.” He moves to the scratch above your knee, pressing more kisses, repeating the words like a prayer. Your hand is still enclosed in his hands, and his cool fingers soothe the throbbing swell. You pull his head up, holding his chin in your fingertips. His eyes close as he soaks in your warm touch.

You reach for another wipe and begin wiping the blood from his face. Some of it has dried, so you press the wipe a little harder, and blood rushes to his cheeks to give him an adorable flush. You repeat the process on his hands. Blood erased and wipes discarded, you pull him up to the couch to lie down with you. He stretches out, so large that his feet hang over the armrest. You snuggle up to his side and your head rests on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. It’s surreal, how utterly soft he is, and just for you. How no one else gets to see him like this. He goes out at night as a fighter, a crusader, a deadly threat. And then he comes home to sleep in your arms. In your bed.

You place your hand against his chest, right over his heart to feel it thrum beneath your palm. It beats simple and steady, and just for you.

am i the only one who likes the whole jason owning the iceberg lounge storyline (aside from the whole penguin prisoner thing but i only write according to canon that i like and leave out the things i don't! whoops🤷‍♀️);

the feminine urge to write more fics that take place within the universe of this one...

divider is from here

[theonottsbxtch]

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

[coryndoll]

plot ── tasked with interviewing actor drew starkey about his latest movie, you unintentionally steal the spotlight, leaving him blushing and lost for words under your mesmerizing gaze.

content ── reader being toooo pretty that drew is just like woah, drew being so observant ugh love him, reader not even trying to get his attention at all but ure just so alluring to him

authors note ── yea FUCK my series even tho i made that poll tbh im just so unmotivated. i saw this pic of drew n had some ideas for this lil oneshot of reader interviewing him post-premiere or something and him literally falling in love n reader noticing the little things n he becomes soheart eyes for u omg

you were a little nervous, to say the least. it was supposed to be a one-on-one interview, which somehow felt more intense than group ones with an entire cast. at least in those, the attention wasn’t entirely on you. but now? now it was just you and drew starkey, a handful of questions, and an awkwardly large camera crew standing just out of frame, watching everything. no pressure, right?

your boss had insisted that this interview focus on drew’s performance in his latest film. fair enough, but it also meant no backup—no costar to bounce off of or share the spotlight. it felt intimate in a way you weren’t entirely comfortable with, no matter how many times you’d done this. at the end of the day, it was just you sitting across from a celebrity while everyone else quietly judged your ability to hold a conversation.

you had almost turned this job down when you first started, not because of the nerves (though there were plenty) but because of the sheer vulnerability of it. still, the exposure wasn’t bad, and the paycheck? even better.

as you stepped into the room, clipboard in hand, the tension in your chest tightened just a bit. drew starkey, an actor you were only somewhat familiar with, sat casually in his chair. outer banks, hellraiser, the other zoey—you’d done your homework, skimming through his projects like your career depended on it. because, well, it kind of did. and he was . . . well, better looking in person, if that was even possible. the kind of face that made you forget you had questions to ask in the first place.

meanwhile, drew had been at this for hours. interviews were basically part of the job, but after a while, they all blended together. same questions, same conversations, just with different faces. he was tired but not miserable, holding onto the thought of dinner plans with some friends later that night.

interviews weren’t bad—he liked the connection when it happened, like the guy he was first interviewed by had laughed when he cracked a joke—but there was only so much charm drew could muster after a full day of talking about himself and the same film.

when you walked into the room, he barely glanced up at first. another assistant, probably, or someone from the crew running around to keep things moving. he didn’t pay much attention until you stopped right in front of him, introducing yourself and the network you worked for, arm extended for a handshake.

his gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, he forgot how to move, but he pulled himself together quickly, or at least he hoped it looked that way. he shook your hand, smiling the kind of easy, practiced smile he’d perfected over the years, but there was something a little shaky in his voice when he said, “nice to meet you.”

he sat back down, reminding himself to focus. you were a professional. he was a professional. this was just another interview. but it was hard to ignore the way his heart picked up every time you looked at him like that—focused, curious, maybe even a little nervous yourself. he wasn’t sure what it was about you, but for the first time that day, he couldn’t wait for the next question.

his hand went to his earlobe almost instinctively, a nervous habit he hadn’t really noticed until now. yeah, you were . . . stunning, in the kind of way that made him feel like he should stand up straighter or check his hair. if someone had told him you were a celebrity, he wouldn’t have questioned it. but the fact that you were here to interview him? that just felt unfair.

but the interview was smooth, the kind he’d done a hundred times before. the questions were predictable again, circling around the same themes: his character, the challenges of filming, the energy on set. drew answered easily, slipping into that familiar rhythm, but every so often, his focus wavered—not on the questions, but on you.

you glanced down at your list, scanning it for the next prompt, and then back up at him with those eyes. god, those eyes. drew swore they could make anyone feel like they were the only person in the room, even though he knew there were at least ten crew members just beyond the cameras.

he noticed it, though—how bored you seemed, even if you were too professional to let it show. your smile was polite, your tone unwavering, but every now and then, you hesitated just slightly before asking him a question, like you were already tired of the script you’d been given.

and then there was him, barely able to hold eye contact. it was almost embarrassing when he caught himself smiling at you, just a small, almost shy curve of his lips, but it was enough for you to pause, tilting your head slightly as if you were studying him.

"are you okay?" you asked softly, your own lips quirking into a smile that practically knocked the wind out of him.

it was such a simple exchange, but drew could feel the heat creeping up his neck. “yeah. yeah, i’m . . . awesome,” he managed, clearing his throat and looking away for half a second before his eyes found their way back to yours. he had to play it off, had to stay professional, but the way you smiled back at him, like his answer had made your day a little brighter? it felt like a win. still, he reminded himself: there was only so much time left. you were on a clock, and he couldn’t afford to waste it, even if you made it almost too easy to get distracted.

you just laughed, accepting his answer, but the moment lingered. your smile lingered. and the questions rolled on, one after another. nothing groundbreaking, but you kept it light, adding just enough to make it feel like a conversation. drew appreciated that. but eventually, after a particularly shared laugh—he couldn’t even remember what the joke had been—he leaned in slightly, his voice carrying a hint of playful curiosity.

“okay, so what did you think about the movie?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. it caught you off guard; he could tell by the way your posture shifted, your pen stilling over your notes.

and then you started talking.

at first, it was simple—a few observations, some praise for the direction, the performances. but the more you went on, the more animated you became, your voice lifting slightly, your words flowing effortlessly. you dove deep, unraveling moments and emotions from the film like you’d been holding them in since the premiere. drew leaned back, one hand resting against his chin as he watched you, utterly mesmerized.

you talked about the subtlety of his character, how his guarded exterior felt like a shield hiding something raw and vulnerable. you mentioned the tension between the characters—the way their connection felt like a push-and-pull dance neither could fully commit to but couldn’t walk away from either. you dissected the music, the cinematography, how it all wove together like a symphony of yearning and restraint.

and the way you talked about his performance . . .

you didn’t gush, which he appreciated, but your words were thoughtful, specific. you spoke about his quiet expressions, the way he held so much in his body language—the hesitation in his glances, the way his character seemed to pull back just when you thought he’d lean in. it was like you’d been watching with a magnifying glass, picking apart moments even he hadn’t considered.

he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. not just because you liked the movie, though that didn’t hurt, but because it was you. you, sitting across from him, completely unaware of how captivating you looked while tearing apart his work in the best possible way. if someone had asked him to focus on anything other than the way you gestured, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your clipboard, or the way your lips curved when you spoke, he would’ve failed miserably.

drew just sat there, watching you, and he couldn’t help but smile. you weren’t just pretty—you were sharp, insightful, and clearly so much more than the routine questions your clipboard suggested.

