#fluid grids

[designedbyced]

The Art of Responsive Web Design: Creating Stunning Websites for Any Device

Introduction Welcome to the wonderful world of responsive web design! In this blog post, we’ll be exploring the art of creating websites that look stunning on any device. Gone are the days when websites were only viewed on desktop computers; now, people access the internet from a variety of devices, including smartphones, tablets, and even smartwatches. As a web designer, it’s crucial to adapt…

[wingedqueenlynx]

Ugh- some lazy ass Arkham Survivor doodles that I coughed up

[anpwebsolutions]

Why Responsive Web Design Is Essential for Your Business in 2025

In today’s digital-first world, a responsive website isn’t just a nice-to-have — it’s a must-have. With mobile devices accounting for more than half of all internet traffic, businesses that fail to adapt risk falling behind. At ANP Web Solutions, we specialize in Responsive Web Design Services in the USA that help your brand stay ahead in an increasingly mobile world.

What Is Responsive Web Design?

Responsive web design ensures your website adjusts seamlessly to different screen sizes and devices — be it smartphones, tablets, laptops, or desktops. Instead of creating multiple versions of your website, a responsive design dynamically rearranges and resizes elements for optimal viewing and interaction.

Why Your Business Needs a Responsive Website

Here’s what makes our responsive web design services stand out:

✅ Mobile-First Approach

We design for smaller screens first. Why? Because more users start their browsing journey on mobile devices. Starting small ensures a streamlined experience that scales up effectively for larger screens.

✅ Fluid Grid Layouts

Forget rigid, fixed-width designs. Our websites use fluid grids that automatically adapt to any screen size. This provides a consistent experience across all devices.

✅ Optimized Media

Images, videos, and media assets are adjusted using advanced media queries so they load efficiently and look crisp on all screen sizes. This improves both performance and visual appeal.

✅ Cross-Device Compatibility

From iPhones and Androids to Windows laptops and iPads, your website will work perfectly everywhere. We ensure a consistent and intuitive experience no matter what device your audience uses.

✅ Faster Load Times

Page speed is critical for both user experience and SEO. Our designs eliminate unnecessary clutter and use efficient coding practices to reduce load times.

✅ Easier Maintenance

Our Proven Work Process

1. Discovery & Strategy

We kick off with a deep understanding of your brand, goals, and audience to craft a custom web design strategy.

2. Design & Development

Our creative team designs intuitive wireframes and prototypes, while our developers turn them into high-performing responsive websites.

3. Testing & Launch

Before going live, we rigorously test your site across multiple devices and browsers to guarantee functionality and performance.

Partner with a Leading Responsive Web Design Company in the USA

Whether you’re in New Jersey, Washington DC, or anywhere across the United States, ANP Web Solutions is your go-to partner for mobile-friendly, SEO-optimized, and user-focused website design. Our goal is simple: to help you engage more visitors, convert more customers, and grow your business online.

👉 Ready to build a responsive website that works everywhere? Contact ANP Web Solutions today to get a free project estimate!

[jcmarchi]

So you want to build a solar or wind farm? Here’s how to decide where.

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/so-you-want-to-build-a-solar-or-wind-farm-heres-how-to-decide-where/

So you want to build a solar or wind farm? Here’s how to decide where.

Deciding where to build new solar or wind installations is often left up to individual developers or utilities, with limited overall coordination. But a new study shows that regional-level planning using fine-grained weather data, information about energy use, and energy system modeling can make a big difference in the design of such renewable power installations. This also leads to more efficient and economically viable operations.

The findings show the benefits of coordinating the siting of solar farms, wind farms, and storage systems, taking into account local and temporal variations in wind, sunlight, and energy demand to maximize the utilization of renewable resources. This approach can reduce the need for sizable investments in storage, and thus the total system cost, while maximizing availability of clean power when it’s needed, the researchers found.

The study, appearing today in the journal Cell Reports Sustainability, was co-authored by Liying Qiu and Rahman Khorramfar, postdocs in MIT’s Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering, and professors Saurabh Amin and Michael Howland.

Qiu, the lead author, says that with the team’s new approach, “we can harness the resource complementarity, which means that renewable resources of different types, such as wind and solar, or different locations can compensate for each other in time and space. This potential for spatial complementarity to improve system design has not been emphasized and quantified in existing large-scale planning.”

Such complementarity will become ever more important as variable renewable energy sources account for a greater proportion of power entering the grid, she says. By coordinating the peaks and valleys of production and demand more smoothly, she says, “we are actually trying to use the natural variability itself to address the variability.”

Typically, in planning large-scale renewable energy installations, Qiu says, “some work on a country level, for example saying that 30 percent of energy should be wind and 20 percent solar. That’s very general.” For this study, the team looked at both weather data and energy system planning modeling on a scale of less than 10-kilometer (about 6-mile) resolution. “It’s a way of determining where should we, exactly, build each renewable energy plant, rather than just saying this city should have this many wind or solar farms,” she explains.

To compile their data and enable high-resolution planning, the researchers relied on a variety of sources that had not previously been integrated. They used high-resolution meteorological data from the National Renewable Energy Laboratory, which is publicly available at 2-kilometer resolution but rarely used in a planning model at such a fine scale. These data were combined with an energy system model they developed to optimize siting at a sub-10-kilometer resolution. To get a sense of how the fine-scale data and model made a difference in different regions, they focused on three U.S. regions — New England, Texas, and California — analyzing up to 138,271 possible siting locations simultaneously for a single region.

By comparing the results of siting based on a typical method vs. their high-resolution approach, the team showed that “resource complementarity really helps us reduce the system cost by aligning renewable power generation with demand,” which should translate directly to real-world decision-making, Qiu says. “If an individual developer wants to build a wind or solar farm and just goes to where there is the most wind or solar resource on average, it may not necessarily guarantee the best fit into a decarbonized energy system.”

That’s because of the complex interactions between production and demand for electricity, as both vary hour by hour, and month by month as seasons change. “What we are trying to do is minimize the difference between the energy supply and demand rather than simply supplying as much renewable energy as possible,” Qiu says. “Sometimes your generation cannot be utilized by the system, while at other times, you don’t have enough to match the demand.”

In New England, for example, the new analysis shows there should be more wind farms in locations where there is a strong wind resource during the night, when solar energy is unavailable. Some locations tend to be windier at night, while others tend to have more wind during the day.

These insights were revealed through the integration of high-resolution weather data and energy system optimization used by the researchers. When planning with lower resolution weather data, which was generated at a 30-kilometer resolution globally and is more commonly used in energy system planning, there was much less complementarity among renewable power plants. Consequently, the total system cost was much higher. The complementarity between wind and solar farms was enhanced by the high-resolution modeling due to improved representation of renewable resource variability.

The researchers say their framework is very flexible and can be easily adapted to any region to account for the local geophysical and other conditions. In Texas, for example, peak winds in the west occur in the morning, while along the south coast they occur in the afternoon, so the two naturally complement each other.

Khorramfar says that this work “highlights the importance of data-driven decision making in energy planning.” The work shows that using such high-resolution data coupled with carefully formulated energy planning model “can drive the system cost down, and ultimately offer more cost-effective pathways for energy transition.”

One thing that was surprising about the findings, says Amin, who is a principal investigator in the MIT Laboratory of Information and Data Systems, is how significant the gains were from analyzing relatively short-term variations in inputs and outputs that take place in a 24-hour period. “The kind of cost-saving potential by trying to harness complementarity within a day was not something that one would have expected before this study,” he says.

In addition, Amin says, it was also surprising how much this kind of modeling could reduce the need for storage as part of these energy systems. “This study shows that there is actually a hidden cost-saving potential in exploiting local patterns in weather, that can result in a monetary reduction in storage cost.”

The system-level analysis and planning suggested by this study, Howland says, “changes how we think about where we site renewable power plants and how we design those renewable plants, so that they maximally serve the energy grid. It has to go beyond just driving down the cost of energy of individual wind or solar farms. And these new insights can only be realized if we continue collaborating across traditional research boundaries, by integrating expertise in fluid dynamics, atmospheric science, and energy engineering.”

The research was supported by the MIT Climate and Sustainability Consortium and MIT Climate Grand Challenges.

[pucksandpower]

Mastermind

Oscar Piastri x Bearman!Reader

Summary: all it takes is one glance for Oscar to realize that he will do anything and everything to make you his

Warnings: 18+ content, stalking, obsession, manipulation, baby-trapping, isolation, and possessiveness

Note: This was written in early August before Williams dropped Logan, so yeah … he’s still on the grid here 🫣

Oscar spots you from across the pit lane.

It’s quick — a glimpse through the crowd as someone shifts out of his line of sight. You’re laughing at something Ollie says, your head tilted back just enough for the sunlight to catch the highlights in your hair. The world goes blurry for a second, narrowing until the noise of the paddock fades into a dull hum. All he can see is you.

Oscar swallows hard. He feels his pulse spike, the rush of adrenaline making his skin buzz. This isn’t like him. He’s calm, composed — always. But now, everything is different.

You’re different.

Before he knows it, his feet are moving. He barely registers the McLaren orange on his sleeves, or the fact that he’s walking away from his garage. His mind is fixated. Ollie. That’s Ollie’s sister. But no — that’s not right. You’re not just anyone’s sister. No, you’re more than that.

Oscar adjusts his cap as he nears the Haas garage, forcing a relaxed smile. His heart races, but he tells himself he’s got this. Just be normal. Be charming.

“Ollie!” He calls out, raising his voice enough to draw both your attention. He claps a hand on the younger driver’s shoulder, giving it a friendly shake. “Little brother, you ready for another battle?”

Ollie laughs, glancing up at him with that wide grin of his. “Mate, you’re in for it this weekend. I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing losing, maybe,” Oscar jokes, his eyes flickering quickly back to you. You’re watching the exchange with quiet amusement, arms crossed, your smile lingering just on the edge of your lips.

Oscar’s chest tightens.

“Who’s this?” He asks, pretending he doesn’t already know, doesn’t already feel that magnetic pull dragging him closer to you.

Ollie blinks, then his grin grows even wider. “Oh, right! Oscar, this is my sister. She’s visiting for the weekend.”

Oscar holds out his hand to you, his smile growing softer, warmer. “Oscar. Nice to meet you.”

You hesitate for a split second before your hand meets his, and he swears there’s something electric in that brief touch. It’s enough to send his mind spiraling.

He clears his throat. “So, Ollie’s your brother, huh? Guess that means you’re stuck rooting for Haas, then.” He flashes a crooked grin, playful but sharp.

You laugh, and it’s a sound that makes his head spin. “Someone’s got to support him.”

“Fair enough.” Oscar glances sideways at Ollie, who’s now distracted, talking to a mechanic. Perfect. He steps just a little closer to you, lowering his voice. “I’ve got to ask, do you have Instagram? You know, to keep up with the team rivalry.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused, but nod, reaching for your phone. “Sure. Let me-”

Oscar shakes his head, holding out his hand instead. “Here, I’ll do it. Faster that way.” He smiles again, all casual charm, and you hand over your phone without a second thought.

His fingers move quickly over the screen, but his mind is faster. In one fluid motion, he taps his own account to follow, sends himself your location tracking, then deletes the text before you even turn your head back toward Ollie. A small thrill rushes through him. It’s too easy.

While his thumb hovers over the block button for a split second, he hesitates. But then — click. One by one, he begins blocking every single driver from your Instagram. Leclerc, Norris, Sainz, Verstappen, Gasly — all of them.

Except Ollie, of course. Can’t make it obvious.

“Here you go.” He hands the phone back to you, his expression unreadable. “Followed myself. Now you can keep up with McLaren’s winning ways.”

You chuckle, glancing down at the screen. “Guess I’ll have to.”

Oscar’s smile grows just a little wider, though there’s something darker underneath it now. You have no idea what’s happening, and that’s what makes it so perfect.

He steps back, casually running a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between you and Ollie. “So, what’s the plan after the race? Celebrating Ollie’s big debut?”

“Maybe,” you say, glancing toward your brother. “Depends on how the weekend goes.”

Oscar chuckles, but his mind is already ten steps ahead. He imagines what it’ll be like — keeping track of you, knowing where you are, who you’re with. No more late-night chats with Charles, no more casual likes on Pierre’s posts. He’s cut all of that off. It’s just him now.

And Ollie, of course.

“You should come by the McLaren garage sometime,” Oscar suggests, as if it’s an afterthought. “See what winning looks like up close.”

Your laugh comes out again, soft and effortless. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” He nods, satisfied. He doesn’t need an answer now. He’s got time. After all, you’re already in his orbit, whether you realize it or not.

As Ollie turns back toward you, Oscar claps him on the back again, the easy smile never leaving his face. “Catch you on the track, little brother.”

Ollie grins. “Don’t get too confident.”

Oscar chuckles, throwing a quick glance your way before starting to walk back to his garage. His pulse is still racing, but it’s no longer out of nerves. It’s excitement. Anticipation.

He can already feel the control slipping into place. And the best part is, you’ll never even see it coming.

***

Oscar's phone buzzes. He’s been checking it religiously since the race ended — since he watched you leave the paddock, smiling and laughing with Ollie. His fingers swipe across the screen, and the familiar icon on the tracking app flashes.

You’re still in town.

He watches the blue dot settle into the shape of the mall on the outskirts of the city. Of course, you’re still here. His pulse quickens again, that familiar rush of adrenaline mixing with something darker, more possessive.

He taps Logan on the shoulder, dragging his friend’s attention away from whatever nonsense he’s scrolling through.

“We’re going out,” Oscar says, already walking toward the exit. He doesn’t wait for Logan to answer.

“Uh, out where?” Logan calls after him, jogging to catch up. “Oscar? What’s the rush?”

Oscar doesn’t answer. Not yet. He’s focused on the image in his mind — you, walking through the mall, maybe stopping at a coffee shop. You’re close. He’s so close.

They pull into the parking lot within minutes. Logan’s still shooting him confused glances, but Oscar keeps his face impassive. Calm. They walk into the mall, a hum of noise surrounding them, and Oscar checks his phone again, tracking your dot.

It moves.

He moves with it.

“Oscar, seriously, what are we doing here?” Logan asks, his voice edging on frustration now. “I didn’t sign up for some weird stalking mission.”

Oscar stops in front of a shop, glancing back at him with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Logan huffs, but follows, as usual. “Whatever, man.”

Oscar keeps walking. He knows exactly where you are. The entrance to Victoria’s Secret looms in front of him, and Logan freezes at the door.

“Victoria’s Secret?” Logan groans, his face scrunching up like a kid. “Why are we in Victoria’s Secret?”

Oscar doesn’t even look at him. His eyes flick to his phone again, and then to the aisles in front of him. “You can go if you want.”

Logan huffs but follows, albeit reluctantly. “Dude, you don’t even have a girlfriend. What are we doing here?”

Oscar ignores the comment, eyes darting between shelves of lacy bras and bright pink displays. He’s searching. Your dot says you’re close. His heart races, a thrill creeping up his spine as he rounds the corner of an aisle.

And then-

He sees you.

You’re standing near the back of the store, holding up something light and silky, completely oblivious to the two drivers now lurking awkwardly nearby. Oscar’s breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he just watches. He feels like a predator lying in wait. Every part of him hums with anticipation.

Logan, on the other hand, is shifting nervously beside him. “I’m not sure I want to be seen in here, dude. This is weird.”

Oscar glances at him, impatience bubbling to the surface. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” Logan scoffs. “You’re the one dragging me into a lingerie store for … I don’t even know why!”

Before Logan can say anything else, Oscar turns a corner, deliberately walking right into your line of sight.

“Oh — Oscar?”

You blink in surprise, eyes widening as you spot him. Your hand drops the item you were holding, and your gaze flits between him and Logan, standing awkwardly behind him.

“Hey, Y/N,” Oscar says, his voice casual, but his mind is anything but. He takes a quick step closer to you, closing the gap. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You laugh, slightly nervous, shifting the bag on your shoulder. “Yeah, um, kind of unexpected to see you here too. Shopping for someone?”

Logan, still half-hidden behind Oscar, can’t resist muttering, “He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

Oscar shoots him a sharp look. “Logan was just leaving.”

You glance over at Logan, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, hi! I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Logan hesitates, shuffling his feet. “Yeah, hi. I’m Logan-”

“He’s leaving,” Oscar repeats, this time with more finality. His eyes cut back to Logan, who gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“Right. Sure,” Logan sighs, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I’ll see you later, Oscar.”

Oscar waits until Logan has fully disappeared from sight before turning his attention back to you. You’re watching him, slightly amused, though there’s a question in your eyes. He steps closer, not too close, but enough that he can smell the faint scent of your perfume.

“So,” he says, his voice smooth, “What brings you here? Shopping for yourself or someone else?”

You glance down at the items in your hands, then back at him, shrugging lightly. “Just browsing, really. Didn’t expect to bump into anyone I know.”

“Must be fate, then,” Oscar says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The words come out casually, but inside, there’s that same rush of possessiveness, the same pull that led him here.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “Fate, huh? Or just a coincidence.”

Oscar tilts his head, considering you for a moment. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

There’s a beat of silence, your eyes lingering on him. You seem to be weighing something, but then you smile, shifting the bag on your shoulder. “Well, it’s good to see you, Oscar. I didn’t think I’d run into anyone after the race.”

Oscar’s smile tightens, though he keeps his tone light. “You sticking around long?”

“Not too long,” you reply, glancing briefly at your phone. “I’ve got to head back soon, but I’m just enjoying the day.”

Oscar’s fingers twitch at his side, resisting the urge to check his own phone, to confirm that you’re exactly where he wants you to be. Instead, he steps back, giving you just enough space to make it seem like he’s relaxed, like he’s not hanging on every word you say.

“Mind if I join you for a bit?” Oscar asks, his voice carefully casual. He doesn’t wait for an answer, stepping into the aisle next to you, pretending to look at the same display.

You seem caught off guard but not enough to refuse. “Sure, if you want.”

Oscar picks up a random item, pretending to examine it. He’s not really paying attention to what it is, though. His focus is entirely on you, on the way you move, the way you glance at your phone every now and then, the way your eyes occasionally flicker toward him.

“So,” you say after a moment, “You and Logan … shopping together?”

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. “Not really. He’s just … along for the ride.”

You smile, nodding slowly. “Seems like he wasn’t thrilled about being in here.”

“Logan’s dramatic,” Oscar replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’ll get over it.”

There’s another pause, and Oscar feels the tension building again, the weight of your proximity pulling at him. He wants to ask you more — where you’re going next, when you’re leaving — but he knows he has to be careful. He can’t come off too strong. Not yet.

Instead, he lets the conversation drift naturally, keeps the tone light and friendly. But his mind never stops calculating, never stops tracking. Every time you glance at your phone, he feels a surge of satisfaction, knowing he has access to your every move.

He watches as you shift, clearly ready to leave. “I should probably get going,” you say, and Oscar’s pulse quickens. He doesn’t want this moment to end, but he nods, forcing a smile.

“Of course. I’ll see you around?”

You smile back, though there’s a touch of uncertainty in your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Maybe.”

Oscar watches as you walk away, his gaze lingering on your figure until you disappear from view. Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He checks his phone again, and the tracking app shows your blue dot moving toward the exit. He smiles to himself, slipping the phone back into his pocket. You may be leaving now, but he’s not worried.

He knows where you’ll be.

***

Oscar doesn’t let the weeks slip by without checking your location. Even when Ollie tells him you’re swamped with studying, too busy with exams and papers, Oscar makes sure to stay in your orbit. He keeps an eye on your social media, scrolling through your updates whenever you’re too quiet. Ollie had said you’d be missing a few races, but that doesn’t stop Oscar from obsessively checking if you’ll change your mind.

When you finally show up again, Oscar knows he has to do something.

It’s a Sunday evening, post-race celebrations in full swing, and the paddock is buzzing with energy. The team has secured a decent result, and everyone’s heading out for drinks. Oscar doesn’t pay much attention to the others, though. His focus sharpens the moment you step back into the paddock. The sight of you stirs something inside him — a mixture of relief, desire, and that possessive need to keep you close.

He watches you laugh with Ollie, light and carefree, but something in him clenches tight. You’ve been gone too long. You’ve been out of reach.

Oscar walks over casually, making sure not to rush. He joins the group, slapping Ollie on the back. “Good race, mate.”

Ollie grins. “Thanks, man! Glad to see you’re joining us tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Oscar replies, but his eyes are already sliding over to you. “Hey, Y/N. Long time no see.”

You turn to him, smiling. “Hey, Oscar. Yeah, it’s been a while.”

His heart beats a little faster at the sound of your voice, but he keeps his expression easy, friendly. “Missed the last few races. What, university got you too busy?”

You nod, rolling your eyes. “Exams. And assignments. It’s been brutal.”

“Well, glad you could finally escape,” Oscar says smoothly. “You deserve a drink after all that.”

You laugh. “Definitely. I’m ready to unwind.”

Oscar smiles, but it’s calculated. He’s been waiting for this, for a chance to get you alone, to push the boundaries without seeming too eager. Tonight, he thinks. Tonight is his opportunity.

The group spills out into the nearest bar, and Oscar stays close, keeping you within arm’s reach. He listens, joins in the laughter when necessary, but his mind is fixated on you. As the night wears on, he subtly makes sure your drink never stays empty.

“Here,” he says, handing you another cocktail as you chat with some of the other drivers. “Thought you might like this one.”

You accept it, smiling brightly. “Thanks, Oscar. You’re keeping track of me, huh?”

He laughs, playing it off. “Just making sure you’re having a good time.”

You sip the drink, and Oscar watches you closely. He keeps the drinks coming, letting the alcohol blur your edges, just enough to make you relaxed, to make you lean a little more into him. As the night stretches on, you’re laughing more freely, leaning against his shoulder as you talk.

At one point, Ollie comes over, ruffling your hair. “You alright, Y/N? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you giggle, waving him off. “Just having fun.”

Ollie frowns for a moment, glancing at Oscar. “Keep an eye on her, mate, will you? She hasn’t been out in a while.”

“Don’t worry,” Oscar says, giving Ollie a reassuring smile. “I’ve got her.”

Ollie nods and heads back to the others, leaving you and Oscar standing at the bar. You sway slightly on your feet, and Oscar catches you with an arm around your waist, steadying you.

“You good?" He asks, voice low, but there’s something possessive in the way his arm tightens around you.

“Yeah,” you mumble, blinking up at him. “Just … a little dizzy.”

He doesn’t let the moment slip. “Maybe we should get you back to the hotel. You’ve had a lot to drink.”

You nod, not protesting as he guides you toward the door, his arm still firmly around you. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea.”

The walk back to the hotel is a blur for you, but for Oscar, it’s calculated. Each step brings him closer to what he’s been waiting for, his mind racing as he holds you close. You’re pliant in his arms, leaning against him, trusting him to take care of you.

When they reach the hotel room, Oscar is careful. He leads you inside, gently sitting you down on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says softly, pulling a t-shirt from his bag and a pair of boxers.

You nod weakly, eyes half-lidded as the alcohol takes its toll. Oscar’s movements are precise, steady. He helps you out of your clothes, taking his time to slip his t-shirt over your head, careful not to rush or seem out of place. It feels natural, almost routine in his mind.

You’re barely aware of what’s happening, muttering something incoherent as he finishes dressing you. Oscar tucks you into the bed, smoothing the blankets over you, his heart pounding in his chest. He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his mind buzzing with the sight of you in his clothes, in his bed.

It’s perfect. Exactly how he imagined.

He climbs into the bed beside you, careful not to disturb you too much. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his chest pressing against your back. You don’t stir much, just a soft sigh escaping your lips as you settle into his embrace.

Oscar lies there, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. This is what he’s wanted — this moment where you’re completely his, where no one else can interfere, where he has you all to himself.

You’re finally here, in his arms.

And he’s not going to let you go.

***

Oscar wakes up to the soft warmth of you pressed against him. The first thing he registers is how still the room is — just the sound of your steady breathing and the faint hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. His eyes flutter open, but he quickly closes them again, pretending to still be asleep.

This is perfect. His arm is wrapped around your waist, your body tucked neatly against his, your head resting near his shoulder. The morning light filters in softly through the curtains, casting a faint glow over the room, but Oscar doesn’t move. He lies there, completely still, savoring the moment. Every beat of his heart feels like a reminder that this is exactly where he wants to be, where you should be.

He shifts slightly, making it seem like he's just repositioning in his sleep. You stir, but you don’t pull away, and that gives him an almost dangerous thrill. He lets his arm hold you just a little tighter, the curve of your body fitting perfectly into his side. He could stay like this forever, if you’d let him.

He imagines what’ll happen when you wake up. How you’ll look at him, maybe embarrassed, maybe a little confused, but he’s already thought of everything. He’s been playing this scenario in his head since last night — how to ease your mind, how to make sure you stay close to him, how to keep you trusting him.

But then you move again, more consciously this time. Your breathing changes, and Oscar can feel you tense up against him. You’re waking up.

“Mm,” you murmur, your voice groggy and confused. “Where …”

Oscar keeps his breathing steady, pretending he’s still asleep as you shift, and then — then, you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, the panic in your voice immediate. You start pulling away from him, the bed shifting as you try to get out of his grasp. “Oh my God, where am I?”

Oscar lets out a soft, groggy sound, pretending to wake up. “Huh?" He blinks, feigning confusion as he rubs his eyes. “Y/N?”

You’re sitting up now, staring at him with wide eyes, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Oscar? What … What am I doing here?”

Oscar pushes himself up slowly, still acting as though he’s just now becoming aware of the situation. “Whoa, hey, it’s okay." He runs a hand through his hair, his expression carefully crafted into one of concern. “You’re freaking out. What’s wrong?”

You look around, panicked. “This … this isn’t my hotel room. And I’m not-” You glance down at the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his t-shirt, and your eyes widen even more. “I’m not in my clothes. Oscar, what happened?”

Oscar frowns, as if he’s just now realizing the gravity of the situation. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, clearly distressed. “No, I … I don’t. I remember we were out last night, and then-” You stop, staring at him, and Oscar can see the fear in your eyes. “Did we …”

Oscar immediately shakes his head, his voice gentle but firm. “No. No, nothing happened. I promise.”

You blink, as if trying to process his words. “Then why am I in your bed? And in your clothes?”

He lets out a soft sigh, as though this situation is just as confusing and frustrating for him. “You were really drunk last night. I didn’t want to leave you alone, and you kept insisting that I stay with you. You didn’t want to be in your room by yourself.”

You frown, clearly trying to remember. “I did?”

Oscar nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I tried to take you to your room, but you wouldn’t let me. You said you didn’t want to be alone, and you wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Your shoulders relax just slightly, but the tension in the room doesn’t fade completely. “But … why am I wearing your clothes?”

He gives a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh, spilled your drink all over yourself at the bar. Your clothes were soaked. I didn’t think you’d want to sleep in them, so I gave you something of mine to wear. But that’s all it was, I swear.”

You stare at him for a long moment, still processing everything, but Oscar keeps his expression open, honest, as though he’s just as confused by your panic. He waits for you to respond, watching as the gears in your mind turn, trying to piece together what little you remember from last night.

“Nothing happened?" You ask again, your voice softer this time, more uncertain than accusatory.

“Nothing,” Oscar repeats, his tone steady. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I was just trying to make sure you were safe. I didn’t want anyone to take advantage of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, still looking a little dazed, but some of the panic fades from your eyes. “Thank you,” you whisper, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “I’m sorry, I just … I was scared.”

Oscar reaches out, his hand brushing against your arm in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it. You woke up in a strange place, and it’s confusing. But I promise, I didn’t do anything. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You nod, though you still seem a bit unsure, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I don’t remember a lot from last night.”

Oscar smiles softly, keeping his voice calm, comforting. “You were pretty out of it. But don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

You glance at him, and Oscar can see the relief starting to creep in, even if there’s still a shadow of doubt lingering in your eyes. He wants to erase that, to make sure you trust him fully. He’s been so careful, so calculated.

“Do you want me to get you some water?" He asks, trying to shift the mood. “Or coffee? Might help with the hangover.”

You shake your head. “No, I … I think I just need a minute.”

Oscar nods, watching as you slowly relax, leaning back against the headboard. The panic from earlier is fading, replaced by a quiet uncertainty, but at least you’re not freaking out anymore. That’s what matters.

“Take your time,” he says softly, lying back down but making sure to keep a little more distance this time, so you don’t feel overwhelmed. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You don’t say anything for a while, your eyes unfocused as you try to make sense of everything. Oscar waits patiently, his mind buzzing with satisfaction. Everything is going according to plan.

“I’m sorry if I was a mess last night,” you finally say, your voice quiet.

Oscar shakes his head. “Don’t be. We’ve all been there.”

You offer him a small, tentative smile, and for the first time since you woke up, Oscar feels like he’s back in control. You trust him again. You believe his story.

And that’s all he needs.

***

The morning sun is gentle, casting a soft glow over the city as Oscar walks beside you toward a quaint café. The quiet hum of the streets and the casual murmur of early-morning conversations float through the air. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, making sure to keep his expression neutral, though inside he’s thrumming with satisfaction. You’re here. You’re with him.

When you reach the café, Oscar pulls the door open for you, letting you step inside first. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and pastries greets you as you both head toward a small table by the window.

“This place is cute,” you say, settling into your chair and giving Oscar a small smile.

“Yeah,” Oscar replies, sitting across from you. “I come here sometimes. It’s quiet.”

You nod, glancing down at the menu, though Oscar can tell you’re still a bit distracted. Probably still processing everything from this morning. He wonders if you’re thinking about how you woke up in his bed, wrapped in his clothes. He hopes you are.

A waiter comes by, and you both order — something light, an avocado toast for you, a croissant and tea for Oscar. Once the waiter leaves, there’s a comfortable silence that settles between you, but Oscar’s mind is already moving ahead, planning the next steps.

He keeps his expression casual, focusing on his tea when it arrives, but his mind is focused on how to bring up what he’s about to say. It has to seem natural, like it’s something he’s been hesitating to share, something that’s been weighing on him. He knows how to play this. He’s been thinking about it since last night.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “thank you again for looking after me last night. I feel like I owe you big time.”

Oscar looks up from his tea, giving you a small, modest smile. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, seriously,” you insist, shaking your head. “I feel like I should make it up to you somehow. I mean, after everything …”

He glances down at his cup, then back up at you, his expression carefully calculated — just a hint of hesitation, like he’s thinking about something he’s unsure of. He’s quiet for a beat too long, just enough to make you curious.

“What is it?" You ask, tilting your head slightly, a small frown forming on your face.

Oscar lets out a soft sigh, leaning back in his chair. “It’s nothing, really. I was just … thinking.”

“About?”

He pauses, pretending to mull over his words, then looks up at you with that same hesitant expression. “Well, I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab dinner after the next race weekend. You know, just the two of us.”

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, but then you smile. “Oh, yeah, of course! I mean, that’s the least I can do after everything you did for me last night.”

Oscar feels a surge of satisfaction at your agreement, but he keeps his smile small, almost shy, as though he wasn’t expecting you to say yes. “You sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to or anything.”

You shake your head, laughing lightly. “No, I’d love to. Honestly, I think it’d be fun.”

Oscar nods, letting his smile widen just a bit more. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

You go back to your food, but Oscar keeps watching you, waiting for the right moment. He knows you’ll push him if he stays quiet for long enough. And, right on cue, you glance back up at him, noticing the way he’s fidgeting slightly with his cup.

“Is there something else?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar’s face shifts into something more serious, and he looks down at his tea, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “I … don’t really know if I should say this.”

Your expression changes, concern flickering across your face. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He waits a beat, making it seem like he’s struggling with whether or not to share what’s on his mind. Then, finally, he sighs and leans forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“I overheard something last night,” he says slowly. “At the bar.”

You frown, your attention now fully on him. “What did you hear?”

Oscar takes a deep breath, acting like he’s debating whether or not to continue. Then, he glances around the café, as if checking to make sure no one is listening, before speaking again.

“I heard Lando and Carlos talking,” he says, keeping his voice low. “About … about you.”

Your eyes widen slightly in confusion. “Me? What were they saying?”

Oscar hesitates for just a moment longer, then continues, his tone carefully concerned. “They were talking about how they both wanted to … get with you. Like, in bed.”

Your face goes still, shock settling in as you stare at him, clearly not expecting that. “What?”

