Even in the hospital, you couldn't help but spoil your son. He had always been a big eater. First to the dinner table, first to finish his plate, first to ask for seconds and thirds and fourths... Saying no to him truly broke your heart. So, when he asked, you had always given.
You bought him ice cream when he popped his first pants button. You ordered takeout when he broke his first chair. You cooked a hearty meal when he reached 2XL, 3XL, 4Xl... And when he needed bariatric transport to reach the hospital, you had folded and bought him a cake.
You knew it wasn't "good" for him, but he had never been happier than on a full stomach. And, truly, what dad doesn't want to see their son happy? The extra pounds didn't matter to you. Regardless, he would always be your little boy with a big appetite.
Summary - During a loud thunderstorm, your frightened 4-year-old son runs into your bedroom while you and Lando are cuddling. Seeking comfort, he snuggles between you both. Lando calms him by explaining that thunder is just the sky having a race, helping him feel safe enough to fall asleep in your arms.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
The rain started softly that evening, just a gentle patter against the windows as you and Lando put your son to bed. He’d picked out the same storybook he always did when the sky looked unsettled—The Brave Little Racer—and you both took turns reading it, voices low and comforting while the wind began to pick up outside.
You had kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket under his chin. Lando gave him a goodnight squeeze, whispering a promise: “We’re just down the hall, okay, champ? Nothing’s going to get you.” Your little boy had nodded, but you’d seen it in his eyes—he wasn’t convinced.
By the time you made it back to your bedroom, the storm was in full swing. Thunder cracked like the sky was being torn apart, lightning illuminating the room in sudden, surreal flashes. You crawled beneath the covers, curling into Lando as he pulled you close, his hands instinctively smoothing over your back in small, sleepy circles.
“Poor guy hates storms,” you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the layers of warmth and cotton.
“He gets that from you,” Lando teased gently, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I love storms.”
You snorted, already half-asleep. “You love driving in storms. There’s a difference.”
Lando chuckled, the sound low and sleepy. “Still counts.”
You stayed like that for a while, limbs tangled, hearts quiet. The thunder rolled in again, louder now, deep and shaking the walls slightly. Somewhere out there, the storm was at its peak.
Then came the soft sound—barely audible over the rain—but unmistakable.
Footsteps. Fast. Hesitant. Small.
The bedroom door creaked open just a little. You turned your head on the pillow just in time to see him: your son, standing there in his dinosaur pajamas, clinging to his stuffed tiger like it was a lifeline. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with fear.
“Sweetheart,” you breathed, sitting up just a little. “Come here.”
He wasted no time, running across the room and climbing up onto the bed. He nestled himself firmly between you and Lando, pressing his small body tight against your side, shaking slightly. His face buried into your chest, like he was trying to disappear into you.
“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. “It’s okay. It’s just thunder.”
Lando turned toward you both, still groggy but already reaching to pull the blanket over the three of you. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly, brushing the hair from your son’s forehead. “You okay?”
Your boy didn’t answer, just whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as another clap of thunder roared through the sky.
Lando leaned closer and said, “You know what I used to think when I was your age?”
Your son sniffled. “What?”
“I thought thunderstorms were the sky having a race,” Lando said, his voice gentle and rhythmic. “The clouds were like racecars, zooming around, and every time you heard thunder, it meant one of them just made a big move.”
Your son peeked out from under the blanket. “Like… like DRS?”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly. Even terrified, your son’s love for racing always found a way to poke through.
“Exactly,” Lando grinned. “And the lightning? That’s the sparks when they go full throttle.”
Your son smiled for the first time since entering the room, a little hesitant but real. He looked up at both of you, eyes brighter now, still damp but less panicked. “Then the sky’s really fast.”
“The fastest,” Lando said, tapping his nose. “But not faster than me.”
You rolled your eyes. “Debatable.”
Another roll of thunder echoed outside, but this time, your son didn’t flinch. Instead, he shifted under the covers and curled into the space between you and Lando, letting out a long, tired breath. You felt his small hand reach out under the blanket, grasping for yours. You took it. His other hand found Lando’s.
And in that quiet moment—he finally felt safe.
The storm carried on outside, fierce and wild, but inside this room, it was just the three of you. Safe. Still. Wrapped in each other.
Lando kissed your forehead, then your son’s. “Our brave little racer,” he whispered.
You lay back, one hand on Lando’s chest, the other cradling your son. The storm was no less loud, no less fierce. But in this room, everything was calm.
from “stop bossing me around, you’re not my dad!” to apologizing and crying while Dads ruining your cunt, mewling and whining “I’m sorry daddy I’m sorry!” 😵💫😵💫
Watching my dad slap and throw around my little bro, I know it’s okay for me to do it. Dad even encourages it. He’s just a dumb little puppy, nothing more than a hole for me and Dad to use.