“you’re good at this,” he said when you finally paused for a breath, and he meant it. but he couldn’t help the slight teasing edge in his tone, the way his smile softened just a little as his eyes met yours again.

[pucksandpower]

Taste of Temptation

Day 17 → Lactation Kink 💋 Lando Norris

Warnings: 18+ content and dubious consent

Kinktober Masterlist

Lando leans against the edge of the pit wall, his arms crossed over his chest as Jon’s voice drones on in the background. He’s supposed to be listening. Focused. But all he can see is you standing a few feet away, talking to one of the engineers. The sun catches on the fabric of your dress, the deep V of the neckline, the way it clings to you in all the right places.

He shifts, swallowing hard, eyes dropping for what must be the hundredth time today to the way your chest looks in that dress. The low cut, the soft curve of your skin peeking out — it’s like you’re daring him to lose focus entirely. Which, clearly, is happening.

“Lando?”

Jon’s voice pulls him back, but only for a second. His head jerks in the performance coach’s direction. Jon’s got that look on his face, like he’s caught him out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando mumbles, dragging a hand through his hair. He tries to nod along, as if he’s been paying attention. “Sorry, what?”

Jon sighs, rolling his eyes. “Mate, we’ve been through this. Hydration’s key. You’ve got to keep on top of it, especially in this heat.”

Lando gives a vague nod, but his eyes flicker back over to you. The way your dress hugs your waist. The way you laugh at something the engineer says, tipping your head back just a little. And the way his mind goes utterly blank every time you smile. He’s barely aware of Jon still talking beside him.

“Water. You need water,” Jon says, more insistent this time, probably noticing Lando’s glazed-over expression.

“Water. Right,” Lando parrots, reaching for the bottle beside him on the bench. But his mind is still on you. Specifically, the way the soft fabric of your dress skims just below your collarbone. How it flutters a little when you move, revealing just enough to drive him mad.

He uncaps the bottle, eyes flicking between you and the opening, trying to focus. But it’s no use. You bend down slightly to tie your shoe, and Lando’s grip loosens. The water splashes out, missing his mouth entirely and drenching the front of his shirt instead.

“Shit-” he mutters, pulling back in surprise as cold water drips down his chin and soaks into the fabric. He blinks down at himself, as if confused by how it happened.

Jon bursts out laughing. “Hopeless,” he says, shaking his head. “Absolutely hopeless.”

Lando wipes at his chest with the back of his hand, but it’s useless. His shirt’s already sticking to his skin, and Jon’s laughter is still ringing in his ears.

“Shut up,” Lando grumbles, tossing the half-empty bottle aside.

“If you spent half as much time listening to me as you do staring at her-” Jon doesn’t even finish the sentence, his grin wide as he jerks his head in your direction.

“I wasn’t staring,” Lando mutters, though he knows it’s a lie. He wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, glancing over at you to make sure you didn’t notice the whole debacle. You’re still talking to the engineer, seemingly oblivious to the scene that just unfolded.

“Right,” Jon says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Because you totally didn’t miss your mouth just now. Completely by accident.”

Lando scowls, but there’s no bite to it. He knows Jon’s got him. “It’s the heat,” he says, lamely, hoping that’ll shut him up.

Jon just laughs again. “It’s her, mate.”

Lando doesn’t respond, but his eyes flicker back to you, just for a second. Just long enough to catch another glimpse of the way your dress dips low, hugging your curves. It’s not fair, really. How is he supposed to focus when you look like that?

Jon claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t blame you,” he says, grin still in place. “But you’ve got a race in a couple hours. Maybe try and keep your head in the game, yeah?”

Lando shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, wiping at his chest again, though the water has already seeped into the fabric.

Jon moves on, probably satisfied he’s gotten enough teasing out of Lando for now, and launches back into his lecture about hydration and recovery, but Lando’s barely listening again. His mind is still on you. Always on you. He watches as you push a strand of hair behind your ear, the sunlight catching in your eyes.

You turn then, like you can feel his eyes on you, and your gaze meets his. For a second, Lando’s breath catches. You smile, and it’s like everything else fades away. The noise of the paddock, Jon’s voice, even the upcoming race — it all falls to the background.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow in that way you always do when you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. And you do. You absolutely do.

Lando clears his throat, feeling his face flush, but he can’t tear his eyes away from you. He thinks about walking over, about wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pressing a kiss to that spot just below your ear that always makes you laugh.

But before he can even take a step, Jon’s voice cuts in again. “Seriously, mate. Focus.”

Lando tears his gaze away from you, shooting Jon an annoyed look. “I am focused.”

Jon just snorts. “Yeah, sure. On her.”

Lando rolls his eyes, but there’s no point denying it. He’s not focused, not on anything Jon’s saying, not on the race coming up, not on anything other than you.

You make your way over, that same knowing smile still on your lips, and Lando feels his heart skip a beat.

“Hey,” you say, voice soft as you come to stand beside him.

Lando’s throat goes dry. “Hey.”

You glance down at his still-damp shirt, your smile widening. “You miss your mouth again?”

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t start.”

Jon chuckles from the side. “Told you. Hopeless.”

You bite your lip, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “You okay, babe?”

Lando gives a half-hearted shrug, but he’s smiling. “It’s your fault,” he says, motioning vaguely toward your dress. “How am I supposed to focus when you wear stuff like that?”

You glance down at yourself, then back up at him, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

Lando groans again, louder this time. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You laugh, a soft sound that makes his chest tighten. “I don’t know, I think you’re just easily distracted.”

Jon claps him on the shoulder again, a knowing grin on his face. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”

Lando swats Jon’s hand away, shaking his head. “You’re both the worst,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, warmth spreading through his chest as you step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against his.

“Good luck today,” you say, voice dropping to a low murmur, just for him.

He exhales slowly, his pulse quickening as he meets your eyes. “Thanks.”

Your hand lingers against his for a second longer, your touch soft and warm. Then, with one last smile, you turn and walk back toward the paddock, leaving him standing there, heart racing and mind thoroughly distracted.

Jon shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “You’re a goner.”

Lando doesn’t even bother arguing this time. He watches as you disappear into the crowd, his mind still filled with thoughts of you, the race the furthest thing from his mind.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, smiling to himself. “I know.”

***

Lando lies on his back, his head propped up by a couple of pillows, the dim glow of his phone the only light in the room. It’s late, and the soft hum of the bathroom fan is the only sound breaking the quiet, accompanied by the faint rustle of you finishing your nightly routine.

He can hear the running water and the occasional clink of bottles as you move through the familiar steps — cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer. It’s a comforting routine, and Lando knows it well by now, having watched you do it a hundred times.