Oscar looks down at his cup again, pretending to be uncomfortable with the conversation, even though he’s reveling in your reaction. “Yeah. They were making some kind of bet about who could sleep with you first.”

Your shock turns into disbelief, your brow furrowing as you try to process what he’s telling you. “No. There’s no way. They wouldn’t …”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says softly, giving you a sympathetic look. “I didn’t want to believe it either, but I heard it. They were laughing about it like it was a game.”

You sit back in your chair, shaking your head slowly. “That’s … I don’t even know what to say. I thought they were my friends.”

Oscar reaches across the table, placing his hand gently on yours. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I thought you deserved to know. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You’re silent for a moment, staring down at the table as you process everything. Oscar watches you closely, waiting for the gratitude to set in. He knows you’ll be thankful that he’s the one who told you, that he’s looking out for you.

Finally, you look up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of shock and appreciation. “Thank you for telling me, Oscar. I can’t believe they would do something like that.”

He nods, keeping his expression serious. “I just don’t want anyone to take advantage of you. You deserve better than that.”

You squeeze his hand gently, your face softening. “I’m really glad you’re looking out for me.”

Oscar smiles, though he hides it behind his cup of tea, taking a sip to cover the smirk that threatens to break through. Everything is falling into place perfectly.

“Always,” he says softly, setting the cup down. “I’ve got your back.”

You smile at him again, a little more at ease now, but still clearly shaken by what he’s told you. Oscar can see the wheels turning in your mind, the doubt settling in about Lando and Carlos. He’s planted the seed, and now he just has to let it grow.

“Do you want to go for a walk after this?” Oscar suggests, leaning back in his chair. “Might help clear your head a bit.”

You nod, still looking a bit dazed. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Oscar stands up, tossing a few bills on the table to cover the check, then walks around to your side of the table, offering you his hand. You take it without hesitation, and Oscar feels a surge of satisfaction as your fingers intertwine with his.

As you both step out of the café and into the sunlight, Oscar keeps his grip on your hand firm, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. You trust him now, more than ever. And that’s exactly what he wants.

***

The restaurant is elegant but not over the top, with dim lighting that casts a warm glow across the white linen tablecloths. A single candle flickers in the center of the table, casting soft shadows on your face as you smile across at Oscar. He’s chosen the place carefully, making sure everything is just right — quiet, intimate, with a menu that he knows you’ll love.

Oscar watches you as you glance over the menu, your eyes lighting up at the descriptions of the dishes. He smiles to himself, pleased with how everything is going. He’s dressed carefully tonight — dark trousers, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to be casual but still neat, and his hair combed back, but not too perfectly. He wants to seem effortlessly handsome, like he didn’t try too hard, even though he spent nearly an hour making sure every detail was right.

“What do you think?” Oscar asks, nodding toward the menu. “Anything catching your eye?”

You glance up, your smile widening. “Everything looks amazing. I can’t decide.”

“Take your time,” Oscar says, leaning back in his chair, though his gaze never leaves you. “No rush.”

The waiter comes by, a young guy in his mid-twenties, wearing a crisp black shirt and slacks. He’s polite, offering you both water and asking if you’re ready to order. You ask a few questions about the menu, and Oscar notices the way the waiter’s eyes keep drifting to the neckline of your dress, his gaze lingering just a second too long. Oscar feels a flicker of irritation, but he pushes it down. It’s nothing. He’ll handle it.

You finally decide on a dish, and Oscar orders something simple, letting you take the lead. The waiter scribbles down your order, his eyes darting to you again as he gives a small smile, then he turns and walks away.

Oscar’s smile tightens, but he says nothing, keeping his focus on you. “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight.”

You blush slightly, fiddling with the edge of your napkin. “Me too. This place is lovely.”

Oscar leans forward slightly, his voice lowering. “I wanted it to be special for you.”

You look up at him, your eyes softening. “It is. You’re always so thoughtful, Oscar.”

He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. “I just want to make you happy.”

You smile again, and Oscar feels a rush of satisfaction. He’s got you right where he wants you — relaxed, comfortable, completely unaware of anything outside this moment.

The waiter returns with the drinks, and as he sets the glass in front of you, Oscar notices again the way his gaze drops to your dress. This time, there’s a hint of a smirk on the waiter’s lips, and Oscar feels the irritation flare up again, hotter this time.

Oscar keeps his face calm, though, his voice even as he thanks the waiter. But inside, he’s already planning. He knows he’ll have to deal with this, and soon. He won’t let anyone disrespect you, not even in the smallest way.

The conversation between you and Oscar flows easily, light and filled with laughter. He keeps his attention on you, listening intently as you talk about your week, sharing stories and little moments that make you smile. Oscar loves the way your eyes light up when you’re happy, the way your laugh makes him feel like everything is right in the world.

But every time the waiter returns to the table, Oscar feels that simmering irritation build again. The guy is too friendly, too familiar, and Oscar doesn’t miss the way the waiter’s gaze lingers on you, or the way he stands just a little too close when he pours your wine.

Oscar clenches his jaw, his hand tightening around his glass. He keeps his smile in place, but inside, he’s seething. He won’t let this go unchecked. Not tonight.

After dinner, when the waiter brings the check, Oscar immediately reaches for it, waving off your protests with a smile.

“Please, let me,” you say, reaching for your purse. “At least let me split it with you.”

Oscar shakes his head, already pulling out his card. “No way. This is my treat.”

You sigh but don’t push it, and Oscar smiles at you, his hand brushing yours as he takes the bill. “I wanted to do this for you.”

You smile back, your eyes warm with gratitude. “Thank you, Oscar. You’re too good to me.”

Oscar nods, his smile widening. “You deserve it.”

As the waiter returns to take the bill, Oscar’s expression doesn’t change, but his mind is already made up. He hands over the card, waiting for the transaction to go through. Once the waiter leaves, Oscar turns to you, his voice gentle.

“I’m just going to step out for a moment,” he says, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

You nod, still smiling. “Take your time.”

Oscar walks away from the table, his movements calm and unhurried, but as soon as he’s out of your sight, his pace quickens. He knows exactly where the waiter will be — by the order screen near the back, where the staff places their orders.

And just as he thought, the waiter is there, inputting another table’s order, completely unaware of Oscar’s approach. Oscar’s steps are silent as he moves closer, his eyes narrowing as he watches the waiter, who is oblivious to the danger behind him.

Without a word, Oscar reaches out, grabbing the back of the waiter’s shirt in a tight grip. The waiter barely has time to react before Oscar’s other hand clamps over his mouth, muffling the startled gasp.

Oscar pulls the waiter back, dragging him through a narrow corridor toward the back entrance of the restaurant. The waiter struggles, his hands trying to pry Oscar’s fingers away from his mouth, but Oscar is stronger, his grip unyielding.

When they reach the back door, Oscar shoves it open with his foot, dragging the waiter outside into the dimly lit alley. He slams the door shut behind them, the noise echoing in the empty space.

The waiter’s eyes are wide with fear as he looks at Oscar, who finally releases his hold on the guy’s mouth but keeps a firm grip on his shirt. The waiter tries to speak, but Oscar cuts him off, his voice low and menacing.

“Don’t even think about screaming,” Oscar warns, his eyes dark with anger. “You think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at her? The way you were acting? You’re going to regret that.”

The waiter stammers, trying to back away, but Oscar doesn’t let him. Instead, he pulls the guy closer, his voice cold as he speaks.

“You’re never going to look at her again. You’re never going to speak to her again. Do you understand?”

The waiter nods frantically, his face pale. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Oscar doesn’t let him finish. He throws a punch, his fist connecting with the waiter’s jaw with a sickening crack. The waiter stumbles back, clutching his face, but Oscar doesn’t stop. He grabs the guy again, slamming him against the wall, his voice dangerously quiet.

“If I ever see you near her again, I’ll make sure you never see anything again. Got it?”

The waiter nods again, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “I-I got it, man. I’m sorry, I swear.”

Oscar finally releases him, watching as the waiter stumbles away, his hand still pressed to his bleeding mouth. Oscar’s breathing is heavy, but his anger is starting to subside. He’s done what he needed to do. The guy won’t bother you again.

Oscar takes a moment to calm himself, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place. He glances down at his hands, noticing the small splatter of blood on his knuckles and quickly wipes it off on the side of his trousers. He checks his reflection in the small mirror beside the door, making sure there’s no sign of the confrontation.

Once he’s satisfied that he looks as composed as he did before, Oscar heads back inside the restaurant. He makes a quick stop in the bathroom, washing his hands and straightening his shirt, then takes a deep breath before walking back to your table.

When he returns, you’re sitting exactly where he left you, a small smile on your face as you look up at him.

“Everything okay?" You ask, your voice light and teasing. “You were gone for a while.”

Oscar smiles, sitting back down across from you. “Yeah, just ran into someone I knew. Took a bit longer than I expected.”

You nod, completely unaware of what just happened, and Oscar feels that familiar satisfaction settle in his chest. You’re safe, and he’s taken care of the problem.

“Ready to head out?” Oscar asks, his tone easy and relaxed.

You nod, standing up as Oscar comes around to your side, offering his arm. You take it with a smile, and Oscar leads you out of the restaurant, the cool night air greeting you as you step outside.

As you walk down the street together, Oscar keeps his pace slow, his arm securely around yours. You’re talking about something — maybe the meal, maybe your plans for the next day — but Oscar is only half-listening. His mind is still on what just happened, on the thrill of taking control, of making sure no one can touch what’s his.

And as you laugh softly at something you’ve said, leaning into him, Oscar knows that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. To keep you by his side, safe and completely unaware of what he’s willing to do for you.

Oscar guides you to the car, his hand lightly resting on your lower back as he opens the door for you. You smile up at him, grateful, oblivious to the turmoil beneath his calm exterior. As you settle into the passenger seat, Oscar walks around the front of the car, allowing himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.

Everything is going according to plan. He’s made sure of it.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Oscar glances over at you. You’re still smiling, talking about how great the dinner was, how you can’t wait to do this again. And Oscar nods, his smile never faltering.

“We should,” he says smoothly, his hand resting on the gear shift. “Maybe next time, somewhere even nicer.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Tonight was perfect.”

Oscar’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes. He knows it was perfect because he made it that way — because he made sure nothing, and no one, could interfere with what he wants. With what he’s claimed.

As the car moves down the quiet streets, you lean back in your seat, your head resting against the window, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips. Oscar keeps his eyes on the road, but every so often, he glances over at you, his grip on the steering wheel tightening just slightly.

You trust him completely now. You have no idea what he’s done, what he’s capable of. And Oscar intends to keep it that way.

For now, all that matters is that you’re his.

***

Oscar leans against the wall of the Haas garage, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you. The noise of the paddock fades into the background, and all he sees is you — on the floor, cross-legged, playing with the mechanic’s baby. The baby giggles as you wiggle your fingers in front of him, making soft cooing sounds. It’s an innocent moment, but to Oscar, it’s something far more profound. Something perfect.

He’s never seen you like this before, not with a baby, and the sight of it stirs something deep inside him. You look so at ease, so natural, as if holding a child was second nature to you. Oscar’s chest tightens, and his fingers curl into the fabric of his race suit.

The way you smile at the baby, the softness in your eyes, it’s like a revelation to him. You’re not just beautiful, not just charming or intelligent — you’re maternal. You would be the most incredible mother. His children’s mother.

His gaze sharpens, thoughts racing. He imagines you with a child of your own, your smile directed at a little one with your eyes, maybe his nose, or your soft laugh. The image is so vivid it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

“Oscar?” Logan’s voice cuts through his thoughts, but Oscar doesn’t move. He barely registers his friend’s voice at all. His entire focus is still locked on you.

Logan follows his line of sight, sees you playing with the baby, and gives Oscar a nudge. “Dude, you look like you’re in a trance. She’s just playing with a baby.”

Oscar glances at him, annoyed. “You don’t understand,” he mutters, brushing Logan off.

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Right, because you’re planning your future family now?”

Oscar doesn’t respond, his jaw clenching. He doesn’t need Logan’s sarcastic comments, not when he’s this close to figuring out the next step. Logan might think he’s being funny, but he has no idea how serious Oscar is.

You’re laughing now, and Oscar’s heart skips a beat at the sound. It’s soft, melodic, like music in his ears. He pushes off the wall, slowly making his way over to you, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him.

When you notice him approaching, your face lights up, and you wave him over, holding the baby’s hand and waving it in his direction. “Oscar, look! Isn’t he adorable?”

Oscar forces a smile, trying to keep his composure. “Yeah, he’s cute.”

But inside, his thoughts are racing. He wants this — you with a baby. He wants it all. The perfect little family. And now, he knows what he has to do.

He crouches down next to you, his knee brushing against yours as he watches you interact with the baby. For a moment, he lets himself imagine what it would be like if this were your life together. The three of you, the baby on your lap, the two of you sharing quiet, intimate moments like this.

“You’re really good with him,” Oscar says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You smile, shrugging modestly. “I’ve always loved kids.”

Oscar’s mind whirs at that, his grip on the baby’s toy tightening slightly. Of course, you love kids. You’d be the perfect mother. It’s meant to be.

The baby’s mother, the mechanic’s wife, calls for her child, and you gently pass him over, giving him one last little pat on the back. As the baby is carried away, you let out a soft sigh, as if you’re reluctant to part with him.

Oscar takes this moment, leaning in just a little closer. “I was thinking …” he begins, his tone casual but carefully measured. “Summer break is coming up soon.”

You turn to him, eyes bright with curiosity. “Yeah?”

Oscar’s heart pounds in his chest. He needs to do this right, to make it seem like it’s just an innocent suggestion, a sweet idea. “What if we spent it together?" He pauses, gauging your reaction before adding, “In Australia. You’ve never been, right?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, a smile slowly spreading across your face. “Australia? Really?”

Oscar nods, trying to seem nonchalant, though inside, he’s anything but. “Yeah. I thought it’d be fun. You could meet my family, see where I grew up. We could spend some time away from all … this." He gestures vaguely to the chaotic paddock around you both.

You bite your lip, clearly considering it. “That sounds amazing, but … I don’t want to intrude.”

Oscar shakes his head quickly, his hand lightly brushing yours. “You wouldn’t be intruding. I want you to come. It’d be good for us to … you know, spend some real time together.”

You smile again, softer this time, and Oscar knows he’s got you. “Well, if you’re sure …” you say teasingly, “I’d love to.”

Oscar’s stomach flips with triumph, but he keeps his expression calm. “Great. I’ll book everything.”

As you turn back to watch the baby being carried away, Oscar’s mind races ahead. This is the next step. Australia, away from everyone else, where he can have you all to himself. Where you can start to see what he already knows — that you’re meant to be together.

It’s perfect. The perfect plan, the perfect timing. And now, with you agreeing to spend the summer with him, he’s that much closer to making his vision of your future a reality.

He leans back slightly, his eyes still fixed on you, his thoughts dark and consuming. Soon, everything will fall into place. Soon, you’ll be his in every way that matters.

“Can’t wait for the summer,” you say softly, more to yourself than to him, but Oscar hears it loud and clear.

Neither can he.

***

The villa Oscar books for the two of you is perfect, nestled quietly in the Australian countryside, far from any distractions. When he pulls up the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires, a satisfied smile creeps onto his face. It’s isolated but cozy, with a large deck that overlooks the rolling hills and eucalyptus trees. The soft hum of cicadas fills the warm air. It’s idyllic, exactly how he planned it.

"Wow, Oscar, this place is gorgeous," you say as you step out of the car, your voice laced with awe as you take in the view.

Oscar watches you, the way your eyes light up, how the sun catches your hair. He’s made sure everything is flawless for you. He nods, placing a hand on your back as he leads you toward the entrance. “I thought it’d be nice to get away from everything for a bit. Just the two of us.”

You smile back at him, clearly touched. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you planned all this.”

Inside, the villa is just as stunning. Open spaces, large windows, and soft, neutral tones. The light pours in, casting everything in a warm glow. You wander through the space, touching the countertops, trailing your fingers over the smooth wood of the dining table. Oscar stands back for a moment, watching you, his mind already working through the next phase of his plan.

You head toward the bedroom, your suitcase rolling behind you, and Oscar follows. The room is simple but elegant, with a large bed draped in white linen, soft and inviting. As you start unpacking, Oscar moves toward the bathroom, scanning the space. It’s spotless, the sink gleaming under the lights, and there’s a large bathtub near the window with a view of the surrounding hills.

You join him a moment later, setting your toiletry bag on the counter. “I’m going to hang up my clothes,” you say, smiling before walking back toward the bedroom.

Oscar watches you go, the soft sound of your footsteps fading as you head down the hall. He lingers for a moment, standing by the bathroom counter. His gaze shifts to your toiletry bag, eyes narrowing as he sees a small white case tucked inside.

Your birth control pills.

His chest tightens. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle this part of the plan, but seeing them now, sitting right there in the open, brings a wave of certainty over him. This is his opportunity.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the plastic case. Slowly, carefully, he lifts it out of the bag, opening it to reveal the small circular array of pills. His mind races. The thought of you — of having you, completely — pulses through him like an electric current. He knows what he needs to do now.

With a glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re still in the other room, Oscar pulls out his phone. He quickly searches online, tapping through a few sites until he finds exactly what he’s looking for: placebo pills. They look identical to your birth control, but they won’t do anything. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he places the order, ensuring express delivery to the villa.

Satisfied, he slides your pill case back into the drawer, just as you return, holding up a shirt on a hanger. “What do you think? Dinner tonight, maybe?”

Oscar turns to you, his face the picture of calm, though inside his heart races with excitement. He smiles, closing the distance between you with a slow step. “Sounds perfect,” he says, his voice smooth and easy. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You roll your eyes playfully, hanging up the shirt in your closet. “We’ve just arrived, Oscar. Don’t start flattering me already.”

He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching you organize your clothes. “Can’t help it.”

You don’t notice anything amiss, your attention fully on arranging your wardrobe, humming softly to yourself. Oscar stays silent, observing, letting the moment stretch out. He feels the weight of the decision he’s made pressing against his chest, but there’s no doubt in his mind. This is the next step. It’s necessary.

As you finish, you turn to him, smiling as if the whole world is right, as if you’re in the safest, most perfect place possible. “What’s the plan for today?" You ask, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Oscar takes a seat beside you, his arm draping over your shoulder casually. “We could explore a little, go for a walk. Or,” he pauses, gauging your reaction, “we could just stay in, relax. I thought we could take some time to enjoy this place.”

Your smile widens, and you lean into his touch. “I think staying in sounds nice. We have all the time in the world to explore, right?”

His heart flutters at that, the way you’re already so comfortable with the idea of just being with him, no distractions, no one else. He tightens his grip around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“Exactly,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “Just the two of us.”

The rest of the day is quiet, peaceful. You spend time lounging on the deck, sipping wine as you both talk about everything and nothing. It feels natural, easy, like you’ve always been meant to share this space together. But all the while, Oscar’s mind never strays from the thought of those pills in the bathroom drawer. He feels like he’s already set the wheels in motion, that soon enough, you’ll be his in every possible way.

That night, after dinner, you slip away to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Oscar lies back on the mattress, listening to the sound of water running, imagining you in there, preparing for another quiet night together. When you return, you crawl into bed next to him, curling up at his side.

Oscar wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, the warmth of your body against his. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring goodnight. But even as your breathing evens out and you drift to sleep, his mind remains sharp, clear.

In a few days, when the pills arrive, he’ll make the switch. He knows it’ll be seamless — you’ll never suspect a thing. And soon, everything will be exactly as he’s imagined it.

As you sleep peacefully beside him, Oscar stares up at the ceiling, his hand resting lightly on your hip, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

He’s already won half the battle.

Now, all that’s left is for you to realize that you were always meant to be his.

***

The days leading up to the switch are torturous for Oscar. Every moment you spend together is perfect, but the anticipation gnaws at him. He’s careful not to show it, though. He keeps his composure, never letting his eagerness slip through the mask of calm he wears so well.

The placebos arrive in an unmarked package, just as discreet as he had hoped. It’s delivered while you’re out on a walk through the woods that surround the villa, and Oscar snatches it up from the front porch the moment he hears the delivery truck pull away. He tears it open, heart pounding as he examines the pills inside. They’re identical to the ones in your birth control case — down to the last detail.

Perfect.

Oscar wastes no time. He takes the package to the bathroom and carefully opens the drawer where you keep your toiletries. Your pill case sits innocuously at the back, just as you left it. His hands are steady as he opens it, methodically replacing each of the active pills with the placebos. When he’s done, he closes the case, tucking it back into the drawer with everything in its place. He steps back, his reflection in the mirror looking back at him with a calm satisfaction.

This is it.

When you return from your walk, flushed from the exertion and the crisp air, Oscar greets you with a warm smile. “How was it?" He asks, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead.

“Beautiful,” you reply, eyes bright. “I found this little trail that leads down to a stream. We should go there together tomorrow.”

“Definitely,” Oscar agrees, his hand resting on the small of your back as you head inside. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it here.”

“Of course,” you say, leaning into him as you head to the bedroom to change out of your walking clothes. “It’s perfect.”

Oscar follows you, watching as you strip off your jacket and fold it neatly over the chair. You’re so trusting, so unaware of the plans he’s laid out so carefully. He feels a surge of affection for you, so strong it almost makes him dizzy. You’re his now — completely and utterly his.

The days pass slowly, agonizingly so, as Oscar waits for the right moment. He’s patient, though, ensuring that everything goes according to plan. He doesn’t want to rush this — it has to be perfect.

Finally, when he’s sure your body has flushed out the effects of the real pills, Oscar makes his move.

It’s a quiet evening. The two of you have had dinner on the deck, the sun setting in a blaze of color over the hills. Now, you’re inside, the warmth of the fire in the living room wrapping around you both as you sit on the couch. You’re leaning against Oscar, your head resting on his shoulder, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

“I’m so glad we’re here,” you murmur, your voice sleepy and content. “I don’t ever want to leave.”

Oscar presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand gently stroking your arm. “We don’t have to think about that yet. We’ve got plenty of time.”

You smile, closing your eyes as you nestle closer to him. “I know.”

He waits until you’re almost drifting off before he shifts, turning slightly so he can look down at you. “Come to bed,” he says softly, his voice low and coaxing.

You nod, letting him guide you to the bedroom. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken anticipation, and Oscar’s pulse quickens as he watches you undress, slipping into the nightshirt you keep at the villa. You’re unaware of the intensity of his gaze, too caught up in your own sleepy haze.

Oscar follows suit, stripping down to his boxers before joining you in bed. The sheets are cool against his skin, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He reaches for you, pulling you close, his hands sliding over your hips, your waist.

You respond to his touch, a soft murmur escaping your lips as he presses his lips to your neck, trailing kisses down to your collarbone. There’s something different about the way he touches you tonight — more deliberate, more possessive. But you don’t question it, you trust him completely.

Oscar’s heart races as he continues, his hands exploring every inch of you, his lips following the path they trace. When he finally enters you, it’s with a sense of completion, like he’s claimed something that was always meant to be his. He moves slowly at first, savoring the moment, letting the reality of it sink in.

He watches your face, the way your eyes flutter closed, your lips parting as you breathe out his name. It’s intoxicating, seeing you like this, knowing that he’s the only one who’s ever seen you this way, and soon, he’ll be the only one to ever see you carrying his child.

The thought pushes him over the edge, and he starts to move faster, more urgently, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you. The intensity of it makes you gasp, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you.

“Oscar,” you moan, your voice shaky with pleasure.

He groans in response, leaning down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. He can’t get enough of you, can’t hold back the possessiveness that wells up inside him. He knows he’s on the edge of losing control, but he doesn’t care. This is what he’s wanted for so long, and now that it’s finally happening, he won’t let anything ruin it.

When you reach your climax, Oscar follows shortly after, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets go. For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you, the sound of your breathing the only thing that matters.

Afterward, as you lie beneath him, your chest rising and falling with the effort of catching your breath, Oscar places a soft kiss on your lips, then another on your neck. His hand trails down your stomach, lingering there, his fingers brushing over your skin with a possessive gentleness.

He moves lower, his lips following the path of his hand until he reaches your stomach. There, he presses a lingering kiss to the soft skin, his heart pounding in his chest.

He pictures it — your stomach rounding, growing with the child he knows will come. It’s only a matter of time now. He’s ensured it.

“You’re going to be the most amazing mother,” he whispers against your skin, his voice barely audible, but filled with a deep certainty.

You don’t hear him, your body already drifting into the blissful haze of sleep. But Oscar stays there for a moment longer, his lips pressed to your stomach, a satisfied smile curving his lips.

He slides back up beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. As you sleep peacefully against him, Oscar’s mind races with thoughts of the future. A future where you’re his in every way. Where you carry his child, where you’re bound to him forever.

And now, that future is within reach.

Oscar tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his heart pounding with a mixture of possessiveness and triumph.

It’s all falling into place.

Everything is perfect.

***

Oscar watches you with keen eyes, every small movement, every shift in your expression. He’s noticed it for a few days now — the way you’ve seemed off. Tired. Nauseous. He’s careful not to say anything too soon, not to make you suspicious, but inside, he knows what’s happening.

He’s known this moment was coming.

It’s Saturday morning at the track, and the rest of the team is bustling around, preparing for qualifying. But you’re sitting on a bench just outside the Haas garage, head in your hands, looking pale. Oscar walks over, his face the perfect picture of concern.

“You okay?" He asks softly, crouching down beside you.

You look up at him, your skin a little clammy, eyes filled with discomfort. “I don’t know. I feel … really off. I’ve been sick a few times this morning.”

Oscar frowns, tilting his head like he’s puzzled, but inside, he’s practically buzzing with excitement. “You’ve been sick? Maybe we should get you checked out, just in case.”

You wave him off, trying to be nonchalant about it. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I probably ate something weird.”

Oscar shakes his head. “No way. You’ve been feeling off for days now." He stands up, offering his hand to you. “Come on, let’s go to the track physician. Better safe than sorry.”

You hesitate, but Oscar’s insistence wins out. With a sigh, you take his hand, letting him guide you across the paddock toward the medical facility. He walks with purpose, every step bringing him closer to what he’s been waiting for — the confirmation of what he already knows.

The doctor on duty takes you both into a small examination room, where you explain your symptoms. Oscar stands beside you the entire time, holding your hand, his face a mask of supportive concern.

“We’ll need to take a blood sample,” the doctor says after you’ve described everything. “Just to rule out a few things.”

Oscar squeezes your hand as you nod, clearly exhausted. “It’ll be quick,” he murmurs, his voice soothing, though his mind is racing. This is it.

The blood test doesn’t take long, and the doctor steps out of the room to analyze the results. You sit back on the exam table, shoulders slumped, looking more tired than ever. Oscar watches you, his heart racing, anticipation curling in his chest.

When the doctor finally returns, holding a clipboard with the results, Oscar straightens, his expression carefully composed.

“Well,” the doctor begins, glancing between the two of you, “the results came back, and … it looks like you’re pregnant.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare at the doctor, completely shocked, the color draining from your face. “I’m what?”

“Pregnant,” the doctor repeats gently. “The hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy.”

Oscar does everything he can to keep his face from breaking into a smile. He squeezes your hand a little tighter, playing the role of the supportive boyfriend. “Pregnant?" He echoes, making sure his voice sounds as surprised as yours.

You’re still staring at the doctor in disbelief. “But … that can’t be right. We’ve only been together a few months. I’ve been on the pill.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic look. “No birth control is one hundred percent effective. It can happen.”

You sit back, stunned, your hand instinctively going to your stomach. “I-I can’t believe this.”

Oscar pulls you into his side, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, his voice gentle and calm. “We’ll figure this out.”

But you’re shaking your head, your voice rising with panic. “Oscar, we’ve only been together for a few months. I don’t even know if … if I’m ready for this.”

Oscar feels a flicker of annoyance at your hesitation, but he quickly buries it. He can’t push too hard yet. Instead, he plays the role of the comforting partner, holding you tightly as you freak out. “I get it,” he says softly. “This is a lot to take in. But we don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

Your eyes are wide and frantic as you look up at him. “I’m not sure if I can do this. I don’t even know if I want to keep the baby.”

Oscar’s stomach twists at your words, but his face remains calm, his hand still gently stroking your back. “Hey, don’t say that yet,” he murmurs. “Let’s just take a breath, okay? You’re overwhelmed right now, and that’s normal. But we’ll figure this out together. I’m here with you, no matter what.”

You look up at him, your face filled with uncertainty. “But, Oscar … this changes everything. I’m not ready to be a mom.”

Oscar gives you a soft, understanding smile, though inside he’s desperate to steer this conversation in the right direction. “I know you’re scared, and that’s okay. But I promise you, we can handle this. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Your breath hitches as you look at him, conflicted. “I just … I didn’t expect this. We’ve barely been together long enough to-”

“To plan something like this, I know,” Oscar finishes for you, his voice gentle. “But things happen, and sometimes life surprises us. And, if I’m being honest … I think you’d be an amazing mom.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “You really think that?”

Oscar nods, his expression sincere. “I do. You’re kind, you’re caring, and you have so much love to give. I’ve seen the way you are with Ollie, and even with the team. You’re a natural caretaker.”

You bite your lip, clearly wavering. “But, Oscar … what if I’m not ready?”

Oscar tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “No one’s ever really ready. But I know you, and I know that if you decide to keep this baby, you’ll be incredible. And I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll figure it out together.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you listen to him, his words hitting you in all the right places. Oscar can see that you’re close to giving in, so he presses on, his voice steady and reassuring.

“I know it’s scary, but think about it. We could be a family. A real family. And I want that with you more than anything.”

You look down at your hands, silent for a moment, your mind clearly racing. Oscar watches you closely, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows this is the turning point.

Finally, you let out a shaky breath, glancing up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I … I don’t know, Oscar. I need time to think.”

Oscar nods, giving you a soft, understanding smile. “Of course. Take all the time you need. But just know that whatever you decide, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod slowly, wiping your eyes. “Thank you. I just … I don’t know what to do.”

Oscar pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, his heart swelling with satisfaction. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers into your hair. “I promise, everything’s going to be okay.”

As he holds you, Oscar’s mind races, already planning the next steps. He’s not worried. He knows that, in the end, he’ll convince you. You’ll keep the baby, and everything will fall into place just as he intended.

For now, he’ll play the role of the supportive boyfriend, the one who’s always by your side, helping you through the uncertainty. But inside, he’s already won. You’re pregnant, and soon enough, you’ll realize that keeping the baby is the only option.

Oscar holds you a little tighter, hiding the small, satisfied smile that threatens to break through. Everything is going according to plan.

***

Oscar has always been patient. He’s learned that rushing things can cause cracks, slip-ups, room for doubt to creep in. And now, more than ever, he needs you to trust him, to believe that he’s on your side. The next few days are critical, and he knows it.

You’ve been quieter since finding out about the pregnancy. The nervous energy that used to make you light up around the paddock has been replaced with uncertainty. Oscar notices how you touch your stomach absentmindedly when you think no one’s looking, like you’re still trying to wrap your head around the reality growing inside you.

But Oscar sees this for what it is: a fragile moment where you’re caught between indecision and the life he’s planned for you both. He just needs to tip the scales, to show you that there’s only one real choice. And he has the perfect opportunity in mind.

It’s the Thursday before race day, and the paddock is bustling with the usual pre-race chaos — engineers, media personnel, drivers darting between garages. His PR officer, Helen, has brought her baby girl to the paddock today. Oscar has seen her cooing at the mechanics, her little girl bundled in pink, giggling at all the attention. It’s perfect.

Oscar knows you well enough to understand how much you adore babies, how your heart melts when you see them. He watches you now, standing with Ollie near the Haas garage, glancing over at Helen and the baby every few minutes. Your face softens just a little when you hear the baby laugh. This is his moment.

Oscar approaches, casual but calculated, making sure his timing is perfect. He greets Ollie with a quick nod before turning his attention to you, his expression warm but with an undertone of concern.

“You okay?" He asks softly, as though the question has been bubbling beneath the surface for days.

You glance at him, clearly caught off guard by his directness. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just … still thinking about everything.”

Oscar nods, as if he’s been expecting that answer. “I know it’s a lot to process. But you don’t have to do it alone, remember?”