He scrolls through TikTok absentmindedly, his thumb flicking up the screen as random videos play in quick succession. His eyes glaze over as he watches one of those “get ready with me” videos, someone talking about their outfit for the day. He’s not really paying attention, though. Mostly, he’s just waiting for you to join him in bed. He glances at the door, hoping you’ll finish soon.

Another swipe, another video. This time, it’s a new mom talking to the camera, her face glowing with a mix of exhaustion and pride. Lando’s thumb hovers over the screen, ready to flick to the next one, but something about the video holds his attention.

“I was really struggling to breastfeed,” the woman says, her voice soft but earnest. “Nothing was working, and I was starting to feel like a failure, honestly. But then I found this cream, and I swear, it was a game changer.”

Lando’s brow furrows slightly, not really sure why he’s still watching, but he doesn’t scroll away. He listens as the woman continues talking about how she had trouble producing milk, how nothing seemed to help until she tried this one product.

“I’m not even kidding,” she says, holding up a small jar to the camera. “Within days, I started lactating. It was a godsend.”

Lando blinks, his mind catching on that word — lactating. He suddenly feels hyperaware of his own body, of the stillness in the room, of the faint sound of you moving around in the bathroom. His eyes drift back to the video, watching the woman gesture to the cream like it’s a miracle. His mind starts to wander, unbidden, to thoughts of you.

He hesitates for a moment, his thumb frozen on the screen, but his brain is already running wild with the idea. The thought of you with milk. His mouth goes dry, and he quickly glances toward the bathroom door again, half-expecting you to walk out and catch him watching this bizarrely specific video. But you’re still busy inside.

He swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and something deeper stirring in his chest. He taps the screen, pulling up the link the woman left in the video description. The product is right there, easy to order, just a few clicks away.

Lando’s thumb hovers over the “buy now” button. It’s stupid. Ridiculous, even. Why is he even considering this? But the thought won’t leave his head. The idea of you using this cream, of your body responding to it — it sends a shiver down his spine. His heart starts beating faster, a strange kind of excitement bubbling up inside him.

He bites his lip, staring at the screen, his mind spinning with the possibilities. His fingers twitch, almost moving on their own as he clicks the button, the order processing before he can even fully think it through.

The confirmation pops up, and he quickly deletes the email notification, his fingers moving quickly to erase any trace of the purchase. His heart races, a weird thrill running through him at the secrecy of it all. He tosses his phone onto the nightstand, feeling slightly breathless, like he’s just done something he shouldn’t have.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Lando’s head snaps up. You step out, the soft light from the bathroom spilling into the bedroom for a moment before you turn it off. You’re wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, your hair pulled back into a messy bun, skin glowing from your skincare routine. You look comfortable, relaxed, and Lando feels a sudden wave of warmth in his chest.

“Finally,” he says, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “I thought you got lost in there.”

You roll your eyes, climbing into bed beside him. “I wasn’t that long.”

“You were,” he insists, shifting to make room for you. “I’ve aged years waiting for you.”

You laugh, sliding under the covers and snuggling up next to him. “You’re dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. “But you do take forever.”

You nudge him playfully, but you settle into his side, your head resting on his chest. “Good things take time,” you say with a smirk.

Lando chuckles, but his mind is still spinning, the image of that video replaying in his head. He glances down at you, his arm tightening around you just a little, and his mind drifts to the thought of you filled with milk. The idea is strange, foreign, but it’s lodged in his brain now, and he can’t shake it.

You let out a contented sigh, your hand resting on his stomach, fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin. “What were you watching?” You ask, your voice soft, almost sleepy.

Lando stiffens for a second, his heart skipping a beat. “Uh, nothing much,” he says quickly, trying to sound casual. “Just the usual nonsense.”

You hum in response, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and Lando relaxes slightly. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, trying to push the thought of the cream out of his mind. But it lingers, that strange curiosity gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

“What’s got you so quiet tonight?” You ask after a moment, your voice laced with amusement. “You’re usually more talkative.”

Lando hesitates. He knows he should just let it go, that this whole thing is ridiculous, but part of him wants to say something. He bites his lip, unsure of how to even bring it up.

“I was just thinking,” he says slowly, his voice a little tentative.

“About?” You prompt, lifting your head slightly to look at him.

Lando meets your gaze, his heart pounding. “Have you ever thought about … I don’t know, trying something new?” He asks, his voice carefully measured.

Your brow furrows, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “New? Like what?”

He hesitates again, feeling a bit stupid for even considering bringing it up. But the image is so vivid in his mind, and he’s suddenly desperate to know what you’d think. “Like … I don’t know. Different things. Stuff you wouldn’t normally try.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now. “Lando, you’re being weirdly vague. What are you talking about?”

He lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”

But you don’t let it go. You shift, turning to face him more fully, your eyes narrowing slightly. “No, no. Now I want to know. What ���different things’ are you thinking about?”

Lando feels his face heat up, the words stuck in his throat. He can’t just come out and say it — hey, what if you tried this cream that makes you lactate? He’s sure you’d look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Uh … just stuff,” he mutters, looking away. “Like, in general.”

You study him for a moment, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re acting really weird,” you say, your voice teasing.

Lando forces a laugh, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, well. It’s been a long day.”

You don’t push any further, but there’s a playful glint in your eyes as you settle back against him, your head resting on his chest again. “You’re such a mystery sometimes, Norris,” you say with a grin.

He lets out a relieved breath, thankful you’re not pressing the issue. He wraps his arm around you again, trying to focus on the comfort of having you next to him, on the way your body fits so perfectly against his. But the thought still lingers, a quiet hum in the back of his mind. The idea of you, your body changing in that way, is intoxicating in a way he hadn’t expected.

As the minutes tick by, the room growing quieter and more peaceful, Lando can’t help but wonder what you’d think if you found out. Would you laugh it off, or would you be curious too?

You shift beside him, letting out a soft sigh, and Lando presses another kiss to the top of your head, trying to push the thoughts away. For now, he’ll keep it to himself. But the secret sits there, buzzing quietly in the background, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

“Goodnight, babe,” you murmur sleepily, your voice soft and content.

“Goodnight,” Lando whispers back, though his mind is far from quiet.

As you drift off, he lies there, wide awake, his mind replaying that video over and over, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into.

***

Lando can barely contain his nerves when the package arrives, neatly wrapped in brown paper with no label to give away its contents. He picks it up from the doorstep and quickly tucks it under his arm, heart racing as he slips back into the house.

You’re in the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as you prep dinner, completely unaware of the small box that holds so much significance for him. He glances at you, trying to act casual, but the adrenaline surging through his veins makes his hands feel shaky.

He slips into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re still out of earshot, Lando opens the package. The cream is small, unassuming, and he feels a strange thrill pulse through him as he holds it in his hands. The video flashes through his mind again — lactation — and it sends a familiar shiver down his spine.

For a moment, he hesitates. Should he really go through with this? He’s already in too deep, though. The thought of you, your body responding to this, is far too intoxicating to back out now. He tucks the cream into his nightstand drawer, hiding it carefully beneath some old receipts and random clutter. Just as he’s closing the drawer, he hears your footsteps coming down the hallway.

Quickly, Lando stands up, smoothing out his shirt and stepping back into the main area of the house, meeting you with a wide grin as you finish setting the table. You look relaxed, but he can see the faint tension in your shoulders — like maybe work’s been getting to you again. He watches you closely as you move around the kitchen, biting his lip in thought. This could be the perfect moment.

“You look tense,” he says, leaning against the counter as you place two plates of food on the table.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, it’s been a long day,” you admit, rubbing the back of your neck.

Lando steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I was thinking …” he murmurs, his voice low, “maybe I could give you a massage later? Help you relax a bit.”

You lean into his touch, your smile widening. “That sounds amazing.”

“Good,” he says softly, the hint of a plan forming in his mind. “I even got some new lotion that’s supposed to be great for massages. Thought we could try it out.”

Your eyes flicker with interest as you glance up at him. “Fancy,” you tease, but there’s an unmistakable warmth in your voice. “When did you become such an expert?”

He chuckles, pressing another kiss to your cheek. “I’ve always been an expert when it comes to you,” he says, his voice playful, but there’s a sincerity underneath that makes your smile soften.

Dinner passes in a comfortable haze, your conversation light and easy, but Lando’s mind is already fast-forwarding to what’s coming next. He watches you across the table, taking in every detail of your movements, your expressions, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you talk about your day. His heart pounds harder with every passing moment, anticipation building.

Later, after you’ve both cleaned up and changed into more comfortable clothes, Lando pats the space in front of him on the bed, motioning for you to lie down. You oblige with a soft laugh, stretching out on your stomach, your hair cascading down over one shoulder.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, resting your cheek on the pillow.

Lando grins, feeling the familiar rush of affection surge through him. “You deserve it,” he says, settling onto the bed beside you. He grabs the regular lotion first, squeezing a bit into his hands and warming it up between his palms. He starts slow, his hands gliding over your back, working into the tension in your shoulders with practiced ease.

You let out a contented sigh, your body relaxing under his touch, and Lando takes his time, savoring every second. He loves seeing you like this — completely at ease, trusting him completely. He kneads into the muscles of your back, his thumbs working in small circles, and you hum softly, your breathing deepening.

“Mmm, that feels amazing,” you mumble, your voice sleepy.

Lando smiles to himself, continuing the massage. His hands move lower, massaging the small of your back, then your sides, and down to your legs. He’s methodical, deliberate, taking his time so you can fully relax.

After a while, he pulls back, his heart thudding in his chest. Now comes the part he’s been waiting for.

“I think you’re due for a flip,” he says with a soft chuckle, giving your side a gentle nudge.

You laugh softly, rolling onto your back and stretching your arms above your head, completely relaxed. Your t-shirt rides up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin, and Lando’s pulse quickens. He keeps his expression neutral, though, not wanting to give away what’s about to happen.

“Ready for more?” He teases, keeping his tone light.

You nod, your eyes half-closed in contentment. “Bring it on.”

Lando reaches for the nightstand, his fingers brushing the drawer handle with a quick flick. His heart skips a beat as he retrieves the small jar of cream, careful to hide the label from your view. He sets it down beside him, moving slowly so you won’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

He starts with your arms, using the regular lotion again, his touch gentle and soothing. He rubs the lotion into your skin, working it over your shoulders and down your forearms. You sigh again, completely lost in the sensation, and Lando’s chest tightens with anticipation. He knows it’s almost time.

Finally, his hands trail down to your chest. He hesitates for the briefest second, his eyes flicking to your face to make sure you’re still relaxed. You are — your eyes closed, a faint smile on your lips, your body completely at ease beneath his hands.

Perfect.

Lando quietly switches the jars, scooping a small amount of the special cream onto his fingers. He rubs it between his palms, warming it up, and then he lowers his hands to your chest, his breath catching slightly as his fingers make contact with your skin.

His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he smooths the cream over the soft skin of your chest, taking extra care to massage it in thoroughly. His hands move in slow, deliberate circles, making sure to cover every inch of you, but he’s careful — so careful — not to make you suspicious. He doesn’t want you to know what he’s doing. Not yet.

You let out a soft, contented hum, your body sinking even deeper into relaxation, and Lando’s heart races in his chest. He can feel the cream sinking into your skin, the thought of what it might do sending a shiver down his spine.

“How does that feel?” He asks, his voice low and steady, though his pulse is anything but.

“Amazing,” you murmur, your voice heavy with sleep. “You’re really good at this.”

Lando chuckles softly, continuing his slow, deliberate movements, his hands brushing over your chest, his fingers lingering just slightly on your nipples. He massages the cream into them carefully, making sure they’re completely covered, his touch as light as a whisper.

You sigh, your chest rising and falling under his hands, and Lando feels a wave of heat rush through him. The thought of you, your body responding to this cream, the idea of you producing milk, it’s all so overwhelming, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice soft and warm. “Just relax.”

He continues the massage for a little while longer, his hands lingering on your chest, making sure every bit of the cream is absorbed. You’re so relaxed now, your body completely loose and pliant beneath his touch, and Lando feels a strange sense of satisfaction as he watches you.

Eventually, he pulls back, wiping his hands on a nearby towel and setting the jar of cream back into the drawer, hiding it away once again. He glances at you, lying there with a peaceful smile on your face, completely unaware of what he’s just done.

Lando lies down beside you, pulling the covers over both of you as you shift closer, snuggling up against him. Your head rests on his chest, your arm draped over his waist, and Lando wraps an arm around you, holding you close.

“You really are too good to me,” you murmur, your voice soft and drowsy.

Lando presses a kiss to the top of your head, his heart still racing with a mix of excitement and anticipation. “I just want you to feel good,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hum in response, already drifting off into sleep, your body completely relaxed against his. Lando lies there in the quiet darkness, his mind buzzing with thoughts of what’s to come, of the changes that might happen now that you’ve used the cream.

He tightens his arm around you, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction settle over him. It’s all in motion now. There’s no going back.

“Goodnight,” you murmur sleepily.

Lando smiles to himself, his chest tightening with anticipation. “Goodnight,” he whispers, but his mind is far from rest.

***

It’s been weeks since Lando first started using the cream. Every night, he waits for the perfect opportunity: after you’ve fallen asleep, your breathing soft and even, or when you come home exhausted and practically beg him to give you a massage. He’s gotten careful, precise. Every time his hands glide over your skin, rubbing the cream into your chest, a thrill courses through him.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t let on that anything is out of the ordinary. Every time you lean into him with a content sigh or drift off into a deeper sleep, he feels more confident, more sure of what he’s doing. The anticipation is almost unbearable at times.

And then, one morning, it happens.

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone when he hears it — your scream. It’s sharp, panicked, and it sends a jolt of adrenaline rushing through him. He’s up in an instant, his phone slipping from his hand as he bolts toward the walk-in closet where your voice came from.

“Babe?” Lando calls, his heart hammering in his chest. He rounds the corner into the closet, eyes scanning frantically until they land on you, standing in front of the full-length mirror, frozen in place.

You’re staring at your reflection, wide-eyed, your hands hovering over your chest as if you’re too afraid to touch. His eyes follow your gaze, and that’s when he sees it — the two dark spots blooming on the fabric of your dress, right over your breasts. Wet, unmistakable, and spreading slowly.