You smile faintly, grateful for his support but still unsure. “I know. I just — I don’t know what the right thing to do is.”

Oscar’s eyes flicker toward Helen and her baby, who’s now being bounced on the hip of one of the mechanics. He lowers his voice, leaning a little closer to you. “Maybe it would help to talk to someone who’s been through it?”

You follow his gaze, and Oscar can almost see the gears turning in your mind. Helen has always been someone you admired — successful, balanced, managing motherhood while working in the high-stakes world of Formula 1. Oscar knows exactly what he’s doing.

You hesitate, but then nod. “Yeah … maybe.”

Oscar smiles softly. “Come on,” he says, taking your hand gently, leading you toward Helen. “It might help.”

As you approach, Helen looks up, her face lighting up when she sees you both. “Hey, guys! How’s it going?”

Oscar is quick to respond, his voice easy and natural. “We’re good. Actually, we were just talking and thought maybe you could give some advice.”

Helen shifts the baby on her hip, curious. “Oh? What about?”

You glance at Oscar nervously, but he squeezes your hand, silently encouraging you. You take a deep breath, then speak. “I, uh … I just found out I’m pregnant.”

Helen’s face softens immediately, her maternal instincts kicking in. “Oh my God, congratulations! That’s amazing news.”

You give a weak smile, still overwhelmed. “Thanks. I’m just … I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

Oscar watches as Helen’s expression shifts, empathy in her eyes. “I totally get it,” she says, adjusting the baby in her arms. “I felt the same way when I found out I was pregnant. It’s a huge change, and it can be scary. But honestly? It’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.”

You blink, processing her words, while Oscar fights to keep the smile from creeping onto his face. Helen’s doing exactly what he hoped she would.

“You really think so?" You ask, your voice soft, tentative.

Helen nods firmly. “Absolutely. I mean, yeah, there are tough days, but … when you look at them, when they smile at you, everything just clicks. It’s like … it doesn’t matter if you felt unprepared or scared before. Once they’re here, they become your whole world, and you can’t imagine life without them.”

Oscar’s heart races as he watches you absorb every word. He knows Helen’s words are planting seeds, shifting your perspective, just like he planned.

You glance at the baby, who’s now chewing on her fist, babbling happily in Helen’s arms. A small smile tugs at your lips, the first genuine one Oscar’s seen in days.

“She’s beautiful,” you whisper, almost to yourself.

Helen grins, brushing a hand over the baby’s soft curls. “Thank you. And you’ll have your own little one soon enough. Trust me, it’s the best thing in the world.”

Oscar feels a surge of triumph. Helen’s done the heavy lifting, nudging you closer to the decision he’s wanted all along. But he knows he needs to seal the deal, to make sure you’re not left with any lingering doubts.

As Helen’s attention shifts back to the baby, Oscar leans in toward you, his voice low and intimate. “You’d be such a great mom,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours.

You look at him, your eyes still filled with uncertainty, but there’s something else there now — hope. “You really think so?”

Oscar nods, his expression earnest. “I do. I know it’s scary, but … you have so much love to give. And we’ll do it together. You won’t have to do it alone.”

You take a deep breath, and Oscar can tell that you’re on the edge, teetering between fear and the future he’s painting for you both.

Helen’s baby lets out a little giggle, and you glance down at her, your smile widening just a bit. “She’s so happy,” you say softly.

Helen beams, rocking her baby gently. “She is. And yours will be too.”

Oscar can see it now, the way you’re starting to picture it in your mind. The future he’s carefully crafted. You, holding your own baby, happy, content, and completely his.

He tightens his grip on your hand, his voice barely above a whisper. “We can have that. A family. If you want it.”

You close your eyes for a moment, taking it all in, before finally nodding. “Maybe … maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Oscar’s heart soars. This is it. You’re giving in.

Helen smiles warmly at you both. “You’re going to be amazing parents.”

Oscar squeezes your hand one last time, his voice soft and filled with promise. “We’ll make this work. I promise.”

You look at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”

Oscar leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his heart racing with satisfaction. He’s won. The future he’s dreamed of is now within reach. You’re keeping the baby, and everything is falling into place.

As you stand there, watching Helen and her baby, Oscar’s mind is already racing with plans. He’ll make sure everything is perfect for you, for the baby. He’ll protect what’s his, no matter what.

For now, though, he lets himself savor the victory, pulling you closer to him as you both watch the baby in Helen’s arms. His plan is working. You’re his, and soon, you’ll be tied to him forever.

And there’s nothing anyone can do to change that.

***

Oscar has been preparing for this moment for weeks, rehearsing the conversation in his mind over and over. He knows Ollie is protective of you — he’d have to be, considering the nature of the F1 paddock and all the people who swarm around it. Telling him that his older sister is pregnant, and not just pregnant but with Oscar’s child, needs to be handled delicately.

The three of you are sitting in a private corner of the hotel lounge, post-race celebrations buzzing in the background. You’re perched nervously on the edge of your seat, fidgeting with your hands, while Oscar sits beside you, his arm draped protectively around the back of your chair. Ollie is across from you both, tapping his fingers on the table, clearly sensing that something is off.

Oscar shoots you a glance, his expression gentle but encouraging. This is the moment you’ve both been preparing for, but he knows how nervous you are. He watches as you take a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak.

“Ollie,” you begin, your voice shaky. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

Ollie’s fingers stop tapping, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in. “What is it? You’re acting weird.”

Oscar watches you hesitate, your eyes flickering between him and Ollie, before you finally blurt it out. “I’m pregnant.”

Ollie blinks, his expression blank for a moment as the words sink in. Then, like a storm rolling in, his face darkens. He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he glares at Oscar.

“What the hell, Oscar?” Ollie’s voice is low, sharp, and full of anger. “You got her pregnant? Are you kidding me?”

Oscar stays calm, his expression composed as he raises his hands in a gesture of peace. He expected this reaction. Ollie’s protective streak runs deep, especially when it comes to you. But Oscar knows how to diffuse the situation.

“Take a breath, Ollie,” Oscar says, his voice steady, almost soothing. “I know you’re upset, but we didn’t plan this.”

“Upset?” Ollie repeats, incredulous. “You put my sister in a position like this! She’s not ready for this, she’s still in school, she-” He stops, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to control his temper.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, looking down at your hands, and Oscar squeezes your shoulder lightly, as if to remind you that he’s got this. He turns his attention back to Ollie, making sure to keep his voice calm and measured.

“Ollie, listen,” Oscar starts, “this wasn’t something we expected, but we’re dealing with it together. I love her. We’re going to make this work.”

Ollie shakes his head, pacing in front of the table now, his hands clenched into fists. “You love her? That’s supposed to make this okay? You barely even know each other, and now she’s pregnant!”

Oscar watches him carefully, knowing that pushing too hard could make things worse. Instead, he opts for a different angle. “Ollie, I get it. I understand why you’re upset. But think about this for a second. You’re going to be an uncle.”

That makes Ollie stop in his tracks. His eyes widen, the anger momentarily fading as the weight of that reality hits him. “An uncle?”

Oscar nods, taking the opportunity to soften the conversation. “Yeah. You’ll be an uncle. This baby is going to have an amazing family. You’re part of that.”

You finally look up, your voice soft but steady as you speak. “I know this isn’t what any of us expected, Ollie. But Oscar’s been really supportive. We’re figuring it out.”

Ollie glances at you, his expression conflicted. The anger is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now — worry, concern. He drops into the chair again, rubbing his hands over his face.

“And you’re sure this is what you want?" He asks, his voice quieter now, directed at you.

You nod, though the uncertainty is still clear in your eyes. “I … I think so. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know I want to try.”

Ollie sighs, leaning back in his chair, his eyes flicking between you and Oscar. “This is insane.”

Oscar leans forward, his voice firm but gentle. “I know it’s a lot, but we’ll handle it together. You don’t have to worry about her, Ollie. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

Ollie shoots him a hard look, the protectiveness still lingering. “You’d better.”

Oscar knows this is the best he’s going to get right now. He doesn’t push further, letting the conversation settle as Ollie processes the news. He can sense that Ollie’s anger is starting to fade, replaced by concern and the inevitable acceptance of what’s happening.

After a long silence, Ollie exhales heavily and looks back at you. “I just … I don’t want you to regret this. You’ve got so much going for you, and I don’t want anything holding you back.”

Oscar watches as you reach across the table, placing your hand on Ollie’s arm. “I know. And I don’t want to give up on anything. But I’ll make it work. I have to.”

Ollie’s jaw tightens, and he glances at Oscar before nodding slowly. “Alright. But if he screws up, I’m coming after him.”

Oscar can’t help but smile, though he keeps it in check. “Fair enough.”

The tension in the air starts to lift, though it’s clear that Ollie still isn’t entirely on board. But Oscar knows he’s planted the right seeds. Ollie will come around eventually, once the idea of being an uncle starts to sink in.

As the conversation shifts back to less intense topics, Oscar keeps an arm around you, quietly basking in the victory. He’s one step closer to securing the future he’s been carefully crafting, and no amount of Ollie’s protective nature is going to stand in his way.

Later, as you and Oscar leave the lounge, you let out a long breath, clearly relieved. “That went better than I expected,” you say, glancing up at him.

Oscar smirks, pulling you closer. “Told you it would be fine.”

You smile softly, leaning into his side. “Thanks for being so calm. I don’t think I could’ve handled that without you.”

Oscar presses a kiss to the top of your head, his heart racing with satisfaction. “I’ll always be here for you.”

As you walk together through the hotel lobby, Oscar’s mind is already moving to the next step. Ollie might have accepted the situation for now, but Oscar knows he’ll have to be vigilant. There’s always the risk of someone getting too close, of people questioning the choices you’re making.

But Oscar’s in control. He always has been.

And soon, the world will see the perfect life he’s building for you both.

You and him. And the baby.

Everything is going according to plan.

***

Oscar steps out of the McLaren motorhome, adjusting the collar of his team polo as he scans the paddock. The sun is out in full force today, casting a bright glare across the asphalt, and the usual buzz of race day preparations hums in the air. But none of that holds Oscar’s attention for long, because across the way, standing near the Haas garage, is you.

And standing too close to you — way too close — is Charles.

Oscar’s eyes narrow as he watches the scene unfold. You’re smiling, one hand resting protectively on your belly — his baby growing inside you — and Charles is standing right in front of you, one hand outstretched and resting on the curve of your stomach.

Oscar’s stomach turns. His grip on the phone in his hand tightens, knuckles whitening as a sharp wave of possessiveness surges through him. He has to stop himself from marching over there and ripping Charles’ hand off you, from doing something that will draw attention — something that will make everyone realize exactly what Oscar is capable of.

Instead, he breathes deeply, trying to keep his expression neutral. He has to remind himself that he’s in public. Eyes are everywhere. The cameras, the fans, the team members — all watching, all waiting for something interesting to happen.

He forces himself to move, walking toward you and Charles with a calm, measured pace. His heart pounds in his chest, though, each step building the tension in his body. He focuses on keeping his breathing steady, on not letting the mask slip.

When he’s close enough, he hears Charles chuckling. “Look at that — he’s going to be a strong one, huh?” Charles says, his voice too cheerful, too familiar for Oscar’s liking. He’s looking down at your belly like he’s allowed to touch, allowed to share in this intimate moment.

Oscar feels his blood boiling. He doesn’t get to touch you. He doesn’t get to touch either of you. But Oscar keeps his smile in place, just another teammate stopping by for a chat.

“Hey, mate,” Oscar greets, his voice smooth and even, though it takes every ounce of self-control not to shove Charles away from you. “What’s going on here?”

You smile up at him, that soft, radiant smile that’s been a constant source of comfort for him since you found out about the pregnancy. You’re glowing, your hand gently covering Charles’ as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Oscar!" You say, your voice light and warm. “Charles was just saying hi to the little one.”

Oscar steps closer, closing the distance between you and him, subtly edging Charles out of the space between you. He places his arm around your waist, pulling you gently but possessively toward him. “Yeah, I see that,” he says, keeping his tone casual, though his eyes flick to Charles, warning him without words.

Charles, ever oblivious, laughs and steps back, giving Oscar a friendly clap on the shoulder. “She’s going to be a great mom,” Charles says, oblivious to the dark thoughts simmering beneath Oscar’s surface. “It’s crazy how fast time’s flown, huh?”

Oscar’s smile feels forced, tight. “Yeah. Crazy.”

You glance between the two men, clearly sensing the tension but not fully understanding it. “Oscar, everything okay?" You ask, concern flickering in your eyes.

He turns to you, softening his expression, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Yeah, of course. Just checking on you.” His hand moves to your belly, where Charles’ had been moments before, as if to reclaim what’s his. The small life growing inside you is his — yours and his alone.

“Little one’s been kicking up a storm today,” you say with a grin, your excitement spilling over. “I think he’s excited for the race.”

Oscar can’t help but smile at that, but it’s a thin veil over the possessive rage still bubbling inside him. He doesn’t want anyone else touching you, touching *his* baby — especially not Charles Leclerc. But he can’t show that. Not here. Not now.

Charles, still blissfully unaware of the dark cloud brewing in Oscar’s chest, gives you a nod and a charming smile. “I should get going — need to check in with the team. But hey, take care, yeah? If you need anything, just let me know.”

Oscar tightens his grip on your waist, resisting the urge to tell Charles where he can shove his offer. Instead, he keeps his smile in place, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes as he watches Charles walk away. “Will do, mate,” he calls after him, his voice cold despite the smile still painted on his face.

Once Charles is out of earshot, Oscar turns to you, his hand still resting on your belly. He can feel the tiny kicks against his palm, and for a moment, the tension eases, his possessiveness giving way to something deeper — something almost tender.

“I didn’t like that,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You tilt your head, confused. “Didn’t like what?”

“Charles touching you like that,” he admits, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your stomach. “It’s … it’s personal. It’s us, you know? It’s our baby.”

You give him a soft smile, clearly not understanding the full weight of what he’s saying. “Oscar, he was just being friendly. He’s excited for us.”

Oscar’s jaw clenches, but he forces himself to relax. You don’t get it. You don’t see what he sees. “I know. I just … I don’t want anyone else touching you like that. It doesn’t feel right.”

You laugh lightly, brushing it off as if it’s nothing. “You’re being silly. I think it’s sweet that people care.”

Oscar doesn’t push the point further, but inside, the possessiveness flares again. It’s not sweet. It’s not okay. No one else should be touching you or the baby. That’s his job. Only his.

“Just … humor me, okay?” Oscar says, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m protective. That’s all.”

You smile up at him, leaning into his embrace. “Okay, I’ll humor you.”

Oscar holds you close, his mind spinning with a hundred different thoughts. He can’t stop thinking about Charles’ hand on your belly, about how wrong it felt to see someone else so close to what’s his. He knows it’s irrational, knows he’s being possessive — but he can’t help it. You and the baby are his world now, and the thought of anyone else being a part of that world fills him with a dark, burning need to protect.

Later, as the day winds down and you’re resting in his arms in the McLaren motorhome, Oscar watches you sleep, his hand resting gently on your belly. He can feel the occasional flutter of movement beneath his palm, and for a brief moment, the possessiveness fades, replaced by something softer.

But it doesn’t last. His mind drifts back to Charles, to the way he’d smiled at you, the way he’d touched you so casually. He knows it was innocent, knows that Charles doesn’t mean any harm — but that doesn’t matter. Oscar can’t shake the feeling that something is going to go wrong, that someone is going to come between him and the perfect life he’s building.

And Oscar won’t let that happen.

He’ll protect you, protect the baby — at all costs. Even if that means keeping everyone else at arm’s length. Even if that means doing things you’ll never know about.

As he presses another kiss to your belly, Oscar makes a silent promise to himself: nothing and no one will ever come between him, you, and the life he’s built for you.

No matter what it takes.

***

Oscar lounges on the sofa of the McLaren motorhome, glancing at you as you sit across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone. Your belly has grown even more prominent, the bump of his baby pushing against the soft fabric of your dress. It’s been months now since you found out, and you’ve settled into the rhythm of being an expecting mother. But Oscar’s mind has been churning with a new idea, a plan that’s taken root and refuses to let go.

He watches you with a calculated calmness, waiting for the right moment to broach the subject. He knows it won’t be easy — you’re close to your family, to Ollie, to the life you’ve built in England. But that’s exactly the problem. Too many people are around you, too many influences that could pull you away from him, from the control he’s worked so hard to establish.

He clears his throat, catching your attention.

“You know,” he begins casually, leaning back in his seat, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. Where we’re going to live once the baby’s here.”

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “Yeah? I figured we’d stay in England. It’s where my family is, after all.”

Oscar offers you a soft, understanding smile. He knows that’s what you think — what you *want*. But he also knows how to twist things to get what he wants.

“I get that,” he says, his voice soothing, almost coaxing. “But … have you thought about Australia?”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Australia?”

“Yeah.” Oscar shifts in his seat, turning his body more toward you, his expression serious yet gentle. “I mean, it’s where I grew up. It’s a beautiful place, and I’ve been thinking … maybe it’d be the best place for us to raise the baby.”

You blink, clearly caught off guard. “Oscar, Australia’s … it’s literally halfway around the world. My family’s in England, Ollie’s in England. It would be so far from everyone.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your hesitation falter. “I know, I know. But think about it, yeah? It’s quieter there. Less scrutiny. The media’s insane in Europe, especially around Formula 1. I don’t want our child growing up under that spotlight. In Australia, we can give them a normal life, a childhood without all that pressure.”

Oscar knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s playing the long game, planting seeds of doubt about staying in Europe. You’ve always been a private person, and he’s using that to his advantage, framing it as a way to protect your future family from the public eye.

You hesitate, biting your lip as you consider his words. “I mean, I get that, but … it’s still so far. I don’t know if I’m ready to leave everything behind.”

Oscar’s expression softens, and he reaches out to take your hand, his thumb stroking over your knuckles in a comforting gesture. “I’m not asking you to leave everything behind. We’ll visit England, see your family whenever you want. But living in Australia, it’d be different. Safer. More private. You’d love it there. The beaches, the space … you wouldn’t have to worry about paparazzi or people prying into our lives. We could be … just us.”

He pauses, letting his words sink in, knowing you’ll start to picture it — the idyllic life he’s painting for you. Away from the madness of the racing world, away from anyone who might interfere.

You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze dropping to your growing belly, your free hand resting protectively over it. Oscar knows what you’re thinking — that you want what’s best for the baby. That’s the key to this, the hook he needs to sink deeper.

“And think about how amazing it’ll be for the baby,” Oscar continues, his voice low and persuasive. “Growing up near the ocean, in a place where they can run around, be free … It’s the kind of childhood I had, and I’d want that for them. Don’t you?”

You look up at him again, and he can see the conflict in your eyes. You want to say no — you want to stay in England, close to your family — but he’s making it so hard for you to argue. He’s painting Australia as this perfect haven, a paradise for your future child.

“I don’t know, Oscar …” you murmur, still uncertain.

Oscar tightens his grip on your hand slightly, leaning closer. “We’ll make new memories, new traditions. You’ll have me, and I’ll have you. We’ll build a life together there. You know I’d never let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you and the baby no matter where we are.”

He watches as your resolve begins to waver. He’s close now — so close to getting exactly what he wants. He just needs to push a little further, to make you believe that this is what’s best for both of you.

“I understand it’s a big decision,” Oscar says softly, his tone almost pleading now, though it’s all part of the act. “But this is about our future, about what’s best for our family. I know you’re worried about being far from everyone, but you’ll have me. I’ll always be there for you, every step of the way. And we can still visit whenever you want.”

You sigh, looking down again, your mind clearly racing with everything he’s said. Oscar waits, letting the silence stretch, knowing that you’re weighing your options. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, the way his words are slowly but surely pulling you toward the decision he’s been pushing for all along.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally say, your voice quiet.

Oscar suppresses the smile that threatens to break across his face. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, doesn’t want to tip his hand just yet. Instead, he nods, giving you a gentle, understanding look.

“That’s all I ask,” he says softly, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. “I just want what’s best for us.”

Later that night, as you sleep beside him, Oscar lies awake, staring at the ceiling with a satisfied smirk on his face. He knows it won’t take much longer. You’re already halfway convinced — soon, you’ll be fully on board with the idea. Once you start picturing the life he’s promised you, the isolation won’t feel like isolation at all. It’ll feel like safety.

He imagines it now — just the two of you and the baby, tucked away in some quiet corner of Australia. No one else around to interfere, no family to pull you away from him. It’ll be perfect. You’ll be his, completely and utterly his, with no one else to cloud your judgment.

Oscar’s hand moves to your belly as you sleep, gently resting there as he feels the faintest kick from the baby inside. His baby. The life he’s created with you.

You won’t be able to say no for much longer. He’s made sure of that.

As the days go on, Oscar continues to drop little comments here and there, always steering the conversation back to Australia, to how perfect it’ll be for the baby. He shows you pictures of the beaches, talks about the schools, the parks, the quiet suburbs where you could raise a family. Each time, you seem to soften a little more, the hesitation in your eyes fading.

It doesn’t take long before you’re the one bringing it up.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” you admit one evening as you sit together in your shared apartment. “About Australia. Maybe … maybe it could be a good idea after all.”

Oscar hides his smile behind a sip of tea, nodding as if he’s only just considering the idea himself. “I’m glad you’re open to it. We’ll take it one step at a time, okay? No rush. But I really think it’s the best choice for our family.”

You nod, your hand resting on your belly as you stare out the window, lost in thought. Oscar watches you closely, his mind already racing ahead to the future he’s carefully crafted.

Soon, he thinks. Soon, you’ll be in Australia, far away from anyone who might interfere. And then you’ll be his — completely and utterly his.

Just the way he’s always wanted.

***

Oscar watches as you grip the edges of the hospital bed, your face contorted in pain, beads of sweat forming on your forehead. He stands at your side, holding your hand in his, gently rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Every contraction seems to hit harder, your body tensing with each one. But despite your discomfort, despite the way you call out for your mother between sharp breaths, Oscar keeps his expression calm. He’s been preparing for this moment for months, knowing exactly how he wants it to unfold.

“No one but me,” he had told the hospital staff when they asked for the permitted visitors list. “Just me. She’ll be fine with just me.”

And here you are, just as he’d planned — alone with him. No family, no distractions, no one to pull your attention away. Oscar had made sure of it. He knows you’re vulnerable right now, and that’s exactly how he needs you to be.

Your grip tightens around his hand as another contraction hits, and you let out a soft, pained sob. “I need … I need my mum,” you whimper, your voice broken by the intensity of the pain.

Oscar leans in closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his tone soothing and soft. “Shh, love, I’m here. I’ll take care of you. You don’t need anyone else, okay? Just focus on me.”

You look up at him with tear-filled eyes, your breathing ragged, but you nod, too exhausted to argue. Another contraction rolls through you, and your body tenses again, your grip on Oscar’s hand becoming almost crushing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Oscar coos, running his fingers through your hair to calm you. “I’m right here. Just keep breathing, yeah?”

But you don’t want him. In your pain, your instincts scream for your mother, your family, someone familiar, someone who can offer the kind of comfort Oscar can’t. You cry out again, calling for your mum between sobs, but Oscar remains firm.

“They’ll be here soon,” he lies, keeping his voice steady and reassuring. “They’re probably just waiting outside. You’re doing amazing, love.”

He knows they aren’t waiting outside. In fact, they’d been turned away hours ago, when they tried to come into the hospital. The nurse had explained there was no one on the visitor list, and hospital policy couldn’t allow them in without prior approval.

Oscar had made sure of that.

He tightens his grip on your hand just enough to remind you he’s there, that he’s the one you need right now. You’re too distracted by the pain to notice the way his eyes flash with quiet satisfaction as he watches you, completely dependent on him.

Time drags on, the hours blurring together in a haze of contractions, pain, and soft words of comfort from Oscar. Every time you cry out for someone else, he’s there, gently pulling you back to him, reminding you that he’s all you need.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the moment arrives. The doctors and nurses rush into the room, preparing for the delivery. Oscar moves to your side, his heart pounding with anticipation. You’re so close now, so close to giving him exactly what he’s been waiting for.

The baby — a boy, as the ultrasound had shown — arrives with a loud, piercing cry. The doctors place him in Oscar’s arms for a brief moment before they clean him up, and Oscar’s eyes widen with awe as he looks down at the small, wriggling form in his hands. This is it. His son. His family.

You’re exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open as the nurse finally places the baby — Marcus, as you’d both agreed to name him — into your arms. You look down at him, your face softening despite the exhaustion, tears of relief and overwhelming love in your eyes.

But it doesn’t take long before you glance around the room again, your expression shifting to one of confusion and worry. “Where’s my family?" You ask, your voice weak and hoarse. “Why aren’t they here?”

Oscar’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his expression neutral. He had hoped you’d be too exhausted to ask questions, but it seems he underestimated your attachment to your family. He can’t have that right now — not when everything is so perfect.

“They’ll be here soon,” he lies again, reaching out to stroke your hair. “It’s probably just a mix-up with the hospital staff. I’ll check with the nurse, okay? You rest.”

You nod, your eyelids drooping as the exhaustion takes over. Oscar leaves the room briefly, finding a nurse at the front desk.

“Can you check if her family tried to visit?" He asks, feigning concern. “She’s worried they haven’t come yet.”

The nurse looks at the computer and frowns. “Actually, her family did come earlier, but they were turned away. No one was on the permitted visitors list.”

Oscar fakes a look of surprise, widening his eyes just enough to make it convincing. “That’s strange. I thought I gave you their names. Must’ve been a system error. Can we fix that now?”

The nurse nods, typing a few things into the system. “I’ll add them to the list. They should be able to visit soon.”

Oscar thanks the nurse before heading back to your room. You’re still holding Marcus, staring down at him with a soft, tired smile. Oscar watches you for a moment, taking in the sight of you holding his child, and a surge of possessiveness rushes through him. You and Marcus are his now — completely his.

“Everything okay?" You ask when you notice him standing there.

Oscar nods, putting on his best apologetic expression. “It seems like there was a mix-up. The hospital must’ve forgotten to put your family on the list, but it’s fixed now. They’ll be able to visit soon.”

You look relieved, though still exhausted, and you nod, your focus shifting back to Marcus. “I just … I really wanted them here,” you say softly, tears forming in your eyes again.

Oscar moves to your side, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know, love. But I’m here, and so is Marcus. That’s all that matters right now, yeah? We’re a family.”

He can see the conflict in your eyes, the tug between wanting your family’s presence and the reality of the situation. But Oscar is there, steady, calm, always the one you can rely on. He knows you’ll lean on him because right now, you need him more than anything.

The hours pass, and the nurses eventually let your family in to visit. Your mother rushes to your side, tears streaming down her face as she embraces you and gazes down at Marcus. Ollie lingers at the door, his expression a mix of concern and relief. He approaches slowly, giving Oscar a stiff nod before focusing on you and the baby.

Oscar watches the scene play out, but there’s no sense of relief or joy for him. Not like you or your family feel. Instead, a simmering frustration bubbles beneath his calm exterior. This moment was supposed to be his. He’s worked so hard to keep everyone else at bay, to make sure he’s the only one you rely on.

But he knows this is just a temporary interruption. Soon enough, your family will leave, and it will be just the three of you again — just the way he’s planned it. And when that happens, Oscar will make sure to remind you of just how much you need him, how much you depend on him. You and Marcus are his now, and he won’t let anyone else get in the way.

For now, though, he smiles politely at your mother and nods at Ollie’s stiff greeting, playing the part of the loving partner. But deep down, he knows this is only the beginning. You’re tied to him forever now, and there’s no escaping that fact.

He’ll make sure of it

***

Oscar stands at the foot of the hospital bed, watching you cradle Marcus in your arms. It’s the first time you’ve breastfed him, and he can see the amazement in your eyes as you watch him latch on. The room is quiet, a soft hum of hospital equipment in the background, but all Oscar can focus on is the scene before him — so intimate, so perfectly aligned with what he’s envisioned for the two of you.

You look up at him, a gentle smile on your lips, and Oscar’s heart swells. This is exactly how he imagined it: you, completely absorbed in the role of a mother, with Marcus depending on you for everything. He’s been planning this moment for months, knowing that once Marcus arrived, you’d be even more vulnerable, even more open to the suggestions he’d plant.

Oscar moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on Marcus. “He’s perfect,” he says softly, reaching out to stroke Marcus’s tiny head. “You’re perfect.”

You glance up at him, your smile widening as you adjust Marcus in your arms. “I can’t believe he’s ours,” you whisper, your voice filled with awe. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

Oscar nods, his heart racing as he senses the timing is right. The maternal glow on your face, the way you look at Marcus with such pure love — it’s the perfect moment to begin planting the seeds of his next plan. He needs you to be fully committed, fully dependent on him, and the best way to do that is to convince you to give up the last bit of independence you have left.

“You know,” Oscar begins, his tone gentle and thoughtful, “watching you with him, seeing how natural you are, it makes me think …”

You look up at him, curious. “Think what?”

Oscar hesitates, making sure to choose his words carefully. He wants to come off as caring and considerate, not pushy. “It makes me think that maybe … maybe you should consider focusing on being a mother full-time, at least for a while.”

He watches your reaction closely, sees the brief flicker of uncertainty in your eyes as you absorb his words. You’ve always been committed to your studies, passionate about your career path. But Oscar knows the pull of motherhood is strong, and with Marcus here, he’s certain he can sway you.

“I don’t know, Oscar …” you start, your voice trailing off as you look down at Marcus again. “I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. I still want to finish my degree, get my career started …”

Oscar nods, feigning understanding, but he can sense that you’re already starting to waver. “I get that, love. I really do. But think about it — Marcus needs you. Being a mother is a full-time job, and you’re so amazing at it already. Why not give yourself the chance to focus on that? At least for the first few years.”

He sees the conflict in your eyes, the way you’re torn between your love for Marcus and your commitment to your studies. Oscar leans in, taking your free hand in his, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to decide right now. But I just want you to know that I’m here to support you, whatever you choose. And if you decide that being there for Marcus is what you want, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re taken care of.”

You bite your lip, your eyes drifting back to Marcus, who’s still contentedly nursing. “But what about my degree? My career? I don’t want to give up on everything I’ve worked for …”

Oscar nods again, his expression soft and understanding. “You wouldn’t be giving it up. You’d just be … putting it on hold for a bit. You can always go back to it later, when Marcus is older. Right now, he needs you. And I think you’ll find that being with him, watching him grow, it’ll be just as fulfilling — if not more — than anything else.”

You’re silent for a moment, your gaze focused on Marcus, who’s now dozing off in your arms. Oscar watches as your resolve begins to weaken, the reality of motherhood settling in. He knows how to play this — how to make you feel like it’s your decision, even though he’s guiding you every step of the way.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just … so much to think about.”

Oscar leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Take your time. But just know that whatever you decide, I’ll be here to support you. And I think … I think you’ll make an amazing stay-at-home mum. Marcus is so lucky to have you.”

You smile softly, your eyes still on Marcus, and Oscar knows he’s almost there. The idea is planted, and now all he needs to do is nurture it, give you just the right amount of encouragement until you convince yourself it’s the best decision.

Over the next few days, Oscar continues to drop subtle hints, making sure to praise your natural instincts as a mother, emphasizing how important it is for Marcus to have you around full-time. He brings up stories of children who thrive when their mothers are present in their early years, subtly playing on your fears of missing out on crucial moments in Marcus’s life.

Each time you hesitate or express doubt about putting your studies on hold, Oscar is there with a reassuring word, a gentle touch, always reminding you that you’re making the best choice for your family. He paints a picture of a perfect life — just the three of you, with you at home taking care of Marcus, while he provides for you both. He makes it sound so easy, so right.

And slowly, you start to come around to the idea. Oscar can see the change in you, the way you begin to talk about your studies less and less, focusing instead on Marcus and his needs. You start to picture the life Oscar is suggesting, and with each passing day, you grow more comfortable with the idea.

Finally, one evening as you’re both sitting on the couch, Marcus asleep in his bassinet nearby, you turn to Oscar with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” you begin, your voice thoughtful. “And … maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be best if I took a break from school, at least for now. Marcus needs me, and I don’t want to miss out on anything.”

Oscar’s heart leaps with satisfaction, but he keeps his expression neutral, nodding as if he’s simply supporting your decision. “I think that’s a great idea, love. You’re doing what’s best for Marcus, and that’s what matters most.”

You smile, a weight seemingly lifted off your shoulders now that the decision is made. “I’ll talk to the university tomorrow, let them know I’m taking a leave of absence. It’ll just be for a little while, until Marcus is older.”

Oscar nods, but he knows that by the time Marcus is older, he’ll have found new ways to keep you at home, new ways to ensure you remain dependent on him. For now, though, he’s content with the victory. You’re his, and now, more than ever, he’s succeeded in making sure that you and Marcus are firmly under his control.

As the days turn into weeks, you settle into your new routine, fully embracing your role as a stay-at-home mother. Oscar continues to play the part of the supportive partner, always there to help, always there to encourage you, but deep down, he knows he’s won. You’ve given up your independence, your dreams, all for him and Marcus.

And as you sit in the nursery, rocking Marcus to sleep, Oscar watches you from the doorway, a smile playing on his lips. Everything is falling into place, just as he planned. You’re exactly where he wants you — where you belong.

***

Oscar’s thumb traces the smooth, cold metal of the new lock on the front door, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. The locksmith had come earlier that day, installing the deadbolt exactly as Oscar had instructed — one lock that could be opened from the inside and out, and another that could only be controlled from outside the house. The installation was quick, professional, no questions asked.

Perfect. Just what he needed to ensure everything stays the way it’s supposed to.

Oscar takes a step back, admiring his handiwork. He can already hear the faint cry of Marcus from the nursery, but he doesn’t rush. Instead, he takes his time, testing the locks one more time, ensuring they click smoothly into place, unyielding and firm. He turns the key in the new deadbolt, hearing the satisfying clunk as it slides home, securing the door.

He had been thinking about this for weeks, ever since Marcus’s birth — how to make sure you both were safe, how to keep the outside world from intruding on the life he’s so carefully constructed. The isolation of the villa was good, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to know that when he left, you and Marcus wouldn’t — couldn’t — go anywhere without him. This was his way of protecting what was his.

He turns around and sees you standing in the hallway, Marcus cradled against your chest. There’s a slight frown on your face, your eyes moving from the front door to Oscar, confusion etched in your features.

“Oscar,” you start, your voice tinged with concern, “why did you change the locks? The old ones were fine.”

Oscar smiles, the kind of smile meant to reassure you, to make you feel silly for even asking. He steps closer, reaching out to gently brush his fingers along Marcus’s tiny head, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of his son.

“It’s just a precaution, love,” he says smoothly, his voice soft, as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “You know how I am — I just want to make sure you and Marcus are safe.”

You shift Marcus in your arms, still frowning. “But the old locks were fine, Oscar. We’ve never had any problems with them. This feels … excessive.”

Oscar’s smile doesn’t falter. He’s prepared for this, already has his response ready. He lets out a soft chuckle, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “It’s not excessive, it’s just being cautious. With everything that’s going on in the world, I want to make sure that nothing can get to you two while I’m not here. You know how much you and Marcus mean to me.”

You bite your lip, still uncertain, but you nod, seeming to accept his explanation. But then, as Oscar expects, you ask the question he’s been waiting for.

“Okay … but can I have a key? Just in case?”

Oscar’s smile tightens just a fraction, but he quickly recovers, shaking his head as if it’s a silly request. “You don’t need one, love. You never leave the house without me anyway, and I don’t want you to have to carry around another useless thing for no reason. I’ll always be here to lock and unlock the door for you. Besides, you have Marcus to worry about — you don’t need to stress about something like this.”

He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you’re weighing his words, trying to decide if he’s being reasonable or if there’s something more to it. Oscar’s heart races, just a little, as he watches you deliberate. He knows he needs to tread carefully, to not push too hard, too fast. He’s been so meticulous about everything so far, and he can’t afford to slip up now.

Finally, you sigh, the tension in your shoulders relaxing as you nod. “Okay … I guess that makes sense. It’s just … it feels strange, not having a key to my own house.”

Oscar leans in, placing a soft kiss on your lips, his hand resting gently on Marcus’s back. “It’s our home, love. And I’m just doing everything I can to keep it safe. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod again, more firmly this time, and Oscar feels the knot in his chest loosen. He’s won this round, just like he knew he would. You’re so easy to convince when he plays his cards right, when he makes it seem like everything he does is for you, for Marcus. And in a way, it is — just not in the way you think.

Over the next few days, Oscar watches you closely, noting how you seem to adjust to the new locks without much fuss. You don’t ask for a key again, and Oscar doesn’t bring it up either, content to let the matter settle. He continues to be the perfect partner, the doting father, always there to unlock the door for you, to lock it behind you when you come home. You don’t even notice the second lock, the one that only he can control.

Oscar feels a deep sense of satisfaction every time he turns the key in the lock, knowing that he’s the only one with that power. It’s a small thing, but it gives him the control he craves. With you and Marcus safely inside, he knows that nothing can touch you — no one can take you away from him.

It’s a few weeks later when you finally bring it up again. You’re sitting on the couch, Marcus asleep in his crib, and Oscar is reading through some emails on his phone. You’ve been quiet all evening, and Oscar notices the way you keep glancing at the front door, a thoughtful expression on your face.

“Oscar,” you say after a while, your voice soft but firm. “Can we talk about the locks again?”

Oscar looks up from his phone, his expression carefully neutral. “Of course, love. What’s on your mind?”

You shift in your seat, tucking your legs under you. “I’ve been thinking … I know you want to keep us safe, and I appreciate that, but … I don’t like not having a key. It makes me feel … trapped.”

Oscar’s heart skips a beat, but he keeps his face calm, collected. “Trapped? Love, you’re not trapped. You’re safe. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, your brows furrowing. “I know, but it just … it feels wrong, Oscar. What if something happens? What if I need to get out, and you’re not here? I don’t want to be completely dependent on you to leave the house.”

Oscar sighs, setting his phone down and turning to face you fully. He knows he needs to tread carefully here, to make sure you don’t start questioning things too much. “Love, nothing’s going to happen. You’re not trapped. You can leave anytime you want, with me. I’m just trying to protect you and Marcus. Isn’t that what you want?”

You frown, clearly torn, and Oscar leans in, taking your hand in his, squeezing it gently. “I know it feels strange, but it’s for the best. Trust me, okay? I wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t in your best interest.”

He sees the conflict in your eyes, the way you’re struggling to accept his explanation, but he knows how to handle this. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. He needs to keep you close, to make sure you don’t start thinking too much about the things he’s done, the things he’s planning.

Finally, you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat. “Okay, Oscar. I trust you. I just … I don’t want to feel like I’m a prisoner in my own home.”

Oscar’s heart races as he pulls you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re not a prisoner, love. You’re safe. And that’s all that matters.”

You nod against his chest, but Oscar can feel the tension in your body, the way you’re still uneasy. He knows he needs to be careful, to make sure you don’t start questioning things too much. But for now, you’ve accepted his explanation, and that’s enough.

As you settle back on the couch, Oscar’s mind is already working, planning his next move. He knows he can’t afford to slip up, can’t afford to let you see the cracks in his facade. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. And with the new locks in place, he’s one step closer to making sure you and Marcus are his forever.

The days pass, and Oscar continues to play the role of the perfect partner, the devoted father. He’s always there to open the door for you, to lock it behind you, to reassure you that everything he’s doing is for your safety. You stop bringing up the locks, and Oscar can see that you’ve resigned yourself to the situation, accepting it as just another quirk of his overprotective nature.

And that’s exactly what he wants. To make you believe that everything he does is out of love, out of concern for your well-being. To make sure you never question the real reason behind his actions.

One evening, as you’re getting ready for bed, Oscar watches you from the doorway, his heart swelling with satisfaction. You’ve fallen into the routine he’s set for you, the life he’s created. You don’t even notice the subtle ways he’s tightening his control, the way he’s slowly but surely cutting you off from the outside world.

You’re his. And with each passing day, Oscar feels more confident in his ability to keep you that way.

As you climb into bed, Oscar follows, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. You sigh, content, and Oscar can’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. Everything is falling into place just as he’s planned.

You’ve become so accustomed to his presence, so dependent on him, that the thought of challenging him barely crosses your mind anymore. It’s exactly what he wanted — what he needed. To have you close, to keep you safe, to make sure no one could take you away from him.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Goodnight, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice soft and sleepy.

As you drift off, Oscar remains awake, staring up at the ceiling, his mind already working through the next steps. He knows he needs to maintain this control, to keep reinforcing the life he’s built for you both. The locks, the isolation, the little things that keep you tethered to him — they’re all part of the plan. A plan that’s working perfectly.

He watches you sleep, his hand resting on your stomach where Marcus used to be, now flat and smooth once again. The house is quiet, peaceful, just the way he likes it. Everything is in order.

And it will stay that way, Oscar vows to himself. He’ll make sure of it. Because you and Marcus are his. And nothing — no one — will ever come between you.

As the night wears on, Oscar finally closes his eyes, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. He’s won. And tomorrow, he’ll wake up and do it all over again, ensuring that every day you’re reminded of just how much you need him. How much you love him.

Because that’s what he’s always wanted: to have you, to keep you, to make sure you’re his forever.

And in this house, behind these locked doors, he knows that’s exactly what you’ll be.

***

Oscar’s been planning this moment for weeks, every detail carefully mapped out in his mind. The proposal has to be perfect, not too over-the-top, but intimate, something that will make you feel loved and cherished. He needs to make sure you say yes — though, in his heart, he already knows what your answer will be.

It’s a quiet evening, the kind you’ve come to expect from your life with Oscar. Marcus is finally asleep after a long day, and you’re sitting on the couch, your legs curled up underneath you, reading a book. Oscar watches you from the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in his hand. You look peaceful, content, and it fills him with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

He walks over to you, setting his glass down on the coffee table before sitting beside you. You look up, smiling, and he returns it, but there’s something more in his eyes tonight — an intensity that you’ve seen before, though it’s hard to place exactly when.

“What’s on your mind?" You ask, setting your book aside.

Oscar takes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You,” he says simply, his voice soft but firm.

You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Me? What about me?”

He shifts closer, his free hand moving to cup your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his tone low, “about how lucky I am to have you in my life. How much you mean to me, to Marcus. And how I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your breath catches, your eyes widening slightly as his words sink in. He watches the realization dawn on you, and it only fuels his resolve.

“Oscar …” you start, but he gently presses a finger to your lips, silencing you.

“Let me finish,” he says, and you nod, your heart pounding in your chest.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, and your eyes flicker to it, widening even more. He watches your reaction closely, gauging every emotion that flits across your face.

“I want to make sure that you know just how much I love you,” he continues, opening the box to reveal a simple yet elegant diamond ring. “I want to give you my name, to make you mine in every possible way.”

Your eyes are locked on the ring, your hand trembling slightly in his grasp. “Oscar, I-”

Before you can finish your sentence, Oscar slips off the couch and onto one knee in front of you, holding the ring up to you, his eyes filled with a sincerity that makes your heart ache.

“Will you marry me?" He asks, his voice steady, though inside, his heart is racing.

For a moment, there’s silence — a heartbeat of hesitation that Oscar hadn’t anticipated. But then, your eyes meet his, and he sees the answer in them before you even say the words.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Oscar, I’ll marry you.”

The smile that breaks across his face is one of triumph, of victory. He slips the ring onto your finger, the diamond catching the light, sparkling as brightly as the tears in your eyes. Oscar rises to his feet, pulling you into his arms, holding you close, feeling the way your body fits perfectly against his.

“I love you,” he whispers into your hair, his hands trailing down your back, memorizing every curve, every inch of you.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice choked with emotion, your arms tightening around him.

Oscar pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have spilled over. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, one that seals the promise you’ve just made to each other.

As he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, Oscar can’t help but imagine the future he’s been dreaming of — the future he’s been working toward all this time. A wedding, a family, a life together that no one can touch or take away from him.

He envisions you walking down the aisle, your dress flowing around you like a dream, your hand resting protectively over a small bump. His second child. Another piece of him that will forever bind you to him. The thought sends a thrill through him, and he can’t wait to set the next part of his plan in motion.

But for now, he’s content to hold you close, to bask in the glow of your acceptance, your trust, your love. Because soon, you’ll be his in every way that matters, and nothing will ever come between you again.

As you settle back into the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, Oscar’s mind races with possibilities, with the steps he’ll take to ensure that this future — his future with you — will be everything he’s ever dreamed of. He places a hand over your stomach, just imagining the bump that will soo. grow there again, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

He can almost see it now — the two of you, standing at the altar, and when you look at him, you’ll have that same loving expression you’re wearing right now. But there will be more — something deeper, something that binds you together in a way that no one can break.

And when you say “I do,” Oscar knows that it will be forever.

Because he’s planned it that way.

And Oscar always gets what he wants.

[grison-in-space]

from the number of asinine complaints about how "voting is NOT a form of harm reduction" because harm reduction is for ADDICTS! ONLY! I'm seeing around... all coming from OP blogs I don't recognize and which otherwise don't have much presence... well, that coordination alongside the timing of US politics sure feels like the Russian troll bots agitating again. (Yes, they absolutely infested Tumblr; I think @ms-demeanor had a great post about what the bots looked and felt like somewhere that I will have to try and track down tomorrow.)

The thing is, if you actually do know harm reduction well, the complaint makes no sense. It's not as if the origin of harm reduction is a secret or especially hard to find out more about. I am not exactly an expert in the field: I have a educated layperson's interest in public health and infectious disease, I'm a queer feminist of a certain age and therefore have a certain degree of familiarity with AIDS-driven safer sex campaigns, and I'm interested in disability history and self advocacy (and I would in fact clarify harm reduction as a philosophy under this umbrella). So I have about twenty years of experience with harm reduction as a philosophy basically by existing in communities whose history is intertwined with harm reduction, which means I know it well from many different angles, and I know how the story of the philosophy is generally taught.

See, this is a story that starts, as so many stories do, in the 1980s with something monstrous President Reagan was doing. In this case, it was the AIDS epidemic, and Reagan refusing to devote any money or time to what eventually became called AIDS (rather than the original GRIDS, which came with its own baked in homophobia). Knowing themselves abandoned by society in this as in all things, and watching as friends and loved ones died in droves, queers and addicts are two communities who see that they are the only resources that they collectively have to save each other's lives. Queers know that sex, even casual sex, is an important part of people's lives and culture... and people aren't going to stop doing it even if there's a disease, so how can it happen safely? Condoms. Condoms every time, freely available, easy and shameless, shower them on people in the street if you have to. (And other things: this is the origin of the concept of "fluid bonding", for example... both of which were concepts that were immediately adopted in response to COVID, like outdoor socially distsnced greetings and masks and "bubbles." That wasn't an accident. Normalizing sexual health tests and seeing hard results on paper before sex was a thing, too.)

Addicts, too, knew that using was going to happen no matter how earnestly people tried to stop. If it was that easy, addiction wouldn't exist. So: how do you make using safer for longer? If you could stop someone getting HIV before they could bring themselves to get clean, that's a whole life right there. If you could stop someone overdosing once, twice, a dozen times, that's more time you're buying them to claw themselves out of addiction and into a better place. Addicts see, right, needle sharing is getting the diseases spread, so cut down on needle sharing. Well, needles aren't easy to get hold of. Their supply is controlled because people who aren't prescribed needles are theoretically junkies, so taking the needles away makes it harder to use, right— and no one is complicit, and also you see fewer discarded needles lying around where they're unsanitary and unsafe, right? Except that people want to do a buddy a good turn, so they share if there's no other option, and they'll keep a needle going until it's literally too blunt to keep using if need be. So fighting needle sharing means making it easier to get needles to shoot up with: finding a place to discard used ones and get as many fresh ones as you need to use safely!

Making free needles available to junkies and free condoms for the bathhouses was not a popular solution with politicians, for perhaps obvious reasons. Nor was routine testing of the blood supply, because that cost money too. But these things work to stop the spread of disease. Thus the principle of harm reduction: policy interventions in response to communities that frequently engage in risky behavior should focus on whatever reduces aggregate harm by reducing the risk rather than by trying to reduce the behavior. The homos and junkies say look, all your societal judgement in the world hasn't stopped us being homos and junkies yet. You ain't going to look after us? We'll look after our own. And this is the form that takes. Not increasing the pressure to act like people who aren't is, but making it safer to be the people we are while we try to be the happiest versions of ourselves. Even if that means being morally complicit in a whole lot of casual sex and drug abuse.

The thing is, harm reduction is a philosophy rooted in the defiance of people who knew that their society thought they deserved to die painfully, young, invisible and alone. This is not the kind of thing that people come up with and get mad if you adapt it and share it, especially if you tell the story of where it came from. And importantly, harm reduction is not purely the child of addiction: that philosophy, from the get go, was cooked up to apply both to substance abuse and casual sex. It didn't just spread from addiction care; it was born straddling addiction care and queer & feminist health care.

So it doesn't make sense to see actual activists who know harm reduction well complaining that this is a term exhibiting semantic drift when we talk about voting as harm reduction. It's actually a good metaphor: you're reducing the overall risk of the worst case scenario metaphors by voting Democrat, at least until future votes can install a system where multiple parties can flourish on the political scheme. (Democrats and Republicans are essentially coalitions of a pack of arguing factions anyway, and those factions are essentially what would be classed elsewhere as a party in its own right; the US essentially just lumps political granularity rather than splitting it in our political system.) And anyone who understands harm reduction itself knows that.

So it's this wildly inorganic complaint being voiced repeatedly by different sources. Sounds like a pretty good flag for a potential psyop to me.

If you want to learn more about harm reduction and its history, especially from an addiction perspective, I cannot recommend Maia Szalavitz's Undoing Drugs: How Harm Reduction is Changing the Future of Drugs and Addiction (2022) highly enough. Szalavitz has a history of addiction of her own as well as being a clear and accessible writer with an excellent grasp of neuroscience and history. I have a lot of respect for her work.

[comatosebunny09]

off the grid | sylus

summary: his chest swells with emotion. there’s this gnawing feeling in his gut telling him not to leave. that he belongs at your side for the rest of the day, drawing little sighs of his name from your mouth. “fuck the deal,” he husks with pinched brows, dipping down for a taste of your honeydew lips. warning(s): female anatomy described, cunnilingus, bodily fluids, p-in-v intercourse, mating press, unprotected sex, explicit language now playing: fire - sir notes: thank you so much for reading!

He says he has some business to attend to.

Ever the businessman on the move, even while on vacation.

You don’t pose much of an argument. Offer a slight pout, clawing at the side of the king-sized bed where his body’s residual heat and indentation still reside. But you’re surprisingly docile. Trusting, knowing he always comes back to you in one piece.

Sylus promises he won’t be long, locking eyes with your reflection in the mirror. Finishes buttoning his shirt, straightening his collar, and fussing with his cufflinks. He turns with a hand stuffed in his pocket to fully appreciate the view on the bed. And what a pretty picture you pose.

You’re quiet, playing on your phone. Have the gall to be so gorgeous in the calm glow of the sun, hair fanned around you on the pillows like a halo, breasts swelling in his dress shirt. Thighs thick as honey, legs splayed open and inviting on the ivory sheets.

His fingers twitch with the need to touch as something primal stirs in his belly, mouth filling with sand.

You catch his gaze over your phone. Offer a demure smile and a wave before returning to whatever’s got you so enraptured.

His chest swells with emotion. There’s this gnawing feeling telling him not to leave. Telling him he belongs at your side for the rest of the day, drawing little sighs of his name from your mouth, mapping out the contours of your body until the moon sits high in the sky.

It isn’t often he gets to sweep you away like this. Has you tucked all safe in a beautiful bungalow on an island far away, the air dense with salt and the idle crash of ocean waves enmeshed with the soothing cry of distant seabirds.

He scoffs inwardly. Wonders when you made him such a clingy mess as he studies his feet. Shakes his head, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck while losing that internal battle with himself.

He leans against the dresser with crossed arms, pondering how long he can stave off this deal he’s worked so hard to orchestrate. And yet—

You giggle, tickled pink by a video on your socials. The sound of it makes his heart pull. Makes his lips crook with a smile. He pads towards you without thinking, wrapping a tender hand around your ankle. Smooths his thumb over the jut of bone with such reverence, watching you with all the fondness of the world. His cute little kitten.

Goddammit.

Sighing, he resigns himself to his fate. Glances off to the side as if the beach beyond the window can offer some sort of solution. An out. He circles back, foolish to think he could resist you.

The twins can manage this, he muses. And suddenly, he’s pulling free the buttons he so carefully fastened on his shirt. Climbing over you like a panther onto the bed, bracketing you between lean muscle and heat.

“Fuck the deal,” he husks with pinched brows, dipping down for a taste of your lips.

You squeak, but the surprise soon peters as you wrap gentle hands about his wrists, your phone on the floor long forgotten. He hums all throaty, smiling against your lips. Kisses honey-slow, committing the texture of your lips to memory whilst easing your hands over your head, twining your fingers together. Pushes a knee between your thighs to encourage them further apart, and the heat of your muff radiates up his quad, burning through the material of his slacks.

He’s glad he stayed. Couldn’t live with himself if he left you like this, all hot and pliant, wasting away in bed. You deserve to be worshipped, savored, devoured.

You melt into the kiss. Keen all pretty for him, arms instinctively snaking about his shoulders, and he swallows the intoxicating sounds you make. Chuckles low and alluring, notching his hips to yours, anchoring you to the bed with his weight half on you.

“Thought it was—oh—important,” you breathe when he breaks away with a soft smack to brand your neck with the heat of his lips. “Your deal.”

Who can think about work when you have the audacity to smell this good? Like night-blooming jasmines and everything inherently safe.

“Was,” Sylus parrots on a deep rasp, mouth on an unhurried excursion over your throat, and your laughter is bewitching. Heady, transitioning into a pleasured exhale when his teeth graze your carotid.

He shackles your wrists together beneath one hand, freeing up his other. And it’s dangerous, skating over the pucker of your nipples, the swell of your tits. Coasting over the ripples of your ribcage, making your body vibrate and curve with excitement.

“Nothing outweighs this.”

He drives his point home, knuckles trailing down your belly, down, down, down to the swell of your pubic bone. You arch, and he bows into you when his palm closes around your muff. And he’s open-mouthed on your neck, sighing hot, his dick heavy and throbbing against the inner curve of your thigh.

Two fingers curl inward, teasing the seam of your cunt. Circling in the way you like until the lewd squelch of your pussy kisses the air. You bite your lip. Head falls back against the pillows, and you do that endearing sad puppy thing with your brows. He admires the sight of you through parted lips and lidded eyes, wondering how he could ever think of leaving you alone.   

You’re so pretty like this. So perfect, your lips kiss-swollen and shiny, formed around a whine. You arch so nicely for him as his fingers play between your legs, stroking you until you’re nice and wet. Swollen and pulsing, outer labia spilling over the seat of your panties.

He’s wasted enough time, he thinks, your earthy scent overpowering his senses. He frees your wrists, easing down your body and between your legs in favor of something more appealing. More appetizing. The crooks of your knees find his shoulders. And he’s enamored by how the fat of your thighs crater between his fingers when he holds them apart, slightly hauling your hips up to fasten your thighs to his shoulders.

He licks up the span of your cunt, tasting you through the cotton of your panties. Growls something distant and abrasive, gaze flicking to yours through the headiness. His pupils blow wide, and his heart pounds a war cadence in his skull.

You’re a dream he doesn’t want to ever wake from. A spell that’s bound him to earth, but he doesn’t think he would ever want to leave.

His irises burn like the flicker of a flame. And he doesn’t look away as you ruck your hips up against his tongue, chasing that sparkling edge pooling in your stomach.

You thread your fingers in his riotous hair, guiding him into a choppy rhythm against you, your hips stuttering each time his tongue agitates your clit. He doesn’t fight it. Loves it when you take control, when you take your pleasure. Use him like the docile toy he is, fucking his mouth until he’s red-faced and panting.

He steadies you, briefly taking his eyes off you to drag your panties to one side. His mouth waters at the sight, and he sucks in a ragged breath. Your pussy is all sticky and puckering; gossamer strings of your nectar spread like dew-speckled spider spins between your lips and panties.

He splits you nice and open on two fingers. Spread like a flower bending towards the sun. His gaze finds yours once more before he dives in, working your pretty pussy with a wide and sweltering tongue.

You’re scrambling for purchase of the sheets, keening all nice for him. Rock your hips in tandem with the glacial pace of his tongue, and he reaches out to tangle your fingers together at your sides to anchor you.

You’re so cute; it makes his chest pull. Makes his heart all fluttery, and he’s a flushed, sloppy disaster beneath you. All for you. Just for you.

He ruts against the sheets as he feasts. Grunts into your pussy, not caring that he looks unhinged or that his pants are stained dark with pre. He’s chasing that unfathomable rush of endorphins. Pursuing the upward arc of his own pleasure, mind awash with how pretty you sound. How good you feel. How wonderful you taste, and he’s more drunk off you than any bit of brandy or whiskey.

He eats until he’s full. Until your hips leave the mattress with no intention of coming down, and his hands mold around the globes of your ass to keep you steady. Straining on toes dug into the mattress, calves stretched taut, fingers squeezing his wrists in a vice grip, and your thighs locked around his head.  

You’re wet and sloppy, arousal dribbling down the cleft of your ass to stain the sheets. His chin is slick with it, and he licks his lips after reluctantly leaving the bewitching seal of your cunt.

There’s a smile in his eyes. Devilish as you pout, and he lowers you back down to the bed as if you’re glass that will shatter if he doesn’t handle with care. He kneads your thigh placatingly, the heat of his palm promising something better. More filling.

You watch with shrouded intrigue, all hot in the face and panting. Drag your fingers over your lips, biting down on your middle. He could come from the sight alone. You spread open and leaking, gaze screaming fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

Sylus sits back on his haunches. All big and smug, palming the heavy throb of his cock through his slacks. Looks down at you from his nose, your eyes tuned to his every move, tongue swiping greedily over your lips.

You’re an eager little flower whilst he unlatches his belt infuriatingly slow, tugging his pants down with equal sluggishness. Down, down until his dick springs free from his briefs, slapping his belly intimidatingly, a glob of pre-spend dribbling honey-slow from the tip.

“You should see yourself,” he husks around a chuckle, gathering up his pre to smear it around his cockhead, and stroking himself so good. Bites his lip, dragging a languid hand down your sternum. “I’ve hardly had my fill, and you’re already about to blow.”

He traps a pretty nipple between his knuckles and pulls, luring a bitten-off sound from your throat. Angles himself forward to take your nipple between his lips, sucking in that way that makes your thighs quake and your voice come out all shrill and broken.

He then teases a thumb between your pussy lips in search of your entrance. Finds it once more with laser precision, and he rubs at it meticulously, slowly shoving your juices back into you.

You keen and clench around him at the knuckle, thrashing against the sheets, your tongue wrapped around his name. He groans in reply, caught in the haze of it all. You ruin him. Bring him to his knees, but he’d never admit it aloud.

“So eager,” Sylus teases. Like his voice isn’t strained from the effort of pumping his cock into the clench of his hand. Like he doesn’t want to spear you on his dick; feel your velvety walls squeezing the head of him so good.

The thought makes his hips stutter, and he’s squeezing his sensitive tip to reign himself in. “I’ll give you what you want soon enough, sweetheart. Just be patient.”

And you are as he taps his heavy dick against your muff with a wet and sticky plap plap. You ruck your hips up to chase the feeling, squeezing a sound through grit teeth. Hate when he teases, when he edges you like this. But he doesn’t keep you waiting, pressing the mushroomed head of his dick to the pucker of your pussy. Eases home past the tight ring of muscle, pushing into you with a sound as thick as seafoam curdling in his chest.

“So beautiful. So perfect.”

He can’t help himself. You feel so good. So wonderful, swallowing him up to the hilt like that. You sigh in tandem at the union. Relief wading through your bones, and you lock eyes through the dusk as the sun seeks shelter behind the horizon, casting you both in its otherworldly glow. Sylus needs no further goading as he grabs your ankles, driving your legs up until your knees press into your tits.

His mouth falls open. Gazes at you through his bangs clinging to his forehead. Through thick lashes, and you’re even more beautiful like this. Ethereal, and he could never tire of the sight. Of the sounds you make, so pretty for him as he rolls his hips, abs contracting and relaxing with each movement.

He plays a steady rhythm thereafter, rolling his pelvis like the slow drag of a tide as he fucks into you. Feels every detail of the channel of your sex constricting around him, and it takes every bit of him not to fuck you harder. He wants to savor this. Has all weekend to drive you wild; to orient himself with every sensitive clump of nerves in your body. So for now, he’ll take his time.

And he does. Driving into you at a maddeningly slow pace. But then, you’re sobbing and thrashing and clawing at the sheets, and he knows you’re close to spilling over the edge.

He doesn’t stall. Reaches between your bodies to find the unfathomable button of pleasure between your legs. Presses and rubs until your voice is shrill and stuck in your throat. Until you’re a shuddering mess, and the look in your eyes tells him all he needs to know. His own peak creeps progressively up his spine, tingling like static, prickling in his stomach.

He suddenly bows forward, your thighs clenched in his palms as he presses his torso fully against you, mooring you to the bed. Pistons in and out, battering against your cervix, your breaths choppy and intermingled, bodies bathed in a dewy sheen of sweat.

You cling to him with arms snaked around his neck. And his mouth seals to yours, swallowing your pitiful huffs of air. You’re his vice. His IV drip, and he can’t live without you. Doesn’t want to, finding himself chanting your name like a broken hymnal as the beginnings of his orgasm seep through him like magma.

He’s coming before he knows it. Ushered to the brink by your walls shuddering around his dick with your own orgasm. And there’s so much of it, his cum dripping hot and milky white down the inner trajectory of your thighs.

He catches himself on shaky arms before he collapses onto you. Laughs while trying to catch his breath, and you chuckle alongside him, hands perched on his waist, ready to catch him if he falls.

You’ll be the death of him, he muses, craning his head down to kiss you. To write the sweetest words of all against your lips, and he thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way.

masterlist

[mononijikayu]

killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) — nanami kento and gojo satoru.

“You think this is relief, don’t you?” you murmured, watching the way his breath hitched at your words. “You think I’m staying because I still have hope for us.” He lifted his head slightly, blinking at you with bloodshot eyes, as if he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t deny it either. “I….I do.” You took another drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. “But that’s not it, Kento. That’s not it at all.” “Then why?” His voice was desperate, strained, like he was afraid to hear the answer. You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the air. “Because I don’t know how to leave. Not anymore……Isn’t that a tragedy?”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, marriage, loss, emotional distress, hatred, resentment, domestic, confessions, slice of life, distress, cheating, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, grief, trauma, illness, post-partum depression trauma, children, mention of blood, mention of birthing, mentions of pregnancy, mention of miscarriage, mention of bodily fluids, mention of depression, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 15k words

NOTE: i know there's going to be other parts of nanami's part of this series, but the next chapter is going to introduce gojo satoru, since he's going to be part of this story and he has his own stuff going in, its best to go and understand his side of the story!!! i also wrote this while i was going through the heights of a friendship break up and a lot of depression. but anyway enjoy this one, i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

YOU WERE EXPECTING IT, BUT YOU THOUGHT IT WOULDN’T HAPPEN YET. You were foolish to think that the paparazzi care about your feelings or your privacy. It happened on a Sunday. You hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary for today, as after all, this was just downtime. And you weren’t that famous for people to flock to you like birds. 

It was just a simple brunch with your kids, something you tried to do every other weekend now that your daughter Keiko was twenty-three and in university, and your son Kenshin was eighteen and practically living his own life. You had missed them, most days. The house was quieter these days to be sure, and you tried to hold onto these moments, no matter how brief.

But you realized it was better for them not to be around the house.

Especially with what has been happening lately, you didn’t want them to see.

It’s quite a blessing that your children were happy to stay off the grid in their day to day.

The three of you were seated in a cozy corner of a well-known café. It was one you had been coming to for years, where the baristas knew your usual orders and the scent of freshly brewed coffee always felt like a warm embrace. And it’s one you’ve come and met your children in for years now, at every little afternoon get together after school and sometimes your little bonding sessions during the weekends. 

No one recognized you here, you were sure. If anything, it was because these parts of the city were not ones which many tourists come by. So you and your children were quite comfortable. You didn’t have to deal with the repercussions of being someone’s famous relative. 