“What the hell is this?” You whisper, your voice shaky, a mixture of confusion and panic creeping in. “Lando, what is this?”

Lando swallows hard, his mind racing. This is it. The cream has finally started working, and now you’re standing there, completely unaware of what’s been happening. He can see the fear in your eyes, the way you’re trembling just slightly, and he knows he has to act fast.

“Whoa, hey, hey, it’s okay,” Lando says quickly, stepping toward you, his hands outstretched in a gesture of reassurance. “Let’s just take a second, okay? Breathe.”

You glance at him, your eyes wild, and he can see how much this is freaking you out. “Lando, I — this isn’t normal! Why is this happening?” Your voice cracks slightly, and you press a hand over one of the wet spots, as if trying to stop it from spreading further.

Lando moves closer, gently taking your hands in his. He forces himself to stay calm, even though inside, his pulse is racing with a strange mix of excitement and guilt. He can’t let you see that, though. Not now. Not when you’re looking at him like you’re terrified of what’s happening to your body.

“Okay, okay, let’s think about this,” Lando says, his voice steady. “It’s probably just, you know, hormones or something. These things can happen sometimes, right? Bodies do weird stuff.”

You blink at him, still looking unconvinced. “But I’ve never-” you start, but your voice falters. “Why now? I haven’t done anything differently. This is just … weird.”

Lando bites the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out how to spin this without raising any red flags. He can’t let you know about the cream — not now, when you’re already so shaken. He needs to make this sound as natural as possible, something that just happens, something you won’t question.

“Hey, remember that article you showed me a while back?” He says, grasping at straws. “The one about how stress can mess with your body? Maybe it’s that? You’ve been working a lot lately, right? It could be your hormones reacting to all the stress.”

You frown, clearly still confused, but Lando can see a flicker of understanding pass over your face. You do work hard, and lately, you’ve been talking about how exhausted you feel. Maybe that’ll be enough to explain this away, to keep you from digging any deeper.

“Stress can do this?” You ask, your voice still shaky but a little more composed now.

Lando nods, giving your hands a gentle squeeze. “It could. And, you know, hormones fluctuate all the time. Maybe this is just your body’s way of reacting to everything going on. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

You look down at the wet spots again, your brow furrowing as you process his words. “But I’ve never had this happen before,” you say quietly. “This is just … I don’t know, Lando, it feels weird.”

Lando pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting embrace. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, trying to calm the nerves still buzzing in your body. “I know it’s weird,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “But we’ll figure it out, okay? If it keeps happening, we’ll talk to someone. But right now, let’s just take it one step at a time.”

You nod slowly, your head resting against his chest, and Lando can feel the tension in your body slowly start to melt away. He holds you close, his heart still pounding in his chest, but he knows he has to keep it together. He can’t let you see how deep this goes — how much this was part of his plan all along.

After a few moments, you pull back slightly, glancing down at the dark spots again with a sigh. “I should probably change,” you mutter, a hint of frustration in your voice.

Lando chuckles softly, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, might be a good idea.”

You offer a small, half-hearted smile, and Lando can see that you’re still processing everything. But at least you’re not panicking anymore, not freaking out like you were a few minutes ago. That’s a good sign.

He watches as you turn back to the closet, rifling through your clothes for something to change into. His mind is still racing, though. Now that the cream is working, what happens next? Will you notice more changes? Will you start asking questions? He doesn’t know how long he can keep this a secret, but the thought of stopping now feels impossible. He’s already too far in.

Lando’s gaze flickers to the mirror, where your reflection is visible. He watches you change into a fresh dress, the wet spots on the discarded one serving as a reminder of what’s happening. He bites his lip, torn between the thrill of seeing his plan take effect and the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind.

You finish changing and turn to face him, still looking a little uncertain but calmer now. “Thanks,” you say quietly, your eyes meeting his. “For being so calm. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

Lando’s chest tightens at your words, a mix of emotions swirling inside him. He steps forward, wrapping his arms around you once more, pulling you close. “I’m always here for you,” he says softly, meaning every word, even if there’s a part of him that’s hiding something.

You rest your head against his chest again, and for a moment, everything feels normal — like nothing has changed. But Lando knows better. Things have changed. The cream has started working, and now, there’s no turning back.

As he holds you in his arms, Lando can’t help but think about what comes next. Will the changes continue? Will you start noticing more? He knows he has to tread carefully, but the excitement bubbling inside him is hard to ignore.

He runs his fingers through your hair, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “We’ll figure this out,” he says quietly, though he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll use the cream, the next step in this carefully orchestrated plan.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him with a soft smile. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

Lando smiles back, but his mind is already racing ahead, filled with thoughts of what’s to come.

***

Lando lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is dark, except for the faint glow of the moon seeping through the curtains, casting soft, silvery light across the room. Next to him, you’re asleep, breathing softly, curled up under the blankets. He watches you for a moment, his heart heavy with an intensity he can’t quite explain.

It’s been days since the incident in the closet, since you first noticed the signs, and while you’ve brushed it off as a hormonal blip — just as he suggested — it’s been gnawing at Lando’s mind constantly. He can’t stop thinking about it, about what’s happening to your body, about the secret he’s been carrying.

And tonight … tonight is different. There’s something humming in the air, something that feels both electric and inevitable.

Lando shifts onto his side, facing you, his eyes tracing the soft curve of your form under the covers. He watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest, knowing exactly what’s happening beneath the fabric of your shirt. The thought sends a jolt of heat through him, a heat he’s been trying to ignore, but it’s becoming too strong now, too insistent.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this crosses a line he’s already been walking dangerously close to for weeks, but the temptation has been building, slowly tightening around him until it feels like there’s no escape.

Carefully, he reaches out, his hand hovering just above your shoulder. You’re still fast asleep, unaware of the storm brewing in Lando’s mind, unaware of the secret desires he’s been hiding. His fingers brush your shoulder lightly, testing the waters, and you don’t stir. He lets out a quiet breath, inching closer.

His hand moves down, grazing the fabric of your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin through it. His touch is featherlight, deliberate, as he pulls the blanket back, just enough to give him access. The moonlight bathes you in a soft glow, illuminating your form in a way that feels almost surreal. Lando’s pulse quickens, and he swallows hard, his mouth dry as his hand lingers near your chest.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

But his body moves before his mind can stop it.

Slowly, so slowly it feels like time is crawling, Lando slips his hand under your shirt. The fabric slides up, exposing your skin to the cool night air, and his fingers move over the soft swell of your chest. He can feel the warmth there, the subtle heaviness that wasn’t there before, and it makes his head spin.

He pauses, his hand resting over your chest, his breath shaky. He���s trying to be careful, not to wake you, but his body is tense with anticipation, with something deeper, something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

Lando leans in, his lips hovering just above your skin. He hesitates for a moment, heart racing in his chest, before pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your breast. You stir slightly, but don’t wake, and the rush of relief that floods through him is intoxicating.