The dim lighting cast a soft glow over the wooden tables, and the gentle hum of conversations and clinking cups created a soothing background noise. Today was a rather slow day for the cafe, one which of course made it easier to enjoy the skies above and the conversations being heard.

Keiko leaned forward, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, bright caramel eyes alight with both excitement and exhaustion. “I swear, if I have to memorize one more obscure medical term, my brain is going to quit on me.” 

She let out a dramatic sigh before taking a sip of her coffee, before looking at you. “I don’t know why you allowed me to go into medicine, mom.”

“You always say that before exams, and yet you still ace them, darling.” you pointed out with a small smirk. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll be fine!”

Keiko groaned. “That’s because I have no choice! Do you know how terrifying my professor is? He once failed half the class just because we didn’t label a diagram properly.”

Kenshin, sitting across from you with his arms lazily draped over the back of his chair, scoffed. “Oh, please. That’s nothing compared to the nonsense I have to deal with on campus. Just today, there was a full-blown argument in the student lounge over whose turn it was to clean the microwave. People were picking sides like it was a war.” 

“You’re not serious, are you?” Keiko raises a brow.

“I’m not.” He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his iced coffee. “Honestly, some people have way too much free time.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Sounds like college politics at its finest.”

Kenshin smirked. “You have no idea. Someone even made a PowerPoint presentation about it.”

Keiko nearly choked on her drink. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

As they continued bickering, you could only stare at your children warmly. They were just the same as when they were children. Keiko berating Kenshin for not stepping up as a responsible adult and Kenshin arguing that getting involved in petty campus feuds was beneath him. 

You let out a small soundless chuckle as you leaned back in your chair, letting the warmth of the café and their familiar voices wash over you. For the first time in a long time, you felt something resembling peace.

And then you heard it.

The click of a camera. 

The murmur of a voice. 

And when you glanced over your shoulder — there they were. 

You knew who they were, their faces, those paparazzi.

You froze, your heart plummeting into your stomach. They hadn’t approached yet. Still, you could see them as they linger by the wide entrance, but you could already feel it coming. The tension, the invasion, the violation of privacy. You turned back to your kids, forcing a smile.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” you muttered. “Let’s just finish our food.”

But it wasn’t fine. Because not two minutes later, one of them got bold enough to approach your table. A man, mid-thirties, camera slung around his neck, his phone already recording. And the second he opened his mouth, you knew.

“Excuse me, ma’am—”

You could see Kenshin’s jaw tensed. 

Keiko’s entire jubilation just harshly fell.

You swallowed the bile down your throat.

“—Any comments about your husband, veteran actor Kento Nanami’s alleged affair? How do you feel about the reports claiming he’s been seeing another woman?”

Your heart stopped at the sudden question. You felt as though you could not move, your mouth open and shaking. And before you could even process what was happening, another reporter swooped in around you. Only this time a woman, shoving her phone practically in your face, making you uncomfortable and disturbed.

“Is it true you’ve known about his infidelity for years?” she pressed. “Is that why you’ve been absent from events lately? Have you separated from him, mam?”

Your daughter’s hand shot out. “Back off, already!” she snapped, her voice shaking. “She’s with her kids, leave her alone.”

But they didn’t care about all that.

“Ma’am, are you considering divorce?”

“Do your kids know about their father’s alleged mistress?”

“Is it true he cheated on you after you had your second child?”

Your breath was strangled in your throat. Your ears were ringing. It felt like the ground was collapsing beneath your feet. And the worst part was that your kids were right there, helplessly fending off all these people. 

Kenshin was still so young but he was already dealing with the weight of being Kento Nanami’s son ever since he was announced to the world. And now, he was dealing with worse than that as he was staring hard at the table,.

His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Keiko, who was barely an adult herself, looked seconds away from either crying or throwing her drink in one of their faces.

And you, well you always did what you did.

You faced your children well and fully smiled.

Like you always did, you wore the mask.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, about me.” you said softly, reaching out to squeeze your son’s wrist. “Let’s just go home, alright?”

You stood up, taking your things as you continued hearing all the flurry of shutters and the murmurs of there she goes, she’s not denying it, she’s making it easy for us—but you didn’t flinch at what they were saying, no. Not one bit. You didn’t break. You kept your head high, your hands steady, your expression calm.

And as you pushed through the crowd of photographers with your two kids at your side, you heard one of them call out to you: “Mrs. Nanami, if you really don’t care, why haven’t you left him yet?”

That was the question that stayed with you all day. You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn around, didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, you just gripped your son’s wrist, wrapped an arm around your daughter’s shoulder, and walked straight to your car. The cameras were still flashing. The questions were still being thrown.

"Mrs. Nanami, can you confirm if the affair has been going on for years?"

"Are you planning to divorce him now that it’s public?"

"Do you have anything to say to the other woman?"

Keiko suddenly cursed under her breath and huffed, “Fucking vultures, the lot of them.” 

“How the fuck did they find this place? We’re out of the Tokyo Metro!” Kenshin screeched, agitation all over his face. “Have they no shame?”

You purse your lips into a flat line. “.....Language.”

“Mom, this is not the time to correct us.” Keiko says in reply to you. “I’m sorry, but I just….”

You just let your eyes stray somewhere else as you watched as she practically shoved her brother into the backseat and slammed the door shut. You took a breath before you opened the door and slowly slid into the driver’s seat, your fingers trembling so hard it took you three tries to get the key in the ignition.

All the sudden, there it was — that silence. No one wanted to speak, not you or your kids. Nothing was left but painfully, deafeningly silent. You didn’t want this for them, not one bit.But the deluge was here and there was nothing that could be done about it.

And when you finally pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, your son broke the silence. “…Is it true?”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

“What they said, about dad.” his voice cracked. “Did he cheat on you?”

You froze. In the rearview mirror, you could see the contortion on your son’s face. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking, his fists curled in his lap like he was trying to hold himself together. 

And your daughter Keiko, she was already looking at you, hot tears burning those furiously passionate eyes. It was as if she had already put the pieces together, even without you saying anything. As if they already both know what was going on, just by looking you in the eyes.

It was hard to look at your children at times, even when they were babies. It was hard to see the features of the man you loved, the man who hurt you, the man who had ruined you — in such innocent faces you had brought into this world. You knew Kento would say something different, he would say that the kids took after you more than him. 

Yet you knew your children. Perhaps even better than he did. You had carried them in the depths of your body, endured the endless toil of raising them, and nearly died bringing them into the world. You knew them in ways he never could. And yet, they looked so much like him. Too much like him.

The memories were as vivid as if they had happened just yesterday. You remembered lying there on the hospital bed, blood pooling beneath you, the echoes of voices rising and falling in through the wide expanse of the room.

Remove it. No, don’t do it—she’ll die. Over and over again, a fevered haze of desperation. You understood what they meant. And in that moment, you wished they had done it. That they had let you go. That they had spared you from this suffering.

But they didn’t. You lived. And Kento was relieved. You knew that much.

Three pregnancies in twenty-five years. And yet, Kento had only been there for Keiko’s birth. He had wanted to be there, perhaps, but he couldn’t. Work had taken him out of the country.

It left you alone in that sterile hospital room, your five-year old daughter by your side, holding your hand with small, trembling fingers. And then the third, you were with your grown children, making sure you were alright as you sat there, finally losing the ability to bear the children.

Maybe that was why this was unbearable. You suffered quite a lot. Loving your children, loving your husband. This is why the weight of it threatens to crush you now. You held it in for so long. And you had lost all ability to let it stay here, dwelling contentment. 

You wanted to break down, to tell the truth, to let the words spill free. But you couldn’t. You weren’t ready. You wanted to cling to the lie just a little longer. To lose yourself in the illusion, to drown in it, and never face reality.

God knows, you wanted to say no to them right at this moment. You wanted to tell them that it was all a fabrication, that their father, the man they had loved and looked up to their whole lives, was not the man the media was painting him out to be. He was not the person they had long loved for all their lives. Yet you wanted to protect them, the same way you always had. But you couldn’t.

Because the truth sat there like a bitter pill in your throat and you had already swallowed it once. You had long swallowed it and dealt with it. And that truth was crawling out of your throat, brutishly, wantonly, eagerly. You cannot keep it deep inside for much longer. You fixed the rear view mirror and finally met their eyes. You took a sharp breath.

“…Yes.” You finally say to them. “It’s true.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The way their eyes surged with such devastation.

You didn’t want to ever see it again like that.

But god only knows that this will be all there is in their eyes.

Keiko’s face crumpled, like she had just been punched in the gut. “Oh my god…mom, you….”

Kenshin let out this strangled, bitter laugh — like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So it’s true, then. Those blind items from the past few years.” he muttered. “Dad’s a fucking cheater. A constant one at that.”

“Watch your mouth, Kenshin.” you tried to say — but your voice cracked. “You can’t just keep—”

“No, seriously, mom.” he scoffed, his voice laced with something ugly. “How long? Huh? How long has he been screwing around and doing this to you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “…I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie.” Keiko says, her voice cracking. “Just….tell us the truth mom.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped, finally turning around in your seat to look at him. “I don’t know how long it’s been, okay? I found out years ago and—”

“Years?”

Kenshin’s face twisted at your slip up. It was like you had just physically slapped him across the face. Keiko gasped out loud, breathing out like she had no air in her lungs. You rested your head on the leatherbound headrest, closing your eyes. 

“You mean he’s been doing this since we were kids?”

Keiko covered her mouth with her hand, tears already falling as she looked out the window, trying to keep a grip on reality. “Oh my god, what…..” she whispered again. “Mom, why didn’t you leave him? Why didn’t you tell us?”

And that…. that was the question that cut through you the deepest. Why hadn’t you left him? Why did you stay when you found that first message? Why did you stay when he came home smelling like perfume that wasn’t yours? 

Why did you stay when you’d hear him in the bathroom, late at night, whispering to someone who wasn’t you? Why did you stay when every kiss, every touch, every moment of intimacy started to feel manufactured?

Yet, you already knew the answer.

And your kids probably also knew.

Because you still loved the bastard.

Even now, even after everything — you still loved Nanami Kento. How can you just erase such a love that has festered for almost all of your life in an instant? How do you undo every bit of your emotions and your laughter and your memories in that moment of grief? 

As much as you hated him for what he did, you still loved him. Even if it was bitterly so, you loved him. It was the two sides of the same coin. Love and hatred, bleeding into one another until you couldn’t tell them apart. 

They’ve become the same thing to you over time. They’ve become inseparable, untainted and dirty all at once. And the thought of walking away, of destroying your family, of breaking your kids' hearts — all of it just felt like an agony you weren’t sure you could bear.

“…I stayed because I loved him, you know that.” you finally whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And because I thought… I thought it would get better. I thought if I loved him hard enough, if I forgave him, he’d come back to me. I thought……” Your voice cracked. “…I thought he still loved me the way he used to.”

Silence.

And then, your son let out the bitterest laugh you’d ever heard in your life.

Keiko narrowed her tearful face at her brother. “Kenshin, stop. Mom’s upset!”

“Well mom, congratulations.” he said hollowly, staring out the window. “Guess you were wrong about it all. Because if dad loved you, loved us, he wouldn’t have done this.”

His words cut deep through you. They hurt more than anything. Because you knew that was the truth. And you had been avoiding it for so long, that you were a fool. A girl was a foolish little child, but the woman is even more of a beautiful little fool, even more than a child, truly. Because when she continues to love a man who doesn’t love her truly, she is just never going to learn.

Later that night, your kids didn’t talk to Kento. Not once. They just refused to. When he got home from work, exhausted and carrying the same tension he always did, he expected the usual — a quiet dinner, maybe some small talk before you both retreated to your separate corners of the house. 

Instead, your son walked right past him without a word. Your daughter didn’t even look at him.

You just stood in the kitchen, pretending to wash dishes like you hadn’t just destroyed your children’s entire worldview of the life they had known that morning.

Kento frowned, setting his keys down. “…Did something happen?”

You didn’t even turn around. “No.”

But your voice was hollow. Detached. And Kento could feel it. He was perceptive, so he knew. He knew that there was a shift, that there is a heavy weight, the unspoken heaviness that settled over the house like a death sentence.

When the kids had gone to bed and Kento finally pulled you aside, his voice strained  “What’s going on?” he demanded softly. “Why won’t they talk to me?”

You smiled bitterly. “They know, Kento.”

You could sense that in that moment, his blood froze. “…What?”

You finally turned to face him and for the first time in years, you didn’t hide the devastation in your face. “Your cheatin’ heart, Kento.” you said quietly. “They know.”

Kento’s face was completely drained of color. “…How?”

You scoffed. “The paparazzi followed us all day and showed up at the cafe we go to, the one outside Tokyo Metro. They started asking questions and the kids….they just figured it out.”

Nanami Kento just stood there, all too pale like a sheet and all too silent like a devious saint. Like the weight of his own sins had finally come crashing down on him. And for the first time in twenty five years, you saw something in his caramel eyes you had never seen before.

Fear. Because now, it wasn’t just you who knew about his infidelity. It was his kids, the kids who viewed him for so long to be their beloved father, the man who could do no wrong in their eyes. And they wanted nothing to do with him.

YOU HAD DONE ALL YOU COULD, YOU HAD TRIED. You tried to do what you could to deescalate the situation burning into disaster in your once peaceful home. Your hands trembled as you set down the untouched cup of tea, its warmth doing nothing to ease the cold creeping into your bones. The air between you and Kento was thick with unspoken words, tension stretching like a wire on the verge of snapping.

Despite the suffocating ache in your chest, despite the bile that burned your throat every time you looked at him, despite the way your children couldn't even stand to be in the same room as their father. You wanted to do what you could to settle this properly.

“Kento.” you finally said, voice hoarse from too many nights spent crying in silence. “We can’t keep doing this.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if you were just another problem on his never-ending list. “Then what do you suggest?” His tone was controlled, but you could hear the exhaustion beneath it.

You glanced toward the staircase, where you knew your children were hiding just out of sight, pretending not to hear. You couldn’t blame them. How could they bear to watch the man they once admired turn into someone they no longer recognized?

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “But this... this isn’t working. We’re tearing everything apart.”

Kento’s gaze flickered toward the family portrait still hanging on the wall, the one taken before everything fell apart. He scoffed, a bitter smile playing at his lips. “You say that, but we both know the truth.”

Your fingers curled into fists on your lap. “And what truth is that?”

“That you’re never going to leave me.”

A shiver ran down your spine, not because his words were untrue—but because they were devastatingly accurate. He knew it all too well. No matter how unbearable things had become, no matter how deep the wounds ran, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away. And that was exactly why you were both still stuck in this. A war neither of you had the strength to end.

The next few days were even more unbearable than the other days that had come to pass. Your son Kenshin didn’t even come down for breakfast, he refused to do so. Meanwhile Keiko, your daughter sat at the table, silently scrolling through her phone, pretending like her father didn’t exist. 

Kento looked wrecked about all of it. He was pale, sleepless, disheveled. A far cry from the man who once carried the aura of effortless grace and unwavering composure on stage and on film, now looked like a ghost in his own home, a ghost no one wanted to interact with.

“…Good morning.” he tried to say to her.

Silence. “…Did you sleep well?”

Your daughter didn’t even glance up.

Kento looked desperate to have an interaction with your only daughter. He looked like a drowning man gasping for air. His hands were practically trembling as he tried to pour himself a cup of coffee, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“…I’m heading to the studio later. Filming should wrap early so maybe I can pick you up—”

“Dad, please stop.” your daughter interrupted, cold and bitter. “You don’t have to tell us where you’re going. We don’t care.”

Kento pursed his lips in a flat line. “.....I see.”

You saw it. The way his face crumpled, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying so hard not to break in front of his own daughter. And despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the infidelity, despite the years of suffering — your heart still aches for him. So you did the only thing you could.

“…Honey, not right now.” you said softly, giving your daughter a pointed look. “Don’t be rude at the breakfast table.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” she laughed bitterly, snapping as she slammed her phone down on the table. “I’m being rude? To him?”

“Watch your tone—”

“No! No, I’m not watching my tone!” she spat. “You’re really just gonna sit here and pretend like everything’s fine? Like he didn’t cheat on you for years and years and that we’re all just gonna move on and are just supposed to have breakfast like normal?”

You flinched. “Keiko, look….”

“I don’t want you to keep making excuses for him, mom! Goddamn it!”

Kento’s breath hitched. “…Sweetheart, don’t scream at your mother—”

“Don’t call me that, you damn cheater.” she bit out, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to call me that. Not after what you did to Mom. Not after you lied to all of us for years—”

“I never—”

“Yes, you did!” she shouted, rising to her feet. “You cheated on her, Dad! Over and over again, and you let her suffer in silence, and you thought we wouldn’t find out! After all, you put her through? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Enough, stop. Please.” you finally snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “That’s enough, both of you.”

Your daughter turned on you, her face twisted in disbelief. “Are you seriously defending him right now, mom?”

“No, darling, I’m not.” you whispered, your voice hollow. “Believe me, I’m not. I’m just trying to keep this family from completely falling apart.”

Kento looked at you like you had just thrown him a lifeline. Despite it all, you were still to keep his relationship with your children amiable. Even now — after everything — you were still trying to hold everything together. Trying to keep your family intact. Trying to keep the peace. Trying to keep your kids from completely hating their father.

And you hated yourself for it.

He knew you hated yourself for it.

But you hated separation more.

That, you hate about yourself too.

“…I’m going to my room and pack. I can’t do this.” your daughter spat bitterly, grabbing her phone. “I’m going back to my apartment.”

And just like that, she was gone. The silence that followed was suffocating. Kento’s hands were trembling. His throat was visibly working, his face practically drained of color. And your son, he still hadn’t come downstairs. He probably wouldn’t. He would probably go back to his dorms tonight too. You already knew. Kento already knew.

Your heart clenched as you watched your daughter storm up the stairs, her hurried footsteps echoing through the house. You wanted to call her back, to say something, anything, that might make her stay. But what was left to say? You could feel her slipping away, just like everything else. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Kento exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have stopped her.”

You turned to him sharply, eyes flashing with something dangerously close to resentment. “Don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m just saying—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Kento.” You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear anything from you right now.”

A flicker of something that crossed his face. You tried to name it. Regret, guilt, or maybe just exhaustion, but you couldn’t. After that, your husband didn’t argue. He only nodded, rubbing at his temple as if the weight of this entire mess sat squarely on his shoulders alone. As if you weren’t both drowning in it.

The sound of a suitcase zipping shut upstairs made you flinch. A part of you wanted to chase after her, to beg her to stay. But another part, the part that was just so damn tired, knew that maybe this was for the best for your children for now. 

“I’ll drive her back, mom.” your son said quietly, standing near the doorway. You hadn’t even realized he was there. “....We’ll talk to you when we get back to Bunkyo.”

Your gaze softened. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets, as he disappeared towards the steps of your massive stairway. “Yeah, I do. Please don’t worry about us, okay? Just give us space for now.”

You let out a slow, shuddering breath, your hands shaking as you rubbed at your face. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Kento sighed. “I know.”

You finally looked at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you?”

Because if he truly did, then why were you still here? Why were you still trying to stitch together something that had long since been torn apart? Why were you still afraid to let go? What do you seek to gain about staying here?

“…I’m sorry. I just…..” Kento finally choked out, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You hated how your body still responded to his pain. You hated how, even now, you could feel your heart ache for him, even after everything. But you do, you feel compassion for the man who had ruined you. 

“…I know,” you finally whispered.

Kento swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Do you… do you want me to leave?”

And that — that was the worst part. Because the answer was yes. You wanted him to leave. You wanted him out of your house, out of your life, out of the gaping wound he had carved into your chest. You wanted to be free of him, free of the suffocating burden of being the wife he had repeatedly betrayed.

But you couldn’t say it at all.

Because you still loved him.

And you hated yourself for it.

“…No.” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Nanami Kento completely broke. He surged toward you, his hands clutching your face like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. Like you were the only thing keeping him from giving up and letting all the punishments come without hope.

“I’ll fix it.” he choked out, his voice wrecked with desperation. “I’ll fix everything. I swear to god, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right. Just — please don’t give up on me. Please don’t leave me.”

You just stood there, embraced by this touch, unmoving as his heat continued to permeate your skin, the very skin you didn’t want him to burn even more. Still so empty, so hollow. Trying so hard not to collapse beneath the weight of it all. You stared at him for a good moment.

“…I already gave up on trying to let you fix things, Kento.” you whispered. “A long time ago. Because not even gold can fix these broken pieces and continue to be beautiful.”

You saw it in his eyes.

He knew those words to be true.

And he still wasn’t letting you go.

Kento’s grip on you tightened.

“No.” he croaked, his voice cracking with raw, desperate agony. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t give up on me. You wouldn’t still be here if you did.”

And fuck, you hated how his words still held power over you. You hated how he could still reach into the hollowed-out pit of your chest and stir something. Because he was right. You hadn’t left. You should have. But you didn’t.

“…I didn’t leave because of our kids.” you tell him almost too bitterly, your voice shaking. “Not because of you. Just because I still love you doesn’t mean I was willing to stay because of it. I stayed because you are still their father. That is all.”

Kento flinched. His face crumpled. His hands trembled as they cupped your face even closer to his, like he was desperately trying to ground himself in your presence. You tried to move away from him, but you knew you couldn’t.

You try and avoid his gaze instead, yet even in that you failed. He wanted to see you, all of you. In that brokenness, in that emptiness, in that hatred, in that toxic love. He wanted it all, until nothing was left.

“But you still love me.” he rasped, his voice raw. “I know you do.”

 “…Don’t.” you choked, trying to pull away. You hated him for saying it out loud. “Don’t do this to me.”

But he wouldn’t let you, not now when this is the only time he could truly hold something so tangible of you. His hands tightened, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you. His breath was shallow, his face devastated.

“You do.” he whispered. “I can see it. Every day. You still look at me like you love me. You still stay—”

“Because I’m stupid, Kento!” you snapped, finally ripping yourself out of his grasp. “Because I’m a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to walk away! You think that means anything?”

The look on his face, it absolutely destroyed you. Because for the first time — Nanami Kento really looked at you. Not like his wife. Not like the mother of his children. Not like the woman he had shared twenty years of his life with. But like a woman he had broken beyond repair.

“…I never stopped loving you, you know that.” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “Not once. Not even when I was being a piece of shit and — and sleeping with other women. I swear to god, baby, it was never because I didn’t love you. It was because I was drowning and I didn’t know how to—”

“Oh my god.” you laughed bitterly, actually laughing. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare make this about you, Kento. Don’t even….”

“I’m not.” he choked, his voice cracking. “I swear to god, I’m not. I just….I need you to understand. I was never looking for love. I was just….” his voice faltered, tears visibly burning his eyes.

“I was lonely, baby. You hated me. You didn’t touch me. You didn’t look at me like you loved me anymore. And I….I was so fucking weak. I was weak and I hurt you, and I hate myself every day for it—”

“Stop it. Not another word, you stupid fuck.” you spat, your voice shaking. “Stop talking.”

But he didn’t stop there.

“I love you, you know that.” he begged, his voice cracking. “I still love you. I never stopped. Please don’t let this be the end of us, baby. Please — please fight for us—”

And you lost it.

“Fight for us?” you screamed, your entire body shaking with rage. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty five fucking years, Kento? I fought for us when you left me alone with a newborn! Twice!"

You were so clear to his face now. "I nearly fucking died giving birth to your children. They nearly removed my uterus three times, including with the last miscarriage I had. And even with that, I was fucking alone!”

You stopped for a moment to try and steady yourself, but you were so exasperated. You gripped your hair, your face, your neck like you were possessed, like you had become a maddened woman who had lost all sense of reality. And then you screamed, and screamed. With the agony of a woman who has nothing left to give, nothing left to have.

“I could have been someone, Kento. I could have been more than someone’s fucking wife.” You started to say, breathless and anguished, hitching your breath at each word.

“I could have been a world famous chemist, saving someone’s life with my work. I could have been travelling around the world and enjoying my life. But no, I loved you too much. And I loved you so much, I fucking let myself be a footnote so you could have a fucking life!”

“Babe, please—”

“I fought for us when I had to pick myself up from postpartum depression alone! I fought for us when you cheated on me the first time — and the second time — and the third time! So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to keep fighting when I’ve been fighting alone for this fucking marriage for the past twenty five fucking years!”

Kento stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, his breathing ragged. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, to pull you into his arms like he used to, back when love still felt like something tangible between you. But you weren’t that woman anymore. You weren’t the one who softened at his touch, who forgave with nothing more than a tired sigh and an aching heart. Not this time.

“You don’t get to beg now,” you seethed, voice still trembling. “You don’t get to cry now, Kento.”

The room felt too small, too suffocating, as if the weight of all the years, all the pain, all the silent suffering had condensed into this moment, crushing you from the inside out. Your nails dug into your scalp as you tried to steady yourself, but it was useless. 

The rage, the grief, the betrayal—it was a storm that had been brewing for years, and now it was here, tearing through you without mercy. Kento took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching for you, but you recoiled violently, like his touch would burn you alive. 

“Don’t.” you spat, your voice raw. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

His shoulders slumped, his face crumpling with something akin to regret, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to fix everything that had been broken. Not after everything. Not after all he had done to you. 

“I—I know I failed you.” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I let you down. But I swear, I never wanted—”

“You never wanted what?” You laughed then, a hollow, broken sound that sent a chill through the room. “You never wanted to hurt me? To break me? To leave me alone while I bled, while I begged for you to just be there?”

He flinched like you had slapped him, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Do you know what it’s like, Kento?” you continued, voice trembling with emotion. “To cry alone in a hospital room after losing a baby we created? To be told I might never have another child while you were off doing god knows what in your movie sets? Do you know what it’s like to sit across from your husband at the dinner table, knowing he’s slept with someone else but still pretending like everything is fine—for the sake of your kids?”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “No. You don’t. Because you never had to. You had the privilege of being the one who could walk away whenever it got too hard. And I was the idiot who stayed.”

Nanami Kento paled, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t help but flinch, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Your vision blurred with tears, but you refused to let them fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

What could he say? What excuse could possibly justify the years of neglect, the betrayals, the loneliness he had forced upon you while expecting you to bear the weight of it all? Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your vision blurred with rage and grief. 

Your fingers dug into your scalp, your nails pressing against your skin as if you were trying to physically hold yourself together. The room felt too small, the air too thick, like it was suffocating you over and over.

“You say you love me. Over and over.” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “But love isn’t fucking leaving. Love isn’t lying. Love isn’t cheating. Love isn’t making me feel like I was never enough.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling with the force of your fury. “And I was enough, Kento. I was enough. You just never fucking saw it.”

Kento’s breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I do see it, baby.” he murmured, his voice raw. “I see it now.”

You shook your head, a sad, broken smile tugging at your lips. “Too fucking late.”

The look in your face killed you. He saw that agony for the first time in your long marriage together. The mask had all but slipped off. Nothing was left to pretense now. He has to understand now, and he does. He looks like he does. 

You had given him everything. Your body. Your youth. Your dream. Your career. Your life. And in return, he had given you nothing that had made you feel like this reality he had given you. Because with all those promises given and broken, all he had given you in the end was nothing but heartbreak.

“…I’m sorry.” he finally rasped, his voice shattered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

And you just laughed. Bitterly. “Sorry doesn’t fix twenty years of betrayal, Kento. You’ve already killed me, long ago. You can’t fix what has already been slaughtered.”

“I know that.” he choked, his breath hitching. “I know it doesn’t. But please — please don’t leave me. Please don’t take our family away from me. I need you.”

You just broke down right in front of him then and there. This was the worst part. This outburst, this breakdown, this long awaited grief exploding right in front of him still means nothing at all. Because you still loved him. 

You still loved him like you did when you were twenty and pregnant and terrified. You still loved him like you did when he kneeled beside you and begged you to apply to university. You still loved him like you did when he promised to give you a beautiful life before he destroyed it. And you hated yourself for it.

“…I’m not leaving, I already told you that.” you finally rasped, your voice hollow.

Kento’s entire body visibly crumpled with relief. He sagged forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his entire body trembled. “Oh my god, thank god—”

You moved to the cabinet, trying to search for the cigarette. When you found it and took it, you could feel your hands shaking so badly that the flame flickered unsteadily, barely catching the end of the cigarette. You inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke burn your lungs, anything to distract you from the suffocating weight in your chest.

Kento watched you, still hunched over, his breath uneven, his hands gripping his knees like they were the only things holding him together. His body trembled, wracked with relief, but his relief was nothing compared to the exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders.

You had given him what he wanted, his dream.

Not love. Not forgiveness. But the simple fact that you were still here.

The cigarette bobbed between your lips as you exhaled, the smoke curling around you like ghosts of all the words you wanted to say but never would. You stared at him, your expression unreadable, and for the first time, Nanami Kento looked small.

He was so much smaller than the man you had once adored, the man who used to tower over you with quiet strength. Now, he was nothing more than a man drowning in the mess he made, clinging to you like you were a life raft in the middle of a raging sea. And maybe you were. Maybe that was the most tragic part of it all.

“You think this is relief, don’t you?” you murmured, watching the way his breath hitched at your words. “You think I’m staying because I still have hope for us.”

He lifted his head slightly, blinking at you with bloodshot eyes, as if he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t deny it either. “I….I do.”

You took another drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. “But that’s not it, Kento. That’s not it at all.”

 “Then why?” His voice was desperate, strained, like he was afraid to hear the answer.

You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the air. “Because I don’t know how to leave. Not anymore……Isn’t that a tragedy?”

Silence. Perhaps with all the things you have said just now, it was the most honest thing you had said to him in years. Kento inhaled sharply, his hands gripping his knees even tighter, his knuckles turning white. 

You could see the pain in his face, the way your words hit him like a physical blow. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to convince you otherwise. Because deep down, he knew it too. You weren’t staying out of love. You were staying because you had forgotten what life looked like without him.

YOU WILL NEVER GET USED TO THIS LIFE HE HAD FORCED ON YOU. The flashing lights had long since stopped making you flinch. The murmurs, the whispers, the hushed speculations that followed you wherever you went, those had become background noise. You were used to the weight of their stares, the scrutiny that came with your name, your existence.

But that didn’t mean you liked it. You had never wanted this. You had never asked to be someone the world felt entitled to watch, to judge, to pick apart piece by piece. Your name wasn’t just yours anymore, it was something the media used for headlines, something the public devoured like vultures picking at a fresh carcass.

And yet, this was your reality. This was the life you had been forced into, no matter how much you resented it. It didn’t matter if you stayed or if you left—your story would never truly be yours again. You would always be his wife, his scandal, his mistake. But perhaps that was where your power lay.

If the world insisted on keeping you in its grasp, then fine. You would let them have you, but only on your terms. Perhaps it was cruel, but Kento had given you this power the moment he destroyed you and your entire marriage in front of the world to see.

The moment he had made you a household name not for your accomplishments, but for your suffering and your grief, he had no other choice but to surrender. He had taken everything from you. Your peace, your privacy, your dignity and now, it was only fair that you took something in return.

His control.

So when the cameras flashed and reporters screamed your name, you stood taller. When the world speculated about the state of your marriage, you gave them only what you wanted them to see. When Nanami Kento stood beside you, silent and obedient, you made sure it was clear to everyone, he was the one following your lead now.

This was the price of his betrayal.

And he had no choice but to pay it.

That was your quid pro quo after all.

The award show was about to start and it was already damned and brutal, suffocating you whole. You were swallowed by all these smiling faces under the bright lights, overwhelmed by the cameras flashing as their loud voices asked you to pose. 

Hundreds of people dressed in their finest, smiling like their lives were perfect. 

Like nothing in this despotic life had fallen apart behind closed doors. 

You were draped in a designer dress Kento’s stylist had picked for you. Something black, sleek, elegant, like you had asked. It was a beautiful dress, it looked well on you as it expressed the boldness of your assets, still unchanged from the moment Kento had introduced you to this world. 

Yet, people whispered too well as they moved away from you. They think it was some sort of funeral dress, and in some ways they were right. You were mourning a death, you were mourning multiple, if you were being honest. Yet, you did not say a word. Instead, you smiled like your life depended on it.

On your arm was your husband, Nanami Kento, a veteran actor of thirty odd years, who was about to receive one of the highest honors of the night. And everyone was watching you. Because this was your first public appearance since the scandal broke.

You could feel it all coming down on you. The stares, the whispers, the flashing cameras catching every angle of your face. Your fingers curled around Kento’s arm, but it wasn’t out of affection. It was out of necessity. Because if you let go, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you anymore.

Kento’s hand covered yours, his grip desperately tight. Like he knew — he fucking knew — you didn’t want to be here. But he asked you to come over and over again, even when you said no. It got to the point that he was begging on his knees as you stood before him.

“Please.” he’d whispered last night, his voice cracking. “I know you hate me. I know you don’t want to be seen with me, but please… please just come. Let them see that you’re still here. I can’t do this alone.”

Still, you had stood there, unmoving, arms crossed over your chest as you stared down at the man who had once sworn to protect you but had done nothing but destroy you. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him, his forehead pressing against your stomach as he whispered broken apologies into the fabric of your shirt.

“I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you,  baby.” he had murmured, voice hoarse from exhaustion, from guilt, from the weight of all the ways he had failed you. “But I—I need you.”

You had inhaled sharply, closing your eyes as the familiar ache in your chest grew heavier. “You need me?” The bitterness in your voice was sharp enough to cut. “Where was that need when I was begging you to come home? When I was drowning in loneliness, in grief, in everything you left me with?”

Kento had squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening as if he was afraid you would slip through his fingers. “I know.” he whispered. “I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But please… just this once, please help me.”

And fuck, maybe you were still too weak to say no to him. You had wanted to say no. God, you had wanted to let him suffer, to let him face the mess he created on his own. But deep down, you knew the truth. So here you were. Standing beside him like the perfect wife.

And then you saw her.

Fushiguro Toji’s wife.

And she was staring back at you.

A very prominent and established veteran actress, someone who’s won award after award. Just like that husband of hers, who stood beside her. She was gorgeous, vivacious and vibrant. She was the kind of woman who naturally commanded the attention of a room. 

Your husband worked with her a long while ago, well multiple times. The most prominent was that film they did in Paris, that film which encapsulated your marriage to bits. When you watched it the first time, you tried to imagine yourself as her, as that actress. And honestly, you cried. For a long while, you did.

But you know her more than that, you like to think. You knew her as someone who without a doubt had an affair with your husband for a long while. It was so obvious to you. She was bright as a starlight and she was incredible, everything you had been so long ago. 

Perhaps that was what attracted your husband to her in the first place. She was an escape from the misery you were. She represented the spirit of the woman you used to be. You and her all the same, were the other woman. 

You had already known and yet, she had come to you and told you. It was the first time you had ever found yourself in contact with her.  She had messaged you, five years ago. Over text, and what she wrote was a one line apology.

“I’m sorry. I broke it off with him. It will never happen again.”

And you never forgot her because of that.

She was the only one who had ever apologized.

She was the only one who truly meant it.

So when her eyes finally caught yours across the room, you quickly felt it. The sharp, sudden guilt that flashed through her expression. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something to you but you didn’t give her the chance. 

Instead, you smiled. You smiled, let go of Kento’s arm, not replying to Kento as he asked you where you were going. You merely walked straight toward her, not caring for anything else. And her face visibly crumpled at the sight of you getting closer.

“…I’m sorry, I am so…I am so sorry, Mrs. Kento.” she blurted, the second you were within earshot. Her voice cracked. “God…. I’m so sorry. I never….I never wanted to be a part of your misery. I swear. I didn’t know—”

And you just stared at her. You could feel Kento’s burning gaze from behind you. There was panic, desperation, guilt blending in his eyes. But you ignored him. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, your voice cold and unwavering.

“…It’s not your fault.”

The woman froze. “…What?”

The silence stretched between you like an open wound. It was obviously still raw, gaping, impossible to ignore. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The way her breath hitched, the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, the way her entire body seemed to shrink under the weight of your words. It was enough.

You knew that silence. You had lived in that silence. You had spent years drowning in it, in the unspoken guilt that was never yours to carry, in the suffocating weight of a love that had never been real to begin with.

“…Yeah.” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Same here.”

She exhaled sharply, like your words had knocked the air right out of her lungs. You could see the cracks forming in her carefully constructed composure, in the way her lips trembled, in the way she refused to look at her husband.

Fushiguro Toji—her wonderful husband, her loyal partner—was still laughing with Kento, pretending this wasn’t happening between the two of you. Still pretending he wasn’t the reason his wife was standing here, breaking apart in real-time.

You followed her gaze as it flickered towards her own husband, watched as her face twisted into something painful, something angry, something exhausted. And suddenly, you recognize yourself in her.

You knew what it was like to stand on that edge, to realize that the life you thought you had was nothing but an illusion. To realize that the man you had built your world around had done nothing but use you, lie to you, break you.

The only difference between you and her was simple.

You weren’t that woman anymore.

You had already been shattered. 

You had already lived through the aftermath.

But her?

She was just beginning to fall apart.

And when her eyes finally met yours again, glossy with unshed tears, you did something you never thought you’d do. You reached out and took her hand. She stiffened at first, startled, but then slowly, her fingers curled around yours.

Because in this moment, in this mess of betrayal and grief, there was only one person who understood what she was feeling. And it was you. Only a miserable woman like you would understand what it was like to feel this misery.

Tears visibly welled in her eyes, and she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something — but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, swallowing her apology over and over again like it would fix the past.

But it wouldn’t. And so, instead of dragging this conversation out, you simply leaned in — your voice so low, so sharp, it cut her to the bone. “…Do you still love him?” you asked quietly.

And her face was completely crumpled. 

Tears burned her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled.

Still, she opted to not say anything, she couldn’t.

She didn’t have to. Because you already knew. 

“…Yeah….” you exhaled bitterly, pulling away. “I get it.”

And before she could say another word, you turned around and walked straight back to Kento, your head high, your smile poised. Like you were completely unaffected. But you weren’t. And when Kento grabbed your waist. You looked up to him.

His voice was low and frantic as he asked, “What did she say to you?” 

You didn’t answer him.

You just smiled for the cameras.

And he didn’t force you anymore.

Instead, he smiled right beside you.

Because this was the life you chose to stay in. This is the life he chose to continue to live, even if there was nothing but bitterness left in it. This life is full of betrayal, broken promises, and a love that you couldn’t let go of, no matter how much it destroyed you.

The award show dragged on. You sat beside Kento, your fingers laced with his, as the ceremony went on like nothing had ever happened. Like you weren’t the wife of the man who humiliated you in front of the entire world. Like you hadn’t just spoken to one of the women he fucked. Like you weren’t suffocating under the weight of it all.

Kento wouldn’t stop looking at you. You could feel it, his gaze burning into the side of your face, his thumb nervously stroking the back of your hand, like he was trying to gauge if you were okay. Like he was praying you wouldn’t get up and walk out.

But you wouldn’t. You never did. And when they finally announced Kento’s name. They were honoring him with the Lifetime Achievement Award, for his influence in the industry after thirty years in the industry.

The entire room exploded in applause, like he wasn’t the current eye of criticism and controversy. You stood up with him, as you always did and you clapped. You continued to smile for the cameras like the perfect wife. 

Kento’s hand clutched yours, ever so desperately, so painfully tight like he was terrified of letting you go. And the moment he turned to you, full of emotion as he memorized your face. He could feel himself shaking, his voice cracking.

“I love you, baby.” he whispered, his eyes wild with emotion. “I mean that. I know I don’t deserve you. But I love you. Please believe me.”

And you smiled. The same cold, practiced smile you’d been perfecting for the last decade. “…Go get your award, Kento.”

And you swore for a brief, fleeting moment, you just watched how his face shattered at your words, full of utter devastation. But then the cameras were on him, and he had no choice but to let you go. So he did.

You watched him walk up the stage. Watched as the applause roared, watched as he smiled for the cameras, watched as they played a heartfelt montage of his three-decade career. And somewhere in the middle of it, you saw her once again.

Fushiguro Toji’s wife. No, no, she was more than that. She was herself an actress. You corrected it in your head. You didn’t want to treat her as just his wife. You shouldn’t treat her the way the rest of the world had treated you.

She was seated in the same row, just across from you. And she wasn’t watching Kento. She was watching you. Her eyes were still wet. Her face still crumpled with guilt after all this time, after you had already made peace with ehr. And when your gazes met — she mouthed it again.

“I’m sorry.”

And you didn’t respond. Because what was the point? She wasn’t the one you were married to. She wasn’t the one who destroyed you. She wasn’t the one who kissed you every morning and fucked other women at night.

Nanami Kento was.

And when his speech finally started, you couldn’t even hear it. His voice which was once so warm and electrifying was now just white noise to you. But then you caught the tail end of it, which you could hardly care for.

“…And lastly, to end this speech.” Kento’s voice cracked. “I… I need to thank my wife.”

The cameras immediately cut to you And you smiled for the camera, almost like an actress yourself. God, you smiled so beautifully. Like you weren’t dying inside.

“I know I’ve thanked my kids but this woman, right in front of you all, she’s the reason I’m here today.” Kento’s voice trembled. “Nearly twenty five years ago, she gave up her entire life for me. She put her dreams on hold, sacrificed her future, and stayed by my side, even when I didn’t deserve it.” 

His eyes burned as he looked right at you. “I caused her quite a lot of grief, with how long I was working and going on so many work trips over the years. She had to take care of everything, take care of our children, and me. And every single day… she still chooses to stay and continue to be the best of wives and the best of women.”

The crowd awed. 

That had irked you.

But you still smiled.

Kento’s voice cracked. “I don’t deserve her. I never did. But she’s the love of my life. And for as long as she’ll have me… I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her.”

The applause was thunderous. People around you stood. Clapped. Smiled. Because how beautiful this was. A broken marriage, no, the media’s framing it to be a tough road in the marriage, courtesy of Kento’s PR team. 

Somehow it’s working. He was standing before everyone else, a man still fighting to earn his wife’s love back. The cameras stayed on you longer than they should’ve, capturing the delicate tremble of your lips, the soft glassiness of your eyes.

Because they thought you were emotional.

But you weren’t, you really were not.

You were fucking numb, to all of it.

And the second Kento stepped off the stage, the award clutched tightly in his hands, he went straight to you. Dropped to his knees in front of you, in front of the entire goddamn audience, and clutched your waist like a dying man.

“I love you, so so much.” he choked, his voice desperate. “I mean it. I swear to god, I mean it.”

You just smiled. “…You did great, baby.” you whispered softly. 

Then you leaned down, kissed his forehead, and smiled for the cameras again. Because what else were you supposed to do? Expose him in front of millions of people? Walk out and confirm the rumors? Ruin the perfect facade he so carefully crafted for himself?

No. You did what you always did. You smiled. Stayed. Supported him. Because you were too far gone to leave. Because you wanted him to be eaten by that guilt. You wanted him to suffer. You wanted the world to know you loved him and how you were good, you were far too good for him. That you deserve so much better than him.

And Kento fucking knew it.

So when the show finally ended and you were walking hand-in-hand toward the exit — he kept glancing at you, like you were the only one in his world. Kept searching your face, like he was hoping for something. Forgiveness, maybe.

But you didn’t give it to him. That would be too easy. That would be too perfect. You didn’t want to give it and he knew that. Still, that was just how it was. You will remain married, he will remain miserable. So long as he has you by his side, so long as he can still be your husband.

And when you finally got in the car, the silence thick and suffocating, your husband Kento completely broke. He looked like he was losing it, feeling overwhelmed by everything that happened. Most especially because of her.

“…What did she say to you?” he asked hoarsely. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Toji’s wife. What did she say?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. “She said she was sorry.”

Kento’s jaw clenched. “For what?”

Your smile was cold. “For being a part of my misery.”

Silence.

Kento’s breathing visibly picked up. “…And what did you say?”

That was when you finally turned to him, your voice low, cold, dead. “I told her it wasn’t her fault,. you whispered. “I told her it was yours. It was her husband’s fault.”

Kento looked like you stabbed him in the throat. His knuckles cracked around the steering wheel, his throat working on nothing. “…Baby, please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you laughed bitterly. “Don’t tell the truth? Don’t say that you’re the reason I lost everything? That he’s the reason she lost everything?”

Kento completely broke. “Baby…..”

“No, no, you shut up.” you snapped, tears burning your throat. “You don’t get to tell me to stop. You don’t get to act like your little speech on stage fixes anything. You broke me, Kento. You fucking broke me. And the worst part? I’m still here.” Your voice cracked. “I’m still here. I never left. I’m too weak. Because I’m a fool.”

The silence in the car was suffocating. 

Kento didn’t speak.

You didn’t either.

Maybe that was for the best.

IT WAS ABOUT AN HOUR WHEN YOU GET TO THE AFTER PARTY VENUE. When you and Kento got out of the car, you were greeted with a warm welcome from the media, who continued to ask both of you for poses and pictures.

The flashing lights were blinding, the roar of the media an unrelenting tide of questions, camera shutters, and eager voices calling out your name.

"Over here!"

"You look stunning tonight!"

"Is it true you and Kento are working things out?"

"Can we get a shot of you both together?"

You plastered on a practiced smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and let them have their pictures. Kento, ever the professional, played his part seamlessly, still posing, signing autographs, offering polite nods and charming remarks while his hand remained firmly at the small of your back. His touch was warm, steady, familiar.

You hated it.

When it was finally time to go inside, you barely muttered a farewell to the crowd before stepping into the grand venue, the heavy doors closing behind you like a seal trapping you in a world you wanted no part of.

The afterparty was an explosion of extravagance. A crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling like frozen diamonds, casting a golden glow over the room. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the glittering Tokyo skyline, a breathtaking view wasted on you. 

Champagne flowed like water, clinking in the hands of celebrities who moved with an air of effortless luxury. The music pulsed, a deep bass vibrating through the very foundation of the building, weaving through the sound of laughter and conversation.

It was a world you had long grown accustomed to. And yet, you had never felt more out of place. You could barely register the greetings thrown your way, barely mustered the energy to return the air kisses and polite pleasantries. Your smile was mechanical, your laughter nonexistent.

Kento kept his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd as if you were still the couple everyone thought you were. As if nothing had changed. As if you weren’t suffocating in the very life he had built for you.

And that was the worst part, because nothing had changed. You were still here. Still standing beside him. Still pretending. Your throat tightened as you caught sight of the countless eyes on you. Some admiring, some curious, some scrutinizing, as if they could peel back the layers of your marriage with just a glance.

You inhaled deeply, trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

You just wanted to go home.

Kento turned to you, his face still shattered. “…Please don’t go far, baby.” His voice cracked. “Stay close to me tonight. Please.”

You didn’t even look at him. “…I’ll do what I want, Kento.”

But then you heard it.

“…She’s even prettier in person, isn’t she?” someone murmured. “Jesus, even with her age, she looks so good!”

“Oh my god, that’s her, isn’t it? Nanami Kento’s wife?”

“She still stayed after everything? Jesus.”

Your throat closed. 

“…I’d leave him. No fucking way I’d stick around after that.”

Your hands shook.

“Poor thing. You can see the misery on her face.”

That was when you broke. 

You turned sharply to Kento, your voice tight. “I need a minute.”

“Baby, please don’t—”

“I need a minute, Kento.”

And you walked off.

You weren’t even sure where you were going. And you didn’t care. All you needed was some fresh air right this instant.You needed to be somewhere that wasn’t suffocated by pitying eyes. You eventually found your way to a quiet balcony and you were two seconds away from crying again.

“…Hello?”

Your head snapped up.

And there he was.

Gojo Satoru.

One of the successful, most in-demand actors in the industry. Tall. Devastatingly handsome. A smile so sharp it could cut glass. You’d seen his face plastered across billboards, heard his name endlessly repeated on award circuits — but you’d never met him in person. You haven’t been introduced to him by Kento.

“…Yes?” you managed, still dazed.

“Sorry, I just—” He smirked as he gave you a once-over, like he was memorizing you. “I recognized you. And I figured it’d be rude not to say hello.”

You blinked. “You… recognized me?”

His smile widened. “Of course. You’re [last name] [name], aren’t you? And also Nanami Kento’s wife?” His head tilted, his voice dropping into something softer. “But  you know — I’ve actually known about you long before the scandal.”

Your stomach turned. “…What?”

Gojo’s gaze burned into you. “You went to Tokyo University, right? Studied chemistry?”

Your blood ran cold. “…How do you know that?”

The blue eyed man merely smiled at you. It was almost one which pretended to not be sly. And all at once genuine in its amusement. Like he was in on something you weren’t.You blinked at his reaction, as though you were trying to make sure it wasn’t just a haze of the moment. 

“…I have my sources.” He tells you, lowering his glasses, meeting his bright eyes. “Well, I doubt that matters, no?”

You stared. “I should like to hope it does, Mr. Gojo.”

“Oh, please, don’t call me Mr. Gojo. That’s my father! And I don't like that! Call me casually instead, like Satoru–kun or something!” He waves his hand at you, laughing. “And don’t worry. It’s not like I’m a stalker or anything.” 

“Isn’t that what a stalker would say…..Satoru–kun?” You say, your eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. “This feels unreal.”

He chuckled. “I just… heard a lot about you. Back then. Everyone did.”

Your stomach tightened. “…Why?”

All of a sudden, Gojo Satoru’s face shifted at your question. Just a little, as though he was a little sad. As though, he was upset that you would ask that question. All the sudden, he was carefully choosing his next words, still looking at you.

“…Because you were brilliant.” His voice was quieter now, less playful. “Top of your class. Always ahead in labs, in every recital, every presentation. Polished and precise. No one could keep up.” 

“That’s—”

“Everyone said you were gonna do something big in chemistry. Something revolutionary.” His eyes burned. “And then you became his stay at home wife, mother of his children. And you disappeared.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. For a moment, the party, the music, the laughter. All of it had gone and faded into static. The weight of Gojo Satoru’s words settled heavily on your chest, pressing down like an invisible force, one you had spent years trying to ignore.

And yet, here it was.

Here he was.

Dragging it all back to the surface. Your fingers curled at your sides as you studied him, trying to gauge his expression. He wasn’t mocking you. If anything, there was something almost… regretful in his gaze, something unbearably knowing.

You licked your lips, voice barely above a whisper. “…And what did they say after that?”

Satoru tilted his head slightly, a wry, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing that matters.”

“Everything else matters.”

“It doesn’t if it’s not praising the woman you are.” He says to you, smiling wider. “You deserve better than that, don’t you, [last name]-san.”

Your breath hitched. Gojo Satoru stood before you, watching you with an intensity that made your chest feel too tight, like he could see right through you. Like he wasn’t just looking at the woman you were now, but the woman you used to be. The woman you were supposed to have become.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, nails digging into your palm. Everything else matters. That was what you had told him. That was what you had always believed. Because even the whispers, the pitying murmurs of what a waste and she had so much potential. 

They mattered too. They had cut into you like tiny, invisible blades over the years, leaving scars that no one could see. And now, here was Gojo Satoru, brushing them off like they were nothing. Like the only thing that should matter was you.

Your mouth felt dry. “That’s easy for you to say.”

He let out a small chuckle, but it was humorless. “Yeah. It is.” His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. I never am.”

You blinked, searching his face for something. For mockery, pity, some sign that this was just another conversation to him. But all you saw was sincerity. A quiet, unwavering belief in his own words. A belief in you. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you looked away. “Well… It doesn’t change anything.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head. “Maybe not.” 

“But–”

Then, after a pause, he added, “But it should.”

You swallowed, a bitter taste lingering at the back of your throat. “What do you mean by that?”

“It means exactly what it does. It should change.”

"It should?" you echoed, forcing out a dry laugh. "What exactly should it change, Satoru–kun?"

His bright eyes flickered, studying you carefully. “You tell me.”

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t have an answer. Or rather, you did. Perhaps you just didn’t want to say it out loud. That maybe, for the first time in years, you were realizing how much you had truly actually lost. 

That maybe, for the first time in years, you were questioning if it was all worth it. Your silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, tension humming in the air. And then, as if sensing your reluctance, Satoru leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"You could still change things, you know." he murmured, his tone almost coaxing. "You don’t have to stay where you are just because it’s where you ended up."

Your stomach twisted. You hated how much his words affected you. You hated how a part of you—some deep, hidden part you had spent years ignoring, wanted to truly believe him. But reality had a way of crushing dreams before they could even take shape.

"You don’t understand at all." you muttered, shaking your head. "It’s not that simple."

Satoru clicked his tongue, exhaling sharply through his nose. "It is, though." he said, unwavering. "You just don’t want to believe it."

His words settled over you like a heavy weight, pressing down on something you weren’t ready to confront. And so, like always, you pushed it away. You didn’t want to think about it. Because if you do, if you take it seriously — what would that do? What would you do?

"You’re awfully invested in my life for someone I just met, Satoru–kun." you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Satoru smirked, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Like I said, I heard a lot about you.” He paused. “And maybe I just don’t like seeing something brilliant go to waste.”

Your breath hitched again, but this time, you didn’t let him see it. Instead, you forced a smirk onto your lips, tilting your head slightly. "Sounds a lot like pity, Satoru-kun."

His smirk widened, but his eyes burned. "Not at all, [last name]-san." he murmured. "It's not a pity party. I would never do that to you.”

You raised a brow at him. “Oh? And what is it truly?”

 “It's frustration."

You felt your pulse quicken. "Frustration?"

Satoru leaned in, his voice dropping just above a whisper. “It’s only right, no?”

“And you feel that for me, more than I do?”

"Yeah." he said, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no playfulness in his tone. Just raw, unfiltered honesty. “I have a big heart for it, you know?”

You snicker. “And why is that?”

"Because the woman they all used to talk about, a trailblazer of a woman, someone they thought would revolutionize everything, the woman who was going to change the world is still standing right in front of me. And she doesn’t even realize it."

You inhaled sharply. And just like that, the fragile wall you had built around yourself cracked. Maybe just a little. You wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. Or maybe both. Because for the first time in years, in decades, someone had looked at you and seen more than just a wife, a mother, a woman standing in the shadow of her husband’s legacy.

Gojo Satoru saw you.

He saw the truth of you.

He saw nothing but you.

Not as you were now. Not the exhausted, bitter, drained of everything you once held dear. But as you had been. As you could be. And you hated that. Hated the way his words dug under your skin, the way they cracked open a part of you that you had buried so deep you had convinced yourself it didn’t exist anymore.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, shoving down the emotion clawing at your chest. "That woman is gone, Satoru–kun." you muttered, voice hollow. “She’s not here anymore.”

But he only tilted his head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Is she?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Yeah, I think so." you whispered. "I think she is."

Satoru studied you for a long moment, then hummed softly, like he didn’t quite believe you. Like he was waiting for you to prove yourself wrong. Before you could say anything else, a voice called your name from across the room.

Your husband Kento.

You stiffened, the moment shattering instantly as reality came crashing back in. Gojo Satoru saw the way your expression closed off, how your shoulders tensed as you turned toward your husband. How you were suddenly back in that gilded cage.

And he hated it.

But he didn’t say anything.

He really shouldn’t.

Even if he wants to.

He only smiled, stepping back, giving you space. “Well…..” he murmured, his tone lighter now, but no less sharp. “It was nice seeing you again.”

You hesitated. Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Again?"

Satoru’s smirk widened slightly, and there was something unreadable in his gaze.

“Of course.” His voice was almost teasing, but something about it sent a shiver down your spine. "You just don’t remember yet."

“Shouldn’t you make me remember this?”

He laughs for a moment, heartily so. “But where would be the fun in that, [last name]-san?”

“Satoru–kun—”

“Spoilers!” He says to you, smiling brightly. “See you around, [last name]-san. Say greetings to your husband for me.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing there. With your heart pounding, mind racing, a strange sense of unease settling in your chest.Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

"Again?" The word echoed in your mind, unsettling and insistent.

You didn’t remember ever meeting Gojo Satoru before tonight. You would have remembered. How could you not? He wasn’t the kind of man who blended into the background. He wasn’t the kind of man anyone forgot. And yet, he spoke with certainty. Like he knew you. Like he had always known you.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. Before you could even begin to process it, Kento’s hand was on your arm, his touch firm, grounding—possessive. “What were you two talking about? What did Gojo say?” His voice was low, casual to anyone who might be listening, but you heard the tightness beneath it.

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. “Nothing important.” you murmured.

And maybe that was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Your husband Kento studied you, his caramel eyes searching, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. He smells like alcohol, you think. You were just gone for a little while. But it seems he’s already drunk.

“I see.” he finally said, his grip loosening just slightly. “Come on. We have people to talk to.”

You let him guide you forward, through the glittering crowd of Tokyo’s most elite, through the flashing lights and murmuring voices. You played your part, smiling when necessary, nodding politely, keeping your posture perfect.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Because even as you moved through the party, even as Nanami Kento introduced you to people whose names you barely caught, even as you answered questions with the same rehearsed ease you had perfected over the years.

You could still feel Gojo Satoru’s gaze on you. Like he was still watching you like a hawk. Like he knew something you didn’t. And it made your skin crawl. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to focus. This wasn’t the time to entertain strange riddles or cryptic men with piercing blue eyes. This was your life. This was the reality you had chosen.

So why did it feel like, for the first time, you weren’t sure if you had chosen correctly?

THE AFTERPARTY WAS GOING TO LAST FOR A WHILE, BUT THEY’RE NOT STAYING. There were still work schedules in the morning, after all. The night seemed to just stretch on forever, like this would never come to an end.

Gojo Satoru watched the city still alive with distant laughter and the soft hum of passing cars, smoke against his lips and his hands on his pockets. Standing beside him was Geto Suguru, way too exhausted about having to socialize with people than he was with presenting the main awards tonight.

The afterparty had been far too suffocating for their liking, it’s really not their type of scene. Even with their reputation, everything about the awards afterparty just didn’t seem to vibe with them at all. There were too many people, too many flashing lights, too much performance. Out here, in the cool air, it was quieter. More honest.

Suguru flicked the ash from his cigarette, his sharp gaze never leaving Satoru. He knew that look on his friend’s face all too well. It was troublesome, not the type of thing that Satoru just easily lets slip, given his ability to mask his truest of emotions very well.

“You disappeared for a while, you know that? Your manager was asking about where you were.” he said, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “Where did you end up, anyway?”

Satoru took his time answering. He leaned back against the sleek black car behind him, his frame relaxed, but there was something calculated in the way he dragged out the moment, taking a slow inhale from his cigarette before finally exhaling. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I saw her. She was here tonight.”

Suguru’s brows lifted slightly. His fingers stilled mid-motion, cigarette hovering near his lips. “…Her?”

Satoru’s smirk widened. “Her.”

Suguru exhaled through his nose, shoulders tensing just slightly. “Don’t tell me—”

“What?” Satoru cut him off smoothly, feigning innocence. “I like keeping tabs on her.”

Suguru let out a slow, measured breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already exhausted by the conversation. “Satoru….”

The blue eyed man raised a brow. “What?”

“Satoru, you shouldn’t meddle too much. Especially with what you know she’s dealing with, privately and publicly.” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Let her realize on her own.”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes as he took another drag. “I waited long enough.”

“And what if she never does?” Suguru’s voice was quieter now, edged with something resembling a warning.

For a split second, Gojo Satoru didn’t answer. He simply stared at the glowing ember of his cigarette, watching it burn down, watching as the smoke curled into the cold air, twisting into nothing. Then, he jovially chuckled back at his friend. 

“Then I’ll just have to remind her.”

Suguru closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

Gojo Satoru exhaled, his expression unreadable behind the haze of smoke. 

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t upset. He was sure of all of this.

He had never been more sure about anything in his life than her.

“No,” he murmured, his voice slow, deliberate. “I’m just a devoted man.”

And the worst part?

Geto Suguru knew he meant it.

That’s what’s worrying him.

Suguru didn’t respond right away. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, watching the way the smoke curled up into the night sky, dissipating into the city lights. He knew better than to argue with Satoru when he got like this, when his mind was set on something, when he wore that smug yet unsettlingly determined expression.

Still, it didn’t stop the uneasy feeling twisting in his gut.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, aren’t you?” Suguru finally muttered, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Isn’t that what makes it fun?”

Suguru shot him a dry look. “For you, maybe. For her? Not so much.”

At that, Gojo Satoru’s expression flickered. It was barely noticeable, just a fraction of a second where his smirk wavered, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“She’s not stupid, Suguru. She’s the smartest person I know.” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with confidence. “She’ll figure it out eventually.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “And if she doesn’t?”

Satoru took another drag, exhaling as he leaned back against the car. He looked up at the sky, watching the stars barely visible past the city lights. “…Then I’ll wait a little longer.”

Suguru shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

Satoru chuckled. “No, I’m just patient. And a patient man always wins, no?”

There was a brief silence between them. The distant sounds of Tokyo buzzed in the background. There was the occasional honk of a car, the occasional muffled bass of music from the afterparty, the distantly quiet chatter of passing strangers. 

Then, Geto Suguru spoke again, voice low. “You really think you’ll succeed with this?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away. He stared at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember slowly burn down, watching as the ashes crumbled and fell. He smiles at his friend, warmth all over his face. He only gets like this when he’s thinking of you. At least, that’s what Geto thinks.

“…She knew of me once.” He says almost too wistfully, almost to wishful-thinking. “She will again, no doubt.”

Suguru frowned, but Satoru wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was lost in thought, his expression unreadable. And for the first time that night, Geto Suguru wondered—was this really about winning? Or was this about something else entirely?

The purple eyed man studied his friend for a long moment, cigarette dangling between his fingers. Gojo Satoru’s cryptic words, the unwavering certainty in his tone—it was starting to make sense now.

“You’re really not going to give up, huh?” Suguru exhaled, shaking his head.

Satoru just grinned, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “What can I say? I’ve got persistence. Lived with that all my life, hm?”

Suguru hummed, eyeing him. “And where did all this persistence even come from?” He narrowed his gaze slightly. “How the hell did you even meet her?”

At that, Satoru’s grin widened. It wasn’t his usual type of smug, teasing one, but something quieter, almost reminiscent. His fingers toyed with the cigarette, rolling it between them as if considering his answer. Then, he simply chuckled.

“Spoilers.” he murmured.

Suguru let out an unimpressed sigh. “You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, patience is a virtue, Geto Suguru.” Satoru smirked, tapping a finger to his temple. “You’ll find out when you’re meant to.”

“Or, you could just tell me now and save me the headache.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Suguru shot him a deadpan look before exhaling another cloud of smoke. “So, in other words, you’re full of shit.”

Satoru only laughed. “That, and a deep, undying devotion. ‘specially if you love someone.”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “If this turns into a full-blown love story, I’m out.”

Gojo Satoru flicked his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with his shoe before shoving his hands in his pockets. He turned his gaze toward the night sky again, the city’s glow reflecting in his pale blue eyes.

“Who said it wasn’t one already?” he murmured.

Geto Suguru didn’t have a response for that. And when their managers’ cars finally pulled up, he realized that maybe Satoru really had been waiting long enough. And just maybe, he’ll finally win in the end.

Well, once you realize that you deserve something better than Nanami Kento.

[faithsmadhouse]

Good luck charm||Max Verstappen x plus size reader

Summary— max has a pre-race ritual Before every race, he needs you beneath him, marked and breathless, your curves claimed with bruises that bloom like declarations.

Word count-903

A/n—this say in my drafts for an embarrassingly long time.

The Monaco sun bled gold across the skyline, glittering off the water and casting long shadows on the streets. The suite you and Max shared for the weekend overlooked the circuit, the roar of engines a distant hum below. But right now, all you could hear was the sound of his breathing deep and steady, a stark contrast to your own.

Max stood behind you, hands firm on your hips as you stared out the window. His reflection glimmered in the glass, blue eyes dark and intent, jaw clenched with focus. You could feel the tension in his grip, possessive and unyielding.

“You ready, liefje?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, throat dry. “Always.”

His chuckle was low and knowing. He knew what he did to you. Knew the effect his touch had, the way his voice wrapped around you like silk. He pressed closer, chest flush against your back, and you could feel the outline of him hard and ready, even before the race began.

“Good.” His hands slipped beneath the hem of your dress, rough palms skimming up the soft flesh of your thighs. His touch was warm, fingertips tracing idle patterns before gripping you firmly, dragging you back against him. “Need you to bring me luck.”