He moves lower, his lips trailing gentle kisses along your skin, until he reaches the peak of your chest. The fabric of your shirt is bunched up just above his hand, and Lando carefully pulls it higher, exposing more of your skin. His breath catches in his throat as he sees it — the faint trace of moisture beading at the tip.

It’s real. It’s happening.

His mouth goes dry again, but his body moves on instinct, drawn to the sight in front of him. He leans in, his lips brushing against your skin, and then … he tastes it.

It’s warm, sweet, unlike anything he’s ever tasted before. The sensation sends a shock through him, his entire body lighting up with something primal, something he didn’t even know was there. He presses his lips more firmly against your skin, drawing more of it into his mouth, the sweetness flooding his senses.

You stir again, shifting slightly in your sleep, and Lando freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. But you don’t wake. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, his lips still hovering over your chest.

His mind is racing, caught somewhere between guilt and an overwhelming need that he can’t explain. He knows what he’s doing is wrong — he knows he’s crossing a boundary — but it’s too late. He’s too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of you, by the taste of you.

Lando pulls back just enough to look at your face, making sure you’re still asleep, and when he sees that you are, he dips his head again, pressing his lips against your skin once more. He’s careful, deliberate, trying to keep his movements gentle, but the sensation of tasting you, of feeling the warmth of your body beneath his lips, is making it harder and harder to control himself.

He wants more.

His hand moves higher, slipping further under your shirt, until he’s cupping your chest in his palm. The weight of it feels different now, heavier, and the thought of it sends another jolt of heat through him. He squeezes gently, drawing more of the warm liquid into his mouth, and it takes everything in him not to make a sound.

You let out a soft sigh in your sleep, and Lando’s heart skips a beat. He pulls back again, his lips parting as he stares down at you, his mind spinning. He can’t believe what he’s just done, can’t believe how far he’s let himself go.

For a moment, he just sits there, watching you, his hand still resting on your chest, his breathing shallow. His lips are still tingling from the taste, from the sensation of it, and he knows he’s in too deep now. There’s no going back from this.

Lando carefully pulls your shirt back down, his movements slow and deliberate as he covers you again. He tucks the blanket around you, making sure you’re warm, before lying back down beside you, his heart still pounding in his chest.

As he lies there, staring up at the ceiling, his mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He knows he should feel guilty — he knows this is wrong — but all he can think about is the taste of you, the way it felt to have that small, secret part of you all to himself.

He turns his head to look at you, your face peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of what’s just happened. The moonlight casts a soft glow over your skin, and Lando feels that same overwhelming rush of affection and desire that’s been building for weeks.

He knows he should stop. He knows this can’t go on. But as he lies there, listening to the sound of your breathing, all he can think about is when he can taste you again.

***

Lando collapses onto the small couch in his driver’s room, drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. The Qatar heat was brutal, and the race had taken everything out of him. His entire body feels heavy, his muscles aching, his skin sticky from the mix of sweat and the desert air. His mind is foggy, still reeling from the intense focus he’d maintained for hours. Dehydration was a real issue here, and it hit him harder than he expected.

“Bloody hell …” he mutters, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed.

You’re there almost immediately, a soft, comforting presence at his side. You place a hand on his knee, your touch warm and reassuring.

“You okay?” You ask, your voice soft but full of concern.

Lando opens his eyes slightly, giving you a tired smile. “Yeah … just need to rehydrate. I feel like a raisin.” He forces a chuckle, though his voice is rough, throat dry from the heat.

You stand, quickly moving to the small fridge in the corner of the room. “I’ll get you some water,” you say, already pulling out a bottle and twisting off the cap. “You need to replenish your electrolytes too. You’re completely wiped.”

Lando watches you, his mind still hazy, but there’s something about the way you move, the way you’re so focused on taking care of him, that pulls him out of his fog. You’re always like this after a race — attentive, calm, making sure he’s okay before you even think about yourself. He loves that about you, the way you care for him in these quiet, personal moments.

But today, there’s something else on his mind. Something he’s been thinking about for weeks, ever since that night in bed.

Lando licks his dry lips, his heart picking up speed as a thought crosses his mind. You’ve been by his side this entire time, completely unaware of what he’s been doing, of the secret he’s been keeping. He’s managed to keep things under control, to keep his obsession at bay, but now … now he’s not sure if he can.

He watches as you return to him, holding the bottle of water and a sports drink, and sits down beside him. You hand him the water first, but he hesitates, his fingers curling around the bottle without taking a sip.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your brow furrowed as you look at him.

Lando swallows, his mouth dry, but not just from dehydration. His eyes flick to your chest, lingering for a moment before quickly returning to your face. “I, uh … I was thinking,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual, though his heart is pounding in his chest. “Maybe I could … try something else.”

You blink at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates, his mind racing as he tries to find the right words. He knows he’s pushing it, knows this is dangerous territory, but the thought of tasting you again — of having that secret part of you, especially now, when he’s so raw and exhausted — feels impossible to resist.

“I mean,” he starts, his voice low, “maybe I could try … you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you glance down at yourself, clearly taken aback. “Me? Lando, what are you talking about?”

He shifts slightly, his body tense, but his gaze stays on you, steady despite the pounding of his heart. “I know it sounds weird,” he says quickly, before you can protest. “But … I’m so dehydrated, and … you know, with everything that’s been happening, I just thought … maybe it could help.”

You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to process what he’s saying. “You … you want to …”

He nods, his throat tight as he watches your reaction. “Just a little. I mean, it’s natural, right? And you’ve been producing, so … I thought it might help. If you’re okay with it.”

You’re silent for a long moment, clearly taken aback, and Lando can see the uncertainty in your eyes. His heart pounds harder, the tension in the room thickening as he waits for your response.

Finally, you let out a breath, glancing down at yourself before looking back at him. “You really think it’ll help?”

Lando nods again, though he knows that’s not really the point. It’s not about the dehydration, not really. But you don’t need to know that. You don’t need to know how much he’s been thinking about this, how much he craves it.

“I think it might,” he says softly, reaching out to gently place a hand on your knee. “Just a little. If you’re comfortable with it.”

You bite your lip, clearly still unsure, but there’s a softness in your eyes, a desire to help him, to take care of him in whatever way you can. Slowly, you nod.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “If you think it’ll help.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat, a rush of excitement flooding through him as you agree. He shifts closer to you on the couch, his hand sliding up your leg to rest on your thigh as he looks into your eyes.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice low, though he’s already leaning in, already feeling the pull toward you.

You nod again, though there’s still a hint of hesitation in your expression. “Yeah. I just … I didn’t expect this.”

Lando smiles softly, trying to put you at ease, though inside, his mind is racing. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his hand gently squeezing your thigh. “We’ll take it slow.”

You take a deep breath, and then, with a small nod, you lift the hem of your shirt, exposing your chest to him. Lando’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes immediately drawn to the soft curve of your skin, the subtle sheen of moisture that’s already starting to form.

His mouth goes dry again, but this time, it’s not from the heat.

He leans in slowly, his hand sliding up to cup your breast as his lips brush against your skin. You tense slightly under his touch, but you don’t pull away, and Lando takes that as his cue to continue. He presses a soft kiss to your skin, his heart racing in his chest as he feels the warmth of you beneath his lips.