Your breath hitched as his hands traveled higher, dragging the fabric with them. “You’re already the best on the grid.”

“Maybe.” He nipped at your ear, a growl lacing his tone. “But I’m better after I’ve had you.”

The words sent a flush across your skin, and you couldn’t help the small noise that escaped. Max caught it, eyes glinting in the glass. “That’s it,” he whispered. His hands were insistent now, hiking your dress up to your waist. “Let me hear you.”

The lace of your underwear skimmed your hips before it was gone torn from you in a single fluid motion. You gasped, eyes meeting his in the window’s reflection, and he merely smirked, unrepentant. “I’ll buy you another.”

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them just enough to slide his knee between, forcing you open. His fingers danced along the inside, teasing, feather-light. He was drawing it out, reveling in the anticipation that he knew would drive you mad.

“Max…” you whispered, a plea more than anything.

“Patience,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. His teeth scraped the delicate skin before he sucked, leaving a mark that would no doubt bloom deep and bruised. His.

The first brush of his fingers was slow, almost gentle, slipping between your folds, collecting the slickness there. His breathing grew heavier, jaw tightening as he watched the way you reacted how your body responded so beautifully to him.

“Every time,” he muttered, more to himself than you, fingers slipping deeper. “Always so ready for me.”

You arched against him, head falling back to his shoulder. “Max, please…”

He hummed, almost considering. “Think you deserve it?”

Your response was cut off by the sharp press of his fingers inside you, curling just right. You gasped, hands flying to grip the windowpane for support. He worked you open slowly, rhythm deliberate and unhurried. You could feel the smirk on his lips as he kissed the side of your neck, enjoying the way your knees shook.

“You’re gonna be on my mind the whole time,” he growled, thrusting deeper. “Every turn, every straight. Gonna think about you dripping for me like this.” His other hand came up, fingers pressing under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze in the glass. “And when I win, you’re gonna be right here. Waiting. I want you just like this.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you barely managed to nod. His fingers picked up pace, the slick sounds of your arousal mingling with your soft cries. “That’s it,” he encouraged, voice husky. “Let me hear you. Wanna remember this.”

Your body tightened, the tension coiling low in your belly as he brought you closer, relentless in his rhythm. His name left your lips like a prayer, and he drank in every sound, every gasp, until you shattered around him, crying out as your knees buckled. He held you firm, letting you ride the waves until you were nothing but limp and breathless in his arms.

Max pulled his fingers free, holding them up so you could see the slickness that coated them. His gaze was possessive, eyes locked on yours as he brought them to his lips and sucked them clean. “Perfect,” he murmured, voice rough. “Just what I needed.”

You sagged against him, still catching your breath, and he wrapped his arms around you, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder. “You’ll be watching?”

“Always.”

He grinned, the kind that was all teeth and promise. “Good. When I win, I want you waiting on that bed.” His hand traced the line of your throat, thumb brushing over the fresh mark. “And keep this dress on. I’m not done with you yet.”

The knock on the door signaled his time to leave, and you straightened yourself as best you could, cheeks still flushed. Max turned to leave, but not before casting one last glance over his shoulder, eyes dark and possessive. “Good luck charm.”

And then he was gone, leaving you breathless and aching, the scent of him lingering in the air.

[hamilton-here]

Hey! Maybe something based on this picture?

Thank you!!

𝑅𝑒𝒹 𝒜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓁

Authors Note: Hey everyone! First of all, this man is looking mighty fine once again. I tried to make a story out of this image, so I apologise if it’s bad. I’m so annoyed Lewis is starting P7 for the race…Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis invites the reader to Monaco, and as they ride through the night on his motorbike, something real sparks between them.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

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

The sound hit first a low, guttural, vibrating through the asphalt and straight into your chest.

It wasn’t just noise - it was a promise.

Power, speed, presence.

The kind of sound that made people stop mid-sentence and turn their heads.

That’s what you did too, instinctively lifting your eyes from the crinkled paddock pass in your hands as the roar echoed through the tight streets of Monaco.

And then you saw it.

No, him.

A motorcycle carved from fire and shadow.

Candy-apple red bodywork that shimmered like liquid metal in the sun, hugging every sharp angle like it had been sculpted out of movement itself.

And on it leaning slightly forward, one foot planted, hands still clutching the grips was Lewis Hamilton.

You forgot how to breathe.

He was entirely encased in Ferrari red: a snug team jersey with that unmistakable Cavallino Rampante over his chest, black cargo pants that clung to lean muscle, and a sleek matte-black helmet that turned him into something cinematic.

Unreal.

Like a scene lifted out of a dream you didn’t know you’d had until just now.

He didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, letting the engine hum out its last few purrs.

The crowd had quieted too.

Even the chatter behind the paddock barriers faded into background fuzz as Lewis reached up, slow and deliberate, and unbuckled the helmet.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

There was a pause long enough to hold your breath over and then he pulled it off.

First, the edges of his braids appeared, then his jawline, his lips.

His eyes.

That subtle tilt of his head like he already knew exactly where you were standing.

Like the rest of the world, the entire grid and weekend and spectacle, were secondary.

“Is it weird that I think he might be cooler on two wheels than four?” a stranger murmured beside you.

“I don’t know if he’s real,” you said, barely aware you’d spoken aloud.

He stepped off the bike like it wasn’t 200kg of raw machine, like it bowed to him.

One fluid motion - leg over the seat, a gentle pat to the tank, his fingers tightening around the helmet now hanging from his side.

A silver chain glinted against his throat.

His skin caught golden in the sunlight.

Even the way he adjusted his gloves looked like choreography.

And then his eyes found yours.

No hesitation.

No sweep of the crowd or calculated look for the cameras.

Just you.

Like you were the only one worth noticing.

The moment stretched, thick and breathless.

His gaze locked with yours with the kind of certainty that makes your heart skip and your brain forget how to form thoughts.

Your sunglasses felt ridiculous pointless even because he saw right through them.

Right through you.

He smiled.

You nearly stepped backward.

It hit you like that.

A smile that made the air warmer, made the ground feel less solid under your shoes.

Like he’d lit a fuse in the middle of the paddock, and you were the only one close enough to feel the fire.

He walked toward you, boots firm on the pavement, crowd still murmuring behind you but blurred now.

All you saw was him.

“You made it,” he said, stopping just in front of you, voice low and smooth like he hadn’t just stunned half of Monaco with his entrance.

“I – uh, yeah,” you managed, cursing how starstruck you sounded.

Your eyes flicked to the bike his gleaming red beast still parked at an angle like it belonged in a museum.

“Nice ride.”

Lewis grinned and unstrapped his gloves with one hand; his helmet still casually hooked in the other.

“Thought I’d make an entrance.”

“Mission accomplished,” you said, blinking hard, trying to keep your cool.

Your pulse was going crazy.

You stood in the middle of the paddock with Ferrari engineers buzzing around in the distance, camera flashes going off in quiet bursts, fans behind the fence trying to get the best angle and yet, it felt like the rest of the world had shifted to background noise.

It was just him.

And you.

“I was worried you’d be stuck in traffic,” you said.

Dumb.

But it was all you could think of.

Lewis chuckled, one of those soft, husky laughs that made your stomach twist.

“I cut through it.

Didn’t want to be late.

Not when I knew you’d be here.”

And there it was again that feeling that he wasn’t just showing up for the race.

That somehow, impossibly, this was about you too.

You glanced down at your outfit basic linen top, jeans, nothing fancy.

Still somehow felt like you’d overdressed and underdressed all at once in his presence.

“That part still confuses me,” you admitted quietly, looking back up at him.

“How I ended up here.”

“You spilled espresso on my trousers at a climate summit,” he said, tilting his head.

“Then gave the most passionate argument for criminal justice reform I’ve ever heard from someone trying to mop up a spill with paper napkins.”

You laughed, remembering the moment.

Mortifying then.

Weirdly defining now.

“And now you’re in Monaco,” he said, stepping just a little closer.

“You know, when I texted you the invite, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, eyes dark and thoughtful.

“You seem like the kind of girl who knows how to say no.”

“Only to things that don’t scare me,” you said, surprising both of you.

That smile again it was slow, crooked, devastating.

“Is this normal?” you asked, glancing at the cameras still trained on him.

“You riding into practice like some kind of biker god?”

“Depends,” Lewis said, adjusting the strap of his white cross-body bag as he leaned in a fraction.

“Did it impress you?”

You smirked.

“I think the crowd is already drafting love letters.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes warm and playful.

“But I only care about yours.”

And just like that, Lewis Hamilton made the chaos of Monaco feel quiet.

“Come on,” Lewis says with a crooked smile, nodding toward the row of garages. “Let me show you around before I have to suit up.”

You follow him before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can stop and really process what the hell is happening. One second, you’re standing there in borrowed sunglasses and borrowed confidence, clutching a flimsy paddock pass like it means something, and the next you’re trailing behind Lewis Hamilton. In Monaco. At Ferrari.

He smells like heat and leather and something expensive you can’t name, and the scent lingers in the air between you like an invisible thread.

You walk through the paddock, past clusters of crew members in red polos and headsets, past the hum of engines and the snap of cameras in the distance. Lewis moves like he belongs here and of course he does. Every inch of this place wraps around him like it’s an extension of him: the roaring engines, the quiet tension in the air, the glint of sunlight bouncing off carbon fibre and chrome.

He walks a little ahead of you, glancing back every so often to make sure you’re still there, like he’s afraid you might vanish.

The sun catches in his braids as he leads you down a narrow path between the garages. A few crew members glance at you as you pass some with polite nods, others with not-so-subtle curiosity, their gazes darting between Lewis and you like they’re trying to piece something together.

Who is she? their eyes seem to ask.

You’re not sure yourself.

You pause at the entrance of the hospitality suite, where a soft breeze carries the scent of strong coffee and warm pastries. Lewis lets his fingers graze the railing, turning back to you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“You hungry?” he asks. “They’ve got good espresso. Just don’t spill it this time.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Not planning on attacking your pants again.”

“Shame,” he says, smirking. “Gave me an excuse to talk to you.”

That grin should’ve been illegal. Warm and bright and just a little dangerous. You duck your head with a smile, trying to play it cool while your pulse thuds in your throat like a drum.

You don’t go inside. Instead, he keeps walking, guiding you past neatly stacked sets of slicks, past screens showing telemetry data you don’t understand, past the soft chaos of engineers shouting numbers and numbers and numbers. And then, just when the noise starts to wrap around you, he turns a corner into a shaded space behind the team trucks.

It’s quiet here. Secluded. The kind of place you can breathe again.

Lewis leans against the metal railing like he’s done it a hundred times before, arms folded, cap tilted back, his eyes fixed on you like you’re some kind of equation he wants to solve.

“So,” he says. “Berlin. Law school. Why come all the way to Monaco?”

You raise an eyebrow, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Because someone invited me with zero context and a Ferrari emoji.”

He chuckles, nodding like that sounds exactly like him. “Seemed like enough.”

“It was,” you admit.

There’s a pause. Not awkward just thick with something you can’t name yet. Lewis studies you, gaze moving from your eyes to your hands, to the way you press your lips together when you’re not sure what to say. His presence is so calm. Confident. But not arrogant. Not performative.

Just real.

“Nervous?” he asks after a moment.

You hesitate. “Yes. But not because of you. More about being...here. In this world. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, glancing around. “It is. You get used to it.”

He looks back at you, eyes serious now. “But for what it’s worth I don’t invite just anyone into it.”

His words land somewhere low in your chest, right where your nerves and disbelief have been coiling. You don’t know what to say to that. You feel seen. Chosen. And that’s its own kind of vertigo.

“You know,” he adds, lowering his voice, like he wants this part to stay between just the two of you, “I didn’t stop thinking about you. After that summit. You kind of threw me off.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods. “You were real. And passionate. You didn’t care who I was, not really. You just wanted me to listen. That doesn’t happen a lot.”

You look away, overwhelmed by the heat of his honesty. Your eyes catch on the reflection in the side of a gleaming red transport truck. There he is framed against the Ferrari logo like some kind of myth brought to life. For a moment you can’t move. The way the sunlight kisses his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the steadiness in his stare it all hits you at once.

He’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way, though there’s plenty of that. But in the way he stands in his truth. In the way he sees people.

You turn back and find his gaze already on you.

“You look good in red,” he says, voice dipping into something quieter.

Your outfit isn’t anything special white linen pants, a rust-coloured top, simple gold jewellery. But somehow, under his gaze, you feel like you belong here.

“You’re biased,” you say softly.

“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “But you’d look good in anything.”

That pulls the breath right out of you. Your skin flushes, your stomach twists with nerves and something else entirely. You glance down, hiding the smile that tugs at your mouth.

He steps closer. Just a few inches. But it feels like the air between you has changed. Charged. Your heart skitters in your chest like it has no idea what comes next.

“Lewis, you’ve got ten minutes,” Angela’s voice calls from down the walkway steady, professional, but not unkind.

He looks over his shoulder and nods, then turns back to you.

“Wait here?” he asks.

You nod.

He slips into the garage, and you stay rooted where you are, leaning against the railing he just touched. The warmth from where his body had been still lingers. Your fingers brush it without thinking.

When he returns, he’s changed. Race suit half on, the top rolled down and tied at his waist, black fireproof undershirt hugging every defined muscle. His gloves tucked under one arm, helmet in the other, cap pulled low over his brow.

He looks like motion. Like power. Like something carved from speed and ambition.

But when he steps up to you, all of that melts away. He’s just Lewis again.

“Stay in the paddock,” he says. “I’ll find you after practice. Don’t disappear.”

You smile, heart kicking. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He pauses. Then, as if pulled by instinct, he reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long. Just enough to make your breath catch.

Then he turns and walks away, back into the heartbeat of the team. Back into the roar of engines and the glare of cameras and the world that will never stop spinning around him.

But for one perfect moment, you see something quieter.

And somehow, you know so does he.

The roar of engines had faded long ago, replaced now by the quiet rhythm of tools clinking and the low hum of voices behind closed garage doors.

The paddock, once pulsing with adrenaline and urgency, had thinned out, crew members drifting toward late dinners or moments stolen in the cooling shade. The sun sank low behind Monaco’s terraced buildings, painting the harbour in golden hues, softening the track’s sharp edges.

You stayed where he asked. Leaning against the railing. Waiting.

Trying not to look like you were waiting.

The faint scent of burnt rubber still hung in the air, riding on a sea breeze that tangled through your hair and cooled the warmth in your neck. Your fingers wrapped loosely around your phone, scrolling through nothing, until it vibrated a message from your best friend: “ARE YOU STILL BREATHING????” in all caps, six question marks. You stared at it, then slipped the screen off. There were no words for this yet. No way to explain what you felt.

And then you saw him.

Lewis stepped out of the Ferrari garage with slow, heavy steps the kind that come after giving everything on the track. His race suit hugged him like a second skin, red and black, unzipped just enough at the collar to show the sweat-darkened fireproof layer beneath.

He peeled off his gloves, brows knitted in thought, jaw tight with the familiar post-session focus. Engineers flanked him, their voices low and technical, but his attention was elsewhere, already shifting the moment his eyes found yours.

And when they did, when that gaze locked with yours, it was like something inside you clicked. A quiet pull, magnetic and undeniable.

He walked over with steady, deliberate steps. The golden sun hit his face, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his temples and the faint glimmer of his nose ring. Without the helmet, he seemed more real raw, unguarded like you were seeing the man beneath the layers of visor and spotlight.

“Didn’t disappear,” you said softly, straightening.

Lewis’s smile was slow, genuine like he’d been holding his breath until this moment. “Good,” he said. “Didn’t want to send a search party.”

You tipped your head, trying to keep it light despite the flutter in your chest. “How was it?”

“Hot. Fast. Hairpins tighter than I expected.” He paused, wiping the back of his neck with a towel, then threw you a crooked grin. “I thought about you at Turn 8.”

Your brows lifted. “Why?”

He shrugged, stepping closer - close enough that you had to lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Because I clipped the apex too early. Made me think of you earlier how you looked at me like I was doing something reckless.”

“You are,” you murmured.

His grin widened boyish and disarming. “Guess I like that you see it.”

A silence settled between you. In that quiet, you noticed everything the lingering scent of rubber on his skin, the soft breeze carrying the salt from the sea, the slow burn of his eyes as they traced your face like it mattered. Because it did.

“You okay out here?” His voice softened.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “It’s peaceful when everything quiets down.”

He glanced past you at the harbour where yachts flickered like scattered stars caught in the deepening dusk. “Won’t last long,” he said with a wry smile. “Media, meetings the chaos always finds us again.”

There was something fragile under his words the exhaustion of always being “on.” Always expected to perform, always under watchful eyes.

You stood in silence, the moment shifting.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked.

Not like a pickup line. Not rushed. Just real. Like he needed a breath outside the storm. Somewhere cameras couldn’t reach. Somewhere time didn’t matter.

You blinked. “Where would we go?”

“Somewhere with less rubber and more air-conditioning.” He smiled, rubbing his jaw. “I’ve got a little time. Could show you the harbour. Or…” His eyes softened. “We could just walk. Doesn’t matter.”

What he didn’t say, but you felt was that he wanted to know you. Not the girl with the paddock pass, not the law student who spilled espresso. You.

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding tension in his chest, then nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting.

He didn’t take your hand, but his arm brushed yours as you fell into step together. That was enough.

You passed the garages and the lingering shadows of the pit lane, stepping toward the promenade where the harbour opened wide like a dream. The water shimmered in deep blues and golds, the sun settling behind distant mountains. Yachts sat like giants at rest, ropes creaking gently against masts, mingling with laughter drifting from upper decks.

Eyes tracked you - mechanics, team staff, photographers with long lenses but neither of you noticed.

You walked slowly, warmth wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Lewis pointed out spots where the cars braked hardest, where overtakes lived, turns that looked simple but weren’t. You listened because you wanted to, because the way his voice shifted when he spoke about racing was something rare almost sharp and tender all at once.

When you reached a shaded alcove overlooking the water, he stopped. The world felt quieter here, safe. Waves lapping softly below, the breeze teasing loose strands of his race suit.

He turned to you, expression unreadable for a beat. Then he said, “This isn’t normal for me.”

You met his eyes. “What isn’t?”

“Bringing someone into all this. Letting them see past the surface.” His jaw clenched slightly. “But with you, it didn’t feel like a choice. It just felt right.”

Your chest squeezed. You hadn’t expected to matter this much. Not yet. Not like this.

“You don’t have to explain,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, disbelief clear in his voice. “Yeah, I kind of do. I don’t want you thinking this is just some fling. Some Monaco weekend thing.” He swallowed. “It’s not.”

You stepped closer. Your shadows merged.

“I don’t,” you said. “I didn’t think that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to burn this moment into memory, just in case it slipped away.

And then slowly, almost barely he leaned in.

Not fully. Not yet. But his forehead pressed gently to yours. Quiet. Like a promise breathed between heartbeats.

His breath warmed your lips. One hand rose not to hold, just to hover near your jaw like even the smallest touch was sacred here.

In that golden hush, Monaco sparkling behind you and the sea sighing below, you knew with perfect clarity -

This wasn’t a crush.

It wasn’t about fame or speed or the surreal thrill of walking the paddock beside Lewis Hamilton.

This was something else.

Something rare. Slow burning. Deep.

This was him.

And somehow, impossibly, he was looking at you like you were the first thing in a long time that made him feel real.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time the paddock emptied.

The hush of post-practice gave way to soft nightlife murmurs Monaco glowing gold in the dark, as if dipped in candlelight.

The echoes of engines and footfalls had faded, replaced now by the subtle clinking of champagne flutes in the distance and the low, rhythmic pulse of yacht music echoing from the harbour.

You linger near the Ferrari hospitality suite, arms folded loosely over your chest, watching as the city transforms under the night sky. Waiting for him.

That was when you hear it the low, familiar purr of an engine.

You turn instinctively, and there he is. Lewis.

He pulls up on his motorbike, sleek and matte black, its curves catching the street lamps like shadows dancing on obsidian.

He wears dark jeans that hug the curve of his legs, a fitted leather jacket that looks like it has seen fast roads and long nights, and his braids are tucked neatly beneath a black helmet.

The kind of cool that doesn’t try just is.

When he flips the visor up, his grin is unmistakable, mischievous, boyish and yet quietly sure.

“Come on,” he says, that grin curving wider.

“Ride with me.”

You blink at him.

“Ride where?”

“Anywhere.”

He revs the engine slightly, the sound a quiet dare, a heartbeat louder than yours.

“It’s the best way to see this place. I’ll go slow. Promise.”

You laugh, caught somewhere between intrigue and disbelief.

“I don’t even have a helmet.”

“Then we’re getting you one.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step into a dimly lit motorcycle gear shop tucked between a wine bar and a jewellery boutique, as if it were hiding in plain sight.

The place has marble floors and glass displays, like even its helmets are couture.

The air inside smells like leather, chrome, and soft cologne probably his.

Lewis moves like he’s been here before, like Monaco is stitched into his muscle memory.

He leads you straight to the back wall where helmets are displayed like works of art.

Without hesitation, he reaches for one black and gold, matte with subtle accents, sleek and sharp.

A perfect match to his own.

“Try this,” he says, holding it out.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Are you seriously buying me a helmet right now?”

“Only if you’re serious about getting on the bike with me.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“Are you?”

The teasing melts into something quieter, steadier.

His eyes deep, earnest, and just a little nervous meet yours like they’re asking more than just one question.

You look at him, at the way the city light kisses the edge of his jaw, at the way the adrenaline buzzes just beneath his stillness.

And somehow, the answer comes as easily as breathing.

“Yeah. I am.”

He pays in crisp euros, cash from his wallet like it means nothing but the glance he shoots you on the way out, twice over his shoulder, says otherwise.

Like he needs to make sure you’re still with him.

Like he still can’t quite believe it.

Outside, the sea breeze sweeps in cool and salted, brushing over your skin like silk.

The streets shimmer from recent rainfall, the reflections of headlights dancing in puddles.

He sets the helmet gently on your head and adjusts the strap beneath your chin, his fingers warm and careful against your jaw.

A small touch, but it feels like it means something.

“You ever ridden before?” he asks.

“Only on the back of my cousin’s Vespa.”

Lewis grins, already settling back onto the bike.

“This is a little faster.”

You swing on behind him, the leather seat still warm.

Your heart pounds as you reach forward, unsure until he reaches back and takes your hand, guiding it around his waist.

“Hold on,” he says, voice low and steady.

So, you do.

And then you’re flying.

The streets blur around you, gold and white and midnight blue streaking past in water-colour ribbons.

The city unfolds beneath you like a secret, curves and corners illuminated only by-passing lights and moonlit stone.

Your arms tighten instinctively around him as the speed picks up.

You can feel the subtle laugh rumbling through his chest, the way he leans into the next turn with practiced ease.

You weave through the tunnels under Monte Carlo, your echoing path lit in flickers of orange and white.

Your helmet muffles the world, but not the feeling the rush of wind against your arms, the subtle shift of his weight with every curve, the sheer freedom of it all.

It’s thrilling.

It’s terrifying.

It’s addictive.

Eventually, he slows, steering the bike up a narrow incline that opens into a quiet overlook high above the harbour.

The city below looks like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet.

The sea shimmers, ink-dark and alive with reflections of the stars.

He cuts the engine.

The silence that follows is almost reverent.

You climb off the bike and pull the helmet off, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders.

Your pulse still races, wild and electric, but Lewis’s gaze steadies you.

He hasn’t looked away once.

“Worth the helmet?” he asks, voice rough with wind and something softer.

You nod, breathless.

“Definitely.”

You stand for a moment, not touching, just watching the city breathe beneath you.

He takes his helmet off, setting it gently on the seat, and brushes a hand over his braids.

Sweat glistens along his temple, catching the moonlight, his lips parted slightly as if caught mid-thought.

“You make me feel calm,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the view.

You turn to him, startled.

“What?”

His gaze flicks to yours.

“I’m not used to that,” he admits.

“Even when I’m winning, I’m wired. Restless. Like there’s always something else I have to chase. But with you…”

He shakes his head slowly, voice thinning to a whisper.

“You slow things down.”

You don’t know what to say.

So, you don’t try.

Instead, you reach for his hand.

His fingers close around yours, warm and certain.

And there, with the hum of the engine still alive in your bones and Monaco sparkling behind you like a dream, you realise you don’t want this night to end.

Not because of the glamour or the city, but because of him.

Because of the man who looks at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in years.

Lewis turns to you fully now, thumb brushing over your knuckles, his voice low.

“One more stop?” he asks.

“Or should we stay here a little longer?”

You smile, heart catching in your throat.

“Let’s stay.”

He nods, then sits down on the low stone wall overlooking the sea once again.

The breeze pulls at his jacket, tousles his braids, and still, he opens his arms like you belong there.

And you go. No hesitation.

You curl into his side, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his skin.

His arm wraps around you, fingers tracing idle lines along your shoulder.

The world moves fast.

But tonight, wrapped in leather and starlight, you don’t have to.

You sit like that for a long time.

Not saying much just breathing the same air, feeling the same rhythm.

The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled, that feels rich and full just as it is.

The wind moves gently across the overlook, brushing past you like a whispered blessing, tugging strands of your hair across your face and fluttering the collar of Lewis’s jacket.

Monaco still pulses below you in warm, golden pockets of life music rising from yachts, distant laughter echoing through the harbour but none of it reaches you, not really.

Up here, you’re in your own little world.

Outside of time.

Or maybe just finally inside a moment worth staying in.

At some point, you notice his thumb moving slowly against your arm.

Not with pressure.

Not with expectation.

Just a steady, quiet rhythm, like it calms him.

Or maybe like he doesn’t want to lose the connection.

The thought comes out of nowhere unfiltered, real.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His body shifts slightly beside you, not pulling away but adjusting, like the question makes something stir in him.

His breath is warm above your temple, slower now, heavier.

“Of what?”

“Of all of it,” you say.

“The speed. The pressure. The life you’ve built. What it costs you.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

For a moment you think maybe you’ve gone too deep, too fast.

But then he exhales, slow and honest, like he’s choosing his truth carefully.

“Yeah,” he says at last, and the rough edge in his voice makes your chest pull tight.

“All the time.”

You lift your head, searching his expression.

He looks at you then not guarded or rehearsed, but with a startling openness.

As if he’s been waiting for someone to ask him that without expecting some perfectly packaged answer.

“There’s this moment before every race,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to the city lights like they could help carry the weight of his words.

“Right before I get in the car. Helmets on. Engine’s quiet. You hear everything your own breath, your pulse, the static in your head.”

“And for a split second you wonder if this time will be the one that costs you everything.”

He squeezes your hand, not out of fear, but in a way that tells you he’s still here, still fighting.

“But then I think about why I do it. About what it means. And I hold onto that. Like a lifeline.”

You nod, wanting to say more, but the moment feels too sacred.

Instead, you just lean your head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and find your own lifeline there.

Somewhere in the quiet between breaths, the city around you, and the stars above, you know this is the start of something rare.

Something real.

Something that no race, no pressure, no shadow of fear can touch.

Because for the first time, you’re riding not just into the night, but into a future with him steady, wild, and entirely yours.

Lewis’s voice breaks the silence, low and hesitant, almost like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile stillness between you.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is soft, respectful like a whispered promise and somehow it makes the air around you feel heavier, charged with something unspoken yet deeply understood.

You lift your eyes to his, heart pounding with a fierce, fluttering certainty. The world narrows until there’s nothing but him and this moment. You nod, barely daring to breathe.

His hand moves slowly, deliberately, and cups your cheek with a tenderness that takes your breath away. His thumb traces tiny, feather-light circles against your skin, as if you’re something precious he’s never allowed himself to touch before.

Time seems to slow even more as he leans in, inch by inch, giving you every second to pull away, to change your mind. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, drawn by something you can’t quite name.

His lips meet yours soft, warm, and hesitant at first like the gentle unfolding of a secret you’ve both been waiting to share.

The kiss deepens, slowly growing richer and more certain, but never rushed. His mouth is asking, inviting, trusting everything wrapped in the careful rhythm of patience and desire.

You respond in kind, your own lips molding to his, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your chest syncing with yours like a quiet, steady drum.

Around you, the world fades into a blur the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife, the whisper of the breeze nothing matters except this electric hush that hums between your lips.

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair, pulling you closer as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is everything full of all the quiet fears and wild hopes, the chaos of the track and the calm of this stolen moment. It’s both fierce and tender, fierce in its promise and tender in its honesty.

When he finally pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and mingling with yours, his eyes searching yours with something like awe, he smiles a slow, genuine curve that makes your heart soar.

“Feels right,” he whispers, voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

And in that moment, you know it does.

[unholybacon355]

Kinktober Day 10 - Kim Jennie x M! Reader

Kinktober Masterlist

A/N: I know I said that day 10 would be Twice G!P, but shit happens and I wanted to post Jennie today in honor to her new release.

You hate summer, that isn’t a secret to anyone. But you have to admit that some good things come with the hellish heat that has been hitting the city these days. The air conditioner on your small apartment is broken and makes the place feel like a sauna, not even with all windows completely open you can stand this demonic summer.

Under these conditions even an easy task like doing the laundry became a true challenge. At least the freaking tiny laundry room have a grid wall that allows air to flow from the exterior, making it more pleasant than the rest of the house. Still the heat was making you sweat a lot, or maybe it wasn't just the hot summer.

The room was tiny, yes. And almost didn't have space for two persons standing inside, but what about a person standing and another sitting on the washing machine? And both naked, that saves a lot of space. If you add to that that the persons are very close till the point that they can feel the heat on each other's skin, that saves even more space. Those two persons obviously were you and your girlfriend Jennie, who got distracted from the task of doing the laundry.

The bad idea here was to get naked to also put in the washing machine the clothes you were wearing, and were completely soaked in sweat. At the very moment you saw the svelte and very sexy naked body of Jennie, your shaft came to life and one thing led to another. Now she was sitting on the washing machine with you between her legs, and your dick inside her. 

Hot and salty sweat was covering both of you, even with the air that flowed between the wall, even when you were moving at the rhythm of the washing machine cycles. But instead of making it uncomfortable, that layer or sweat makes things naughtier and pleasant to you. In some way it was just another of your fluid mixing. Also that makes Jennie’s body more slippery to your touch, making it easier for you to run your hands over her skiing. Touching here and there, squeezing her boobs, or caressing the back of her neck. Your hands fly over her skin thangs to the sweat.

Her legs were crossed behind your butt, trapping you there, preventing you from sliding your shaft out of her. But that idea wasn't even close to your mind, all you can think now is keep stuffing your meat inside jennie’s wet and warm pussy. The only heat you love, the only heat that makes your heart run like an engine fueling the muscles of your body to pleasure Jennie.

Your flat tongue ran from between her perky breast to the sweet spot of her neck, collecting all the salty sweat you can. You're cleaning your girlfriend while fucking her and making her sweat even more. Jennie is a mess and you don’t know what is more wet. If her skin with all the sweat, or her pussy with her own slick and your precum. 

You wanna clean her back. Run your tongue over her shoulder blades, over her low back and between the crack of her ass. Your mouth turns into a cascade of saliva when you imagine the taste and smell of her sweaty asshole have right now. But on this position you can’t put your tongue there, all you can do is keep senseless fucking her and licking her neck and breast. 

The old washing machine protests under Jennie’s weight and the force of your trust. The artifact began with an erratic movement when start to shoot the water in the pipe in order to rinse the clothes it had inside. Jennie feels that movement to her core and her center flood with more of her own juices. She’s moaning like crazy and you're groaning as well, probably making more noise than you should. But a noise complaint is totally worth it when you are having this dirty sex. When you’re able to lick Jennie’s sweat from her boobs or her armpist while fucking her like an animal. 

You put a finger between her buttocks, playing with her soaked rear entrance at the time you kiss her on the mouth. There is this salty and wonderful taste mixed with your saliva that drives both of you crazy, making this more naughty and pleasant. She’s a freak, your freak, and she loves how you even worship something so dirty like her sweat. But how could you not when everything about Kim Jennie is so perfect, even the salty smelly fluid that is emanating through her pores.