For a moment, he just stays there, breathing you in, savoring the closeness. Then, slowly, carefully, he opens his mouth and takes you in, drawing the sweet liquid into his mouth.

The taste hits him instantly, flooding his senses with warmth and sweetness. It’s just as he remembered — no, better. The heat, the exhaustion, the rawness of the race — it all amplifies the sensation, making it feel more intense, more real.

He can feel you tense again, a soft gasp escaping your lips, and he pulls back slightly, looking up at you with wide eyes. “You okay?” He asks softly, his voice thick.

You nod, though your breathing is shaky, your hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. “Yeah … I’m okay. It’s just … different.”

Lando nods, understanding, but he can’t stop now. He leans in again, his lips pressing against you once more as he drinks from you, taking in the warmth, the sweetness. It feels like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been craving for so long, and the rush of it makes his head spin.

He moves his hand gently, squeezing softly as he continues, feeling the way your body reacts to him, the way you tremble under his touch. It sends a thrill through him, a deep, primal satisfaction that he can’t explain.

You let out a soft sigh, your fingers tightening on his shoulder, and Lando feels a surge of heat in his chest. He’s careful, though — he doesn’t want to push too far, doesn’t want to scare you. He pulls back after a moment, looking up at you again with that same soft smile.

“How was that?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You look down at him, your expression still a mix of confusion and something else — something softer, more vulnerable. “It was … okay,” you say quietly. “Just … unexpected.”

Lando nods, reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I feel a lot better now.”

You smile at him, though it’s a small, uncertain smile, and Lando knows that this is something you’re still processing. But for him … for him, it feels like the beginning of something he’s been waiting for. Something he’s been craving.

As you pull your shirt back down and settle beside him on the couch, Lando leans back, his heart still racing, his mind spinning with everything that just happened. He knows he’s playing with fire, knows that this secret is dangerous, but for now, he’s content.

***

Lando is lying on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone, the sound of the TV humming in the background. It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind of rare downtime that he savors between races. His body still feels the residual tension from the last few weeks, the physical demands of driving through the relentless heat of Qatar lingering in his muscles.

You’re in the bedroom, sorting through some things. Lando hears the occasional thud of a drawer closing, the rustling of clothes. Everything feels normal. Calm, even.

Until it isn’t.

“Lando!”

Your voice slices through the quiet, sharp and tense. His heart stutters in his chest. The way you say his name — it’s not in the usual tone. There’s something off about it, something more than the usual annoyance over small things.

He sits up, his phone forgotten in his lap. “Yeah?” He calls back, trying to sound casual, but there’s a tightness in his throat.

You appear in the doorway, and immediately, Lando knows something’s wrong. You’re holding something in your hand — a small, innocuous-looking jar. But he recognizes it instantly.

The cream. The cream he thought he’d hidden well enough.

He swallows hard, his pulse quickening. “What’s that?” He asks, feigning ignorance, but his voice wavers ever so slightly.

You step closer, holding up the jar. Your eyes are sharp, full of confusion, but also something else — betrayal, anger, hurt. “I found this,” you say, your voice tight. “In the back of the drawer. Where you obviously didn’t want me to find it.”

Lando shifts uncomfortably on the couch, his mind racing as he tries to come up with an excuse, anything to diffuse the situation. He hadn’t expected this. He thought he’d been careful. “It’s just … it’s just some lotion,” he says, but even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re not enough.

Your eyes narrow. “Lotion? Lando, this is not just lotion. This is-” You pause, your breath shaky. “This is the cream that’s supposed to induce lactation, isn’t it?”

He feels his stomach drop. There’s no point in denying it now. You’ve found the evidence, and there’s no going back from this. But he can’t let you stay angry. He can’t let this ruin everything. He’s worked too hard to get to this point, and he doesn’t want to lose what he’s gained.

“Look, I can explain,” he says, standing up from the couch, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. He tries to keep his voice calm, soothing. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just … I thought it would help.”

You stare at him, your expression a mix of disbelief and anger. “Help? Help with what, Lando? You’ve been putting this on me without telling me! Do you realize how messed up that is?”

He steps closer, his heart pounding. “I know. I know it sounds bad. But I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I just … I wanted to try something new. I wanted to feel closer to you.”

You shake your head, incredulous. “Closer to me? By making my body do something without my knowledge? This is so far beyond okay. This is — this is a violation of trust.”

Lando feels a surge of panic. He can’t let this spiral out of control. He can’t let you leave, or worse, shut him out. He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a softer tone, almost pleading. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear. I just-” He hesitates, then says, “I didn’t know how to ask for it.”

Your brows furrow, and you look away, your hand tightening around the jar. Lando can see the conflict in your eyes — the hurt, the confusion, the anger. And he knows that if he doesn’t do something now, he might lose you.

He takes another step closer, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to brush your arm. “I just … I couldn’t help it. I’ve been so obsessed with you, with us, and it felt … it felt natural. I didn’t want to scare you.”

You shake your head again, but your anger seems to falter, just a little. “This is … this isn’t something you just hide from someone. You can’t make decisions about my body like that.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I shouldn’t have done it without telling you. But I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want to make things weird between us.”

You look at him, your eyes searching his face, and Lando feels a small flicker of hope. He can see that you’re still upset, but there’s a crack in the wall you’ve put up, a softness starting to seep through.

He takes another step, closing the distance between you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Please,” he whispers. “Let me make it up to you. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose us.”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, and Lando can feel the tension in the room shift, just slightly. He knows he’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s close. So close.

“Lando …” you begin, but he cuts you off by leaning in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, desperate kiss. You hesitate at first, but after a moment, you kiss him back, your lips warm and familiar against his.

When he pulls away, his voice is low, almost a whisper. “Let me show you. Let me take care of you.”

You look at him, your eyes still conflicted, but there’s something else there now — curiosity, maybe, or a need for comfort. Lando takes that as his cue to continue, his hands moving to gently guide you to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his hands moving to your shoulders, massaging gently. “I know I messed up. But I want to make it right.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t resist either. Lando’s hands slide down your arms, soothing and gentle, as he kneels in front of you. He looks up at you, his eyes soft, pleading.

“Let me,” he murmurs, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slightly. You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod, allowing him to lift it higher, exposing your chest.

Lando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at you, the soft curve of your body illuminated by the dim light in the room. He presses a kiss to your stomach, his lips warm against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re perfect.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hand resting on the back of his head as he kisses his way up your chest, his lips trailing along your skin. He pauses at your breast, his lips hovering just above the soft peak.

“Please,” he whispers again, looking up at you. “Let me.”

You nod, your breath shaky, and Lando takes that as permission. He leans in, his mouth closing around you, drawing you in with slow, deliberate movements. The sweet warmth floods his senses, and he feels a rush of satisfaction, of need.

You gasp softly, your fingers tightening in his hair, and Lando’s heart swells with a mix of desire and relief. He’s got you now. He knows he’s distracting you, pulling you away from the anger, and it’s working. You’re softening under his touch, your body responding to him.

He coos softly, his lips never leaving your skin. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “So perfect.”

You let out a soft whimper, your hand gripping his shoulder as he continues, his mouth moving gently, rhythmically. He can feel you relaxing, the tension slowly melting away, and it fills him with a deep sense of satisfaction. He’s in control now. He’s guiding you, distracting you, making sure you’re focused on him and nothing else.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

Your breathing is shallow, your body trembling under his touch, and Lando can feel the shift in the room. The anger, the hurt — it’s slipping away, replaced by something else. Something more intimate, more vulnerable.

He pulls back slightly, his lips still brushing against your skin, his eyes looking up at you with that same soft, pleading expression. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to be close to you.”

You look down at him, your eyes still clouded with confusion and emotion, but you don’t pull away. Your hand stays on his shoulder, your fingers tightening slightly as if you’re holding on to him, grounding yourself.

Lando leans in again, pressing another soft kiss to your chest, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulls back completely, sitting back on his heels and looking up at you.

“I love you,” he says quietly, his voice raw. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

You’re silent for a long moment, your chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. Finally, you speak, your voice soft, almost unsure. “This … this is a lot, Lando.”

He swallows hard, reading the uncertainty in your voice, feeling the weight of it settle between you. His heart races, but he knows he can’t push too fast. He doesn’t want to scare you, doesn’t want to lose what they’ve built. This delicate moment, the fragile balance between trust and something deeper — he can feel it teetering.

He stays where he is, kneeling at your feet, looking up at you with that same desperate softness in his eyes. His hands rest gently on your thighs, thumbs brushing back and forth, a soothing rhythm. He knows he has to choose his words carefully.

“I know,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I know it's a lot. And I know I should’ve told you from the start. But …” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “It felt right. The connection. The closeness. I just-”

Lando falters, unsure if he should say what’s really on his mind. That he's obsessed with the idea of you like this, that every time he sees you, he’s overcome with a need so deep, so primal, it almost scares him. But he swallows it back, not wanting to push too far, too fast.

Your gaze softens, and although the hesitation lingers in your eyes, you’re listening. You’re still here.

“I just wanted more of you,” Lando continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just physically, but emotionally too. It’s been … it’s been overwhelming for me too, but I didn’t know how to explain it. I thought if we … if you … I don’t know. Maybe it was selfish, but I just-”

He looks down, his head hanging low as if ashamed, his hands still gently resting on your thighs. “I didn’t want to scare you off by talking about it. I thought you might think it was weird.”

Your hand reaches out, fingers lightly brushing the top of his head. He looks up at you again, the gentleness of your touch melting the knot of tension in his chest.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” you say quietly, the uncertainty still there but softer now, more understanding. “But … Lando, this is my body. You should’ve talked to me. We could’ve figured it out together.”

Lando nods quickly, his throat tightening. “I know, I know. And I’m so sorry for not being honest. I’ll do better, I swear. I’ll never hide anything from you again.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek as you watch him carefully, the anger you’d felt earlier fading into something else. Something gentler. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t ask me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want you to say no,” he admits quietly. “Because … I don’t know if I could’ve handled that.”

Silence falls between you, thick with emotion. You let your hand fall away from his face, resting it in your lap as you consider his words, his vulnerability.

Lando can see the gears turning in your head, the mix of confusion, curiosity, and maybe — just maybe — something that mirrors his own desire. He watches you carefully, searching your face for any sign of where this might be heading.

Finally, you let out a soft sigh. “So, you … want me to keep … producing?”

Lando’s eyes widen slightly, and he nods, his heart racing again. “Only if you want to,” he says quickly, his voice soft but insistent. “I won’t push you. But … yeah. I do.”

Your gaze drifts down, and you chew on your bottom lip, thinking it over. Lando’s pulse quickens, the air between you charged with tension and something deeper, something unspoken.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally meet his eyes again, your expression hesitant but open. “And … you want to …”

Lando nods again, this time more firmly. “I do. But only if you're okay with it.”

The silence stretches again, but it feels different now. Lando can feel the shift, the softening. You’re not angry anymore. You’re curious, unsure, but there’s a flicker of trust in your eyes again. It’s fragile, but it’s there.

“You could’ve just asked me,” you say, your voice softer now, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Lando exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his own smile breaking through the tension. “I know. I should’ve. I’m an idiot.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, and the sound of it is like music to his ears. It’s a relief, like the storm clouds parting just enough to let a sliver of sunlight through.

He reaches out again, his hand gently resting on your knee, his touch warm and grounding. “But … do you want to?” He asks, his voice quiet, hesitant. “We don’t have to if you’re not comfortable. I mean it.”

You look down for a moment, your hands playing with the hem of your shirt, before meeting his eyes again. There’s still a flicker of uncertainty there, but now, there’s something else too. Something deeper. A kind of surrender, maybe, or an acknowledgment of the strange, intense connection that’s grown between you.

Finally, you nod, a small, hesitant movement. “Okay.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat. He wasn’t sure if he’d hear you say that, wasn’t sure if this moment would come. But now that it’s here, he feels a flood of emotion, a mix of relief, excitement, and something much deeper, something he can’t quite put into words.

“Yeah?” He asks, his voice soft, a little breathless.

You nod again, your gaze steady on his. “Yeah. I … I trust you.”

His chest tightens at your words, the weight of them sinking in. Trust. That’s what this all comes down to. You’re giving him that trust again, even after everything, and it means more to him than he can express.

Lando rises slowly, his movements careful and deliberate as he steps closer to you, kneeling between your legs again. His hands rest gently on your hips, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. He doesn’t want to rush this, doesn’t want to break the fragile balance you’ve reached.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your breath a little shaky, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you reach down, guiding his hands to the hem of your shirt, helping him lift it up and over your head. The soft fabric falls to the floor, leaving your chest bare, vulnerable in the dim light.

Lando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at you, his hands gently cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your skin, slow and deliberate, and you let out a soft gasp at the sensation.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice low and husky, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nod, your lips parting as you take a shaky breath. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He leans in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your chest, just above your heart. He feels the steady rhythm of your pulse beneath his lips, and it grounds him, reminding him of the connection you share.

His lips move lower, tracing a path along your skin, until he reaches your breast. He pauses, looking up at you one last time for permission. You nod again, your hand resting on the back of his head, gently guiding him closer.

And then, with a soft, reverent touch, Lando takes you into his mouth.

The sensation is immediate, overwhelming in its intensity. He feels the warmth of you, the sweet, rich taste filling his senses, and it’s everything he’s wanted, everything he’s imagined. You let out a soft moan, your body trembling slightly beneath him, and it only spurs him on.

His mouth moves slowly, rhythmically, savoring every moment, every drop. He’s careful, gentle, but there’s a hunger in him now, a need that he can’t deny. He’s wanted this for so long, and now that he has it, he can’t get enough.

You moan softly, your hand tightening in his hair, and Lando feels a surge of satisfaction, of deep, primal desire. He knows he’s crossed a line, knows that this moment is unlike anything you’ve shared before. But it feels right. It feels natural.

He pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against your skin as he murmurs, “You’re perfect.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling beneath his touch. “Lando …”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and affection. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I’ll always take care of you.”

And with that, you gently guide him back, helping him latch again. The room is quiet, save for the soft sounds of your breathing, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you both like a warm embrace.

And in that moment, nothing else matters. Just you, him, and the connection that binds you tighter than ever before.