The sweat also acts like a lubricant making your finger very slippery and allowing you to insert it on her asshole. Now you’re fucking Jennie’s both entrances, and the way she’s moaning and how her hands are practically crawling on your back tells you she is enjoying it. She’s even drooling over your shoulder, surrendering herself to the absolute pleasure of being fucked on this naughty way.

You put another finger on her ass while your hips are smacking her’s, and the washing machine began the dance og it last cycle. It is like an earthquake, or a big freaking vibrator that makes Jennie collapse. Between your shaft deeply buried inside her pussy, your fingers playing with her asshole, the movement of the machine, and your tongue licking her body she can´t take it anymore. 

Her pussy exploded covering both of you not only on sweat, but also on Jennie’s slick. She crye out of pure pleasure while her pussy sprinkle you with another of her fluids.

Maybe after all summer isn't that bad, because it is the only season when you can enjoy this kind of twister form of sex.  Maybe after all summer isn’t that bad. 

[dizzyduck44]

Listen I don’t doubt that Lewis and George felt rough after the race in Singapore. But before you crucify Lando for saying people didn’t know his situation can I just remind you

• Checo’s drinks bottle gave up during the race. Did press.

• Colapinto in only his 3rd F1 start, staggered out of his car. Did press.

• Lando complained of being dizzy during the podium interview. Was then sent up to the podium, on to the press conference and then media pen.

Some drivers will think “it can’t have been that bad”, “they were fine by the time we flew back”. Personally I think once Lando complained of dizziness the podium should have had to wait while he was checked.

The thing that is surprising is Lewis. If you think back to Qatar last year, extreme heat races seem to really affect the tall drivers, Alex, Lance, Esteban, George (no wonder Haas weren’t keen to run Ollie Bearman). No one is ever accusing Lewis of being tall.

I don’t think as a GDPA rep George would avoid the media obligations if he wasn’t ill, but Toto has maybe made this sound a little more dramatic than it was. I’ve always considered Lewis to be the fittest driver on the grid, so I suspect dehydration (which is exactly what I think was wrong with Lando). And we don’t know if Lando was then ill later in the evening from it.

Personally if we are going to race in those conditions the drivers need a few minutes to take on fluid, snacks and grab towels or ice vests to bring their temperature down before they are expected to do press. Because the bone of contention seems to be, the Mercedes drivers seemed fine after they were given time, whilst the rest of them were expected to suffer through it. Hell Daniel did his in his ice vest.

And that seems to be the point people are missing. Instead of getting all upset because you think Lando is criticising George and Lewis, have you stopped to think, hang on, were other people who went to the press pen ill after the race?

And don’t use Lewis’ Qatar comment back at him, because then you are just as bad as the ones going after Lando right now.

And anyone who is saying they had a month to recover, don’t stoop to their level of stupidity.

[coven-of-genesis]

Crystals for Dream Work & Psychic Sleep

Because the spirit realm never sleeps — but you should.

If you’ve ever wanted to lucid dream, receive messages in your sleep, or just rest with deeper clarity… crystals can help open that dream door. Here are some of my favorites for dreamy nights and magical insight:

⸻

1. Amethyst

Vibe: Calming, protective, crown chakra opener

How I use it: Tucked under my pillow or held during meditation before bed

What it helps with: Deep sleep, dream recall, and blocking nightmares

Feels like: Being wrapped in gentle purple fog while your soul wanders safely

⸻

2. Labradorite

Vibe: Mystical, intuitive, interdimensional

How I use it: On my nightstand with a few drops of mugwort oil

What it helps with: Astral travel, spirit messages, psychic downloads

Feels like: A portal in a stone. Dreaming in symbols and signs.

⸻

3. Lepidolite

Vibe: Soft, tranquil, healing

How I use it: In a pouch with lavender and slipped into my pillowcase

What it helps with: Anxiety at night, overthinking, emotionally healing dreams

Feels like: Being sung to sleep by a crystal lullaby

⸻

4. Moonstone

Vibe: Feminine, fluid, lunar

How I use it: In a dream water bowl or worn as a ring while sleeping

What it helps with: Connecting with moon energy, emotional dream cycles

Feels like: Dreaming by the ocean on a full moon

⸻

5. Herkimer Diamond

Vibe: Amplifying, clearing, spiritually sharp

How I use it: Placed beside another dream crystal to amplify it

What it helps with: Lucid dreaming, dream recall, clarity in visions

Feels like: A flashlight cutting through dream-fog

⸻

Bonus Ritual:

Create a “Dream Grid” by placing a few of these crystals in a circle under your bed or near your head. Add a dream journal nearby and some mugwort or blue lotus tea for extra dream-enhancing energy.

⸻

Dreaming is divination.

Sleep is sacred.

& your soul knows exactly where to go.

[missmaymay13]

enough - m.boldy

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

m.boldy x fem!oc | 4.5k

summary: based off of No I'm not in love & Purple lace bra by Tate Mcrae

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Matt Boldy had been with the Minnesota Wild long enough to call the city home. The rink, the routine, the quiet post-practice coffees—he liked the rhythm of it all. Predictability was comforting. Stability, even more so.

Over the last few seasons, he'd grown especially close with defenseman Brock Faber. The Minnesota native was steady, dependable, sharp on the ice and off. The kind of guy Matt respected, the kind of friend who had his back without question. They were a well-oiled machine, on the ice and in life.

Brock talked about his family occasionally. Mentioned his parents, a few stories from childhood. But when it came to his younger sister, Alice, his tone always shifted—half amused, half exasperated.

"She's a little dangerous," Brock had warned once, during a quiet moment in the locker room. "Not in the criminal way or anything. Just... she lives on the edge. She's impulsive. A complete wild card."

Matt had nodded but didn't give it much thought. He'd met most of the Fabers already—family barbecues, charity events, the usual. But not Alice. She'd been off the grid the past few years, studying abroad, country-hopping across Europe like it was a sport. Paris, Prague, Rome, Madrid. Always somewhere new.

Now she was back.

And Matt was about to find out exactly what Brock meant.

It was after a solid home win. Spirits were high. A handful of the guys decided to grab drinks, and Matt—out of sheer camaraderie—tagged along. They ended up at a low-key bar downtown, tucked in the corner booth, still buzzing from the win.

That's when she showed up.

Alice Faber stumbled in at 11:30 p.m. like she owned the night, laughter spilling out of her as she breezed toward their table. She was already tipsy, the kind of tipsy that turned movement into a fluid sway, all confidence and chaos wrapped in one.

"Brooooock!" she sang, tossing an arm over her brother's shoulders, her hair falling in wild waves around her flushed face.

Brock didn't flinch. Just chuckled, shaking his head like he'd seen this a hundred times before.

"This," he said, glancing at the group, "is my sister. Alice."

Matt looked up, nodding politely—but the second his eyes landed on her, something lodged in his throat.

She was stunning.

Not just pretty. Stunning in that effortless, messily beautiful kind of way. Long brown hair, tousled like she hadn't bothered to brush it but still somehow perfect. Honey-tinted eyes that lit up when she laughed, her smile just on the edge of mischievous.

She was everything Matt wasn't.

He offered a hand. "Matt. Nice to meet you."

"Ooooh, the famous Boldy," she teased, dragging out his last name like it was something sweet on her tongue. Her words slurred just slightly, her smile wide. "I've heard things."

"Hope they're good," he muttered.

She laughed, loud and unbothered, before plopping down in the empty seat beside Brock, already chatting with one of the guys across the table like she'd known him for years.

Matt sat back. Watched. Listened.

She was magnetic. Loud, flirty, reckless. Her dress rode up slightly when she shifted in her seat, her boots propped on the edge of the table like she didn't have a care in the world. Her energy was all over the place—and it made his skin crawl.

She was a walking red flag for Matt. Immature. Chaotic. Exactly the kind of girl he didn't have time for.

And yet...

His eyes kept drifting back to her.

Nope. Absolutely not. Brock would kill him. And besides, he had hockey to focus on. He didn't need some adrenaline junkie with a pretty face and zero impulse control distracting him.

He didn't even like her.

So why couldn't he stop looking?

⸻

Despite the haze of vodka sodas and tequila shots that clouded that first night, Alice Faber remembered the moment she met Matt Boldy with annoying clarity.

He'd been sitting at the bar, pressed back into the booth like he was above it all. Like he'd already decided the night, and everyone in it, wasn't worth his time. Including her.

Especially her.

There was something about the way he looked at her—like she was a car crash in slow motion. Unimpressed. Detached. Like he'd already sized her up and filed her away under reckless, immature, waste of time. He didn't say much, just nodded and offered her a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes.

It pissed her off. Deep in her bones, in a way that made her fists curl and her chest burn.

And it wasn't a one-time thing. Every single time she saw him after that—at team events, at bars, at the occasional Faber-family dinner—he wore that same look. Cool. Unbothered. Detached. His default expression around her seemed to live somewhere between judgment and indifference.

She hated it.

She tried to ignore him. Truly, she did. But it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Brock had started pulling her into his world more now that she was back in Minnesota—game nights, casual hangs with the team, even weekend get-togethers that felt weirdly domestic. She wanted to be there, to be part of her brother's life again. But Matt was always there too. Lingering in corners, arms crossed, eyes on his phone or glued to the floor, never on her.

And yet she always found herself watching him.

Everyone else was intrigued by her travels. They asked questions. They listened to her stories about backpacking through the Alps or sleeping under the stars in Santorini. But not Matt.

Matt sat silently, disinterested. Detached. Like she was background noise.

God, he infuriated her.

But what infuriated her more—what confused her to no end—was the way her body betrayed her every time he was near.

The way her breath caught when she walked into Brock's apartment and saw him sitting there, shirtless, a glass of water in hand, his damp blond hair a tousled mess on top of his head. The way her spine went rigid when he met her gaze with that unreadable expression of his.

The way her pulse spiked when she watched him fight on the ice, brutal and beautiful, raw adrenaline radiating off of him.

And the suits. Don't even get her started on the game day suits.

She told herself it was just physical. That it was just a stupid, fleeting crush that would burn itself out. That if she ignored it long enough, it'd go away.

But she knew better.

There was a pull—magnetic and infuriating. She couldn't stand him. Couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop looking for him the moment she stepped into a room.

And she hated herself for it.

He didn't even know her. Not really. He had her all figured out in his stupid structured, judgmental brain, and yet somehow—despite everything—he was the one person who could make her pulse race just by breathing near her.

Alice Faber was many things—chaotic, impulsive, reckless, sure. But this?

This was dangerous.

⸻

It was a hot summer night in Minneapolis—the kind that stuck to your skin and made every breath feel a little heavier, a little slower.

The off-season had finally arrived, and for once, Matt Boldy allowed himself to relax. Just a little. A few drinks. A few laughs. He'd played well, earned his rest, and Brock had dragged him out with a group of the guys and their girlfriends for a rare night of letting loose.

It was supposed to be casual. Easy. Just a group of friends, a few rounds of tequila, and the kind of laughter that only came after a long, grinding season.

But then Alice walked in.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, pieces falling into her face in that careless way that drove him insane. She wore a simple black tank top and denim shorts that looked like they'd been ripped apart by hand. Her skin glowed in the dim lighting, warm and golden, and her eyes caught his from across the room like she was daring him to keep looking.

He did.

It never should have happened. Matt knew better.

But one drink became two. Two became five. And somewhere between the third round of shots and the last call, their eyes locked—and held.

Longer than they should have.

Long enough to feel the heat bloom between them like wildfire.

The tension had been simmering for months, sharp and dangerous, waiting to ignite. And tonight, it did. It exploded.

They stumbled into his apartment like a match to gasoline. Hungry. Desperate. Clothes hit the floor like they were allergic to them, tossed into corners without a second thought. Hands roamed, mouths clashed, and gasps echoed off the walls. It was raw, breathless, messy in all the ways Matt wasn't.

But he couldn't stop. He didn't want to.

And neither did she.

It wasn't just lust. Not with the way he touched her like he'd been imagining this for months. Not with the way she whispered his name like a prayer. They were drunk, sure—but not drunk enough where they didn’t realize what they were doing. Not so drunk they couldn't feel how much they wanted each other. Despite all the alcohol, they were willing participants in this moment. They wanted this. Wanted each other.

They didn't sleep. Not really. They were too busy devouring each other.

Again. And again. And again.

And when the sun rose, casting soft light through the windows, Matt did what he always did when something scared him—

He ran.

⸻

Alice woke up alone.

The sheets were cold beside her. His side of the bed untouched, save for the lingering scent of his cologne—sharp, expensive, and infuriatingly addictive. It was soaked into her skin, tangled in her hair, imprinted into every inch of her body.

She blinked at the ceiling, heart pounding as the memories hit her all at once. The way he kissed her like he needed her. The low growl of her name. The things he said in the dark.

She'd felt it. That connection. That shift.

It hadn't been just sex. Not to her.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—Brock.

"Hope you made it home safe. Text me when you're up."

Shit.

She sat up, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes before glancing around. Of course Matt's room was spotless. Minimalist. Everything in its exact place. The closet was color-coded, the nightstand clear except for a neatly folded oversized shirt—clearly left for her.

She tugged it on and padded into the living room.

Empty. Pristine. No sign of Matt.

"Matt?" she called out once. Twice. Nothing.

Then she saw the note.

Sitting alone on the kitchen island.

Neatly written, short, and cold.

‘Went out. Sorry for last night. Won't happen again. Just let yourself out.’

Alice stared at the words like they were in another language.

Sorry for last night.

Won't happen again.

Her jaw clenched, a flush rising up her neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with rage.

She had let her guard down for him. Ignored the way he looked at her like she was a disaster. Ignored every warning sign, every reason to walk away.

Because last night hadn't been meaningless. Not with the way he held her. Not with the way he touched her like he needed to prove something.

And now?

He was treating her like a one-night stand. Like some mistake he couldn't scrub off fast enough.

Alice's fists curled at her sides.

If he wanted to pretend like last night hadn't meant anything—fine.

But she was done playing nice.

Matt Boldy was about to learn what a real mistake looked like.

⸻

Alice Faber made it her personal mission to become Matt Boldy's worst nightmare.

Every time they were in the same room, she dialed it up—louder laughs, colder glances, zero effort to play polite. She didn't offer fake smiles. Didn't bother with meaningless small talk. She ignored him completely. Even if, truthfully, he hadn't exactly been begging for her attention.

Still. It was the principle.

She threw herself into chaos like it was therapy. Nights out with her friends. Flirting. Dancing. Losing herself in the noise of bars and the haze of strangers' hands. Anything to drown out the memory of that night.

That perfect, goddamn night.

For the most part, it worked—when Matt wasn't around.

But when he was...

It was useless.

Because no matter how hard she tried to bury it, she still felt it. That night clung to her skin like a bruise she couldn't shake. The way his voice dropped when he said her name. The way he touched her like he'd been starving.

She tried to convince herself it had meant nothing. A drunken mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment. But no matter how many times she repeated the lie, it didn't sit right. Not in her bones.

And deep down—deep down—she knew it hadn't been nothing to him either.

But Matt? Matt stayed quiet. Cool. Like always. And if Alice hadn't overheard him, she might've even believed he didn't care.

⸻

"Wait—you hooked up with someone?" Brock leaned over the bar, brow raised, beer in hand.

Matt shrugged, gaze fixed on the label of his bottle like it held the secrets to the universe.

Brock snorted. "Who was she?"

"Doesn't matter," Matt muttered. "It was a mistake."

A mistake.

Alice heard it from the hallway. Just a few words, muffled through the crowd, but they hit her like a gut punch.

A mistake.

Oh, screw that.

Whatever. Who cares.

She turned on her heel, eyes scanning the room until they landed on the guy who'd been trailing her all night, practically begging for a crumb of attention. Average-looking. Kind of cute. Reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. Perfect.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the crowded dance floor.

Her body moved with reckless precision—hips swaying, hair tumbling into her face, skin gleaming under the strobe lights. She didn't care that he pressed too close, didn't care that his breath smelled like beer and cigarettes.

He leaned in to kiss her, and she let him.

It was sloppy. Uninspired. Gross, really. The taste of nicotine clung to her tongue and her stomach turned—but she didn't stop.

She needed the distraction.

But all she could think about was Matt.

Matt didn't kiss like this. He kissed with control. With purpose. Like he knew he'd ruin her and was proud of it. He made her feel like nothing else existed when his lips were on hers. He made her ache.

God, stop. Stop comparing.

What the hell is going on?

⸻

From his seat across the room, Matt watched it unfold.

He saw the moment Alice grabbed that guy's hand. Saw her body moving against his like it was nothing. Saw her kiss him like she didn't care who was watching.

It made Matt's skin burn.

His fingers tightened around the neck of his beer, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He couldn't look away. Couldn't stop the nauseating twist in his gut.

He had no right to be jealous. He knew that.

He'd made his choice. He'd left her a note and walked away.

But it didn't matter.

Because there she was—right in front of him—and he wanted to rip that guy off of her like his life depended on it.

Then, just for a second, she pulled away from the guy.

And her eyes met his.

Brief. Electric. Devastating.

Something shifted that night.

Because after that, it didn't stop.

Alice was everywhere. Laughing too loud at team parties. Showing up with breathtaking outfits and different guys and that infuriating smirk that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

And Matt couldn't escape her.

Not in person. Not in his head. Not in his goddamn apartment where the left side of the bed still smelled faintly like her floral perfume. No matter how many times he washed the sheets, the scent clung.

She was a haunting.

And it was driving him insane.

Every time she walked into a room, it felt like a live wire had been dragged through his chest. Her messy hair. Her bold mouth. That effortlessly disheveled beauty that made him want to ruin her all over again.

He couldn't breathe.

She was in his blood.

And the worst part?

He wanted more.

⸻

Alice had started showing up at more games.

She'd always been around occasionally—sitting with family, tagging along to events—but now, she was frequenting. Often. Sitting in a box with her girlfriends, laughing, sipping wine, never once looking in Matt's direction.

And yet, he felt her. Every single time.

Matt made it a point to never look too obviously. Never linger too long. But he always knew where she was. Could feel her gaze—or lack of it—like a presence on his skin.

Then she brought someone new.

Jake.

Matt had seen him before. On her Instagram. In tagged photos at bars. Smiling in the background of her stories. He was everywhere. And now, apparently, here—at a home game, sitting right next to her like he belonged.

The audacity.

Matt didn't know who the guy was. Just that he wore overpriced streetwear and couldn't stop touching her arm. And that made Matt feel... something.

Something feral.

What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that Jake was a decoy. A distraction. A willing participant in Alice's very calculated game of emotional hide-and-seek.

They were casual. Friends, sort of. He knew she was hung up on someone else. So was he so he didn't care. They scratched an itch and moved on.

But Matt didn't know that.

All Matt saw was Alice bringing another guy to his rink.

So during warmups, Matt did something he normally never did.

He made it personal.

He skated over and situated himself directly in front of them. Firing off shots with calculated aggression, every snipe sharper than the last. His scowl deepened with each slap of the puck. Until, without a second of hesitation, he launched a shot just high enough and just fast enough to make the boards rattle like hell—right in front of Jake.

The guy flinched. Alice flinched too.

When she looked up, Matt was already staring. Not at Jake.

At her.

Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

No words.

Just a look that screamed what he wouldn't dare say out loud.

⸻

That night, everyone ended up at Brock's place. Post-win hang. Low-key.

To Matt's bitter relief, Alice showed up alone.

She floated around the room like she always did—chaotic and warm and completely untouchable. He stayed quiet. Distant. But his eyes never left her.

Until she got up to grab another drink.

He moved before he could stop himself.

Followed her into the kitchen like a shadow. Waited until she was at the island, back turned, before stepping in behind her—close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

She turned, startled—but not surprised.

His hands came down on either side of her, palms flat against the counter, caging her in.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled, voice low and sharp.

Alice raised an eyebrow, cool as ever. "Getting a drink?"

"You know what I mean."

Her smirk was dangerous. Lethal. She leaned in, voice sweet like poison.

“Oh Jake?”

"I'm just having fun, Matty." She dragged out the nickname like a tease.

Then she leaned in, whispering close to his ear. “After all… it was just a mistake right?”

The words sliced through him.

He stared at her, expression dark, jaw tight, chest heaving.

But she didn't give him a chance to reply.

Instead, she placed a hand on his chest, gave him a gentle little shove, and slipped past him with a sway of her hips and a flick of her hair.

Matt stood there, fists clenched at his sides, pulse pounding.

And for the first time in a long time, he realized—

He was losing control.

⸻

It was just supposed to be a normal post-game night out. Drinks. Laughter. A little celebration. Nothing wild.

But then Alice walked in.

She was wearing black—tight in all the right places, hair falling in messy curls over her shoulders, mouth painted red like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Matt saw her before anyone else did.

He felt his stomach twist the second her eyes skipped over him like he didn't exist.

Then he saw it. One of the younger guys—new to the team, clueless—grinning like an idiot and beelining toward her. Matt tried to ignore it. Tried.

Until the kid slid an arm around Alice's waist.

Until he leaned in close and whispered something in her ear.

Until she laughed.

That was it.

Matt didn't think.

He moved.

Through the crowd, past his teammates, straight toward them. The guy barely had time to register what was happening before Matt's hand was on Alice's wrist, yanking her away from the bar.

"Hey—" the guy started, confused.

"Don't," Matt growled. Didn't even look at him.

Alice tried to pull away. "What the hell—Matt?!"

He didn't answer. Didn't stop. He dragged her outside into the cool night air, jaw clenched, pulse hammering, the only thought in his head: Get her away. Now.

He opened the passenger door of his car and looked at her.

"In," he said.

"No."

"Alice."

She stared at him, furious. But something in his expression made her hesitate. Something raw. Something that looked a lot like desperation.

She got in.

The drive was silent.

Tense.

She slammed the door when they got to her apartment, storming inside with fire in her veins.

Matt followed.

The second he stepped into her space, he froze.

It was chaos. A half-made bed. Shoes by the door. Coffee mugs stacked beside plants on the windowsill. Polaroids on the fridge. Books half-open on the couch.

It was the exact opposite of his place.

It was so her.

"What the fuck was that?" she snapped, spinning to face him. "You don't get to show up out of nowhere and play caveman, Matt! You ignore me for weeks—treat me like I'm some damn mistake—and then what? You see me talking to someone and you get to just claim me?"

He didn't speak.

He just looked at her.

"Say something!" she yelled, voice cracking. "Say literally anything! Because you're driving me insane and I don't even like you and I—"

"Don't," Matt cut her off, voice low. Hoarse.

She blinked. "Don't what?"

"Don't say you hate me."

Silence.

His chest was rising and falling like he'd just skated a full period. His jaw twitched. His hands were shaking.

"I fucked up, okay?" he said, stepping closer, eyes burning into hers. "I didn't know what to do with you. You drive me fucking insane, Alice. You never stop talking. You leave a mess everywhere you go. You flirt with everyone like it's nothing. You do whatever the hell you want and it's so—you're so—"

He gripped the wall beside her, caging her in. Breathing heavy.

"I can't get you out of my head."

Her breath hitched.

"I see you in every room. I smell you on my sheets. I can't even breathe without thinking about you." His voice dropped. "You're under my skin. You ruined me."

Alice's heart pounded. Her fists clenched at her sides. "Then why did you—"

"Because I was scared."

He leaned in. Inches from her lips. "Because I knew if I let myself want you, I'd never stop."

She stared at him, lips parted, everything inside her screaming.

"Matt..."

He didn't wait.

His mouth crashed into hers.

It was rough. Desperate. All teeth and tongue and clawing hands. She moaned into him, pulling at his shirt, fingers sliding into his hair as he backed her into the wall, kissing her like he was trying to rewrite history.

His hands roamed—down her sides, gripping her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt him everywhere—hot, hard, relentless.

"You're mine," he growled against her throat. "You've always been mine."

"Then prove it," she gasped.

And he did.

All. Damn. Night.

⸻

Alice never meant for it to go this far.

What started as a game—a distraction, a way to forget the boy who left her in tangled sheets and silence��turned into something she couldn't shake.

Matt Boldy had ruined her.

He ruined her with one night, one kiss, one whisper

And now, standing in the eye of the storm, hoodie on her kitchen counter, her brother's voice slicing through her walls like glass, it all came crashing down.

Brock's jaw was tight, his eyes wide with disbelief. In his hand, Matt's hoodie—the one she'd stupidly worn to grab coffee that morning.

"You want to explain this?" he asked, voice sharp.

Alice opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Is it Matt?" Brock pressed. "Tell me it's not Matt."

She didn't have to say anything.

The silence was answer enough.

"You've been sneaking around with him?" he asked, disbelief melting into anger. "How long?"

"Brock—"

"No. You don't get to talk your way out of this. He's my teammate. My friend. And you—" he ran a hand through his hair— "You knew exactly what you were doing."

"I didn't plan it," she whispered. "It just... happened."

The front door opened.

And there he was.

Matt stepped inside, freezing the second he saw Brock, Alice, and the hoodie between them.

He looked like he'd just been shoved into a nightmare he knew was coming.

"Brock," he said quietly.

"You," Brock snapped, rounding on him. "You've got balls showing up here after this."

"I didn't know—"

"But you let it happen." Brock's voice cracked. "What was it? Just sex? Some secret thing behind my back?"

Matt was quiet.

Then he looked at Alice.

His voice dropped.

"No."

He stepped forward.

"It wasn't just sex."

Brock laughed bitterly. "Right. Okay."

"I'm in love with her."

Silence slammed into the room like a bomb.

Brock froze.

Alice's stomach dropped.

"I'm in love with her," Matt said again. "I've been trying to ignore it. I told myself I couldn't want her—that I shouldn't. But I do. I love her. I'm done pretending."

Alice's breath caught.

She hadn't expected that. Not here. Not like this.

And not from him.

Brock's anger faltered, disbelief painting his face. He knew Matt. Knew him better than almost anyone. Matt didn't do relationships. He didn't chase girls, didn't sleep around, didn't risk distractions—ever.

So if he was saying this... he meant it.

"I need some air," Brock muttered. "I need to get the hell out of here."

He didn't look back.

When the door shut, it left a silence so thick, it nearly choked her.

Alice turned slowly to Matt.

"You love me?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

He nodded. Stepped closer.

"I know I don't deserve to say it after the way I treated you. But I'm saying it anyway. Because I do."

He exhaled, finally letting himself feel it all.

"I love the way you make everything messy. I love how loud you are. How chaotic. How alive. I love that you drive me insane, because it means I actually feel something. And I don't want to go another day pretending I don't need you."

Her throat tightened.

"You hurt me," she said quietly. "You made me feel like I was something to regret."

"I know," he said. "And I'll spend every day proving you're not."

A beat of silence.

Then she smiled. Just a little.

"That hoodie's mine now."

He huffed a laugh. "It always was."

She stepped into him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and kissed him like it was the last time.

Only it wasn't.

Because this time—it was real.

No secrets.

No running.

No games.

Just Matt and Alice. Messy. Flawed. In love.

And finally, finally—

Enough.

[rat-rosemary]

Dream is the god of false luck. Of shifting change. Of shoving everything in your pockets so you have a way out hours later. Of jumping from cliffs with half of a plan. Of Deus Ex Machinas made days earlier one the few seconds you had to breathe in the middle of a chase.

Of making it all look magic, like you can twist reality while hiding your bloody knuckles behind your back

No matter what happens the dsmp still prays to him.

In lmanburg Wilbur would leave a small offering to Dream before going to fight them same man. Karl would mutter a small prayer before making a particularly stupid prank to get the attention of a married man. Tommy screamed a plea as he stumbled and fell from the obsidian grid, managing to snatch a water bucket from his inventory just in time.

All but two of them keep their bonds to the god they lock away under obsidian and lava.

Sam breaks his the day he becomes the Warden, locking the rosary he has carried for years in a box in his base and never touching again

(The way his body becomes stiff and cold does not bother him. It doesn't. His duty comes first, even if he doesn't know what to do now that his body doesn't seem to move like it used to)

Quackity breaks his the day before his first visit to the prison, easily throwing his rosary into the flames of the fireplace in the office of his new empire

(His wings ache where they're bound to his back, his skin tingles, so cold and hard compared to the fluid metarmothis he got used to for years. He imagines being able to absorb the divinity that pours out of Dream through his skin, holds back the urge to eat his heart)

Quackity wanted endless luck. He wanted everything to always go exactly as planned, for all the pieces to fall into place

But the only luck that is certain is a gun with six bullets pressed against your temple.

[stellayuta]

Love on The Grid - Formula 1 AU! Yuta Okkotsu - Pt 1.

synopsis: One-night stands were nothing but a necessary painkiller for your inability to cross paths with true love. Your most recent find at a Vegas Club was no different. He was boring, obedient, SLOW! You leave him high and hanging hoping you'd never see him again until you find yourself gawking at a supersized billboard of him on a Vegas highway with the title 'LEGEND RETURNS TO VEGAS'.

genre: smut

content: 18+ only. Formula one driver! Yuta x f! reader, nasty intercourse and everything it includes, swearing, unprotected sex, use of alcohol. and a lot, lot, lot of s*xy stuff(like it's everything, a long list, so not gonna write it), reader is downright filthy ngl

word count: 2.8k

a/n: Ah this is my dream come true and this is totally to feed into my fantasies Dx

WARNING: always use protection!

"A bit to the right." you gasp, biting your lips but unable to hold on for long enough to make way for an uncontrollable moan.

"Ah, fuck! How are you so good at this! I thought you were a virgin?" You gasp, coming on his face with a squeal and taking some minutes to put your dazzled mind back into order. You sit up and clear your throat while the man appears from under the blanket and your thighs, face slick and shining with fluid. You gulp at the sight.

"What made you think I was a virgin?" He asks, smiling at you kindly, as if he didn't just devour your pussy.

"I don't know... really." You say, running a hand through your tousled hair, picturing how you two first met. It was a rave night at one of Las Vegas' upscale clubs. You and two of your friends happened to be bar hopping and ended up there at the recommendation of a previous bar's bartender. This club happened to be hosting a major celebration for an event that took place in Vegas that night and it was filled with howling men and skimpily dressed women, dancing to the heavy bass and vibing through the strobe-rainbow lasers. This was exactly your type of place.

"Tonight's your night Y/N." One of your friends cheered while the other made a tiger claw impression at you. "Go get em' tiger!"

You let your girls handle the drink orders and in a half-high state, wandered through the crowd, trying to look for men to chat up. That's where you saw this man, tucked away into a comfortable corner, with what looked like a nice orangey cocktail in hand. He was surrounded by a few men chatting with some very eager women, but he didn't partake in the conversation. That man was going to be your lay today, you had decided.

You cut through the dazed crowd and approach their group with your martini in hand.

"Hi there, got room for one more?" you say charmingly, the other men smiling encouragingly at you and the women smiling apprehensively. The men are clearly better looking, taller, with posher clothing than the wallflower hiding behind them, but the women can have these men.

"Oh, hey you!" you call out to the man, and he looks at his peers before making eye contact with you.

"Yeah, you." you pout at him. "Come out, I need a partner, I love this music." you reach for his hand, and he takes it hesitantly. You see the girls relax a bit as you seem to have chosen the worst pick of the group instead of the shiny men but you're happy to excuse yourself from their company and take your new arm candy to the dance floor.

"You frequent this place?" you ask the man, in order to break some ice. You have no interest in knowing his name.

"Well, I'm just visiting." He replies shortly, training his gaze to be glued to the dance floor. So, it'll be a challenge.

"Want some of this?" you ask, offering your drink.

"Nah, I'm on a cut, sorry." he replies. You give him a sharp smile trying to mask your immense irritation.

"Why the fuck are you in a club then?" you ask, discarding your martini on one of the drink tables and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, staring into his eyes. You catch a glimpse of his drink it may as well be orange juice for all you know now.

"Well, I -"

"Actually, never mind, don't answer that. Do you have a girlfriend?" you get to the point now. Because if he does, you're going to back off.

"Um, sorry, I don't." He says, confused. He stands absolutely still as everyone around him including you continue to groove to the music.

"Well, if you don't like drinking or dancing..." you smirk at him. "Want to do something more fun?"

You were almost certain this lad would say no but to your immense positive astonishment he agrees, cupping your waist and dragging you out of the club. The rest was history.

*****

"Anyway," you say, eyeing the rising sun out of the window blinds of this random hotel room of a random hotel he picked out. It had been a long night and the two of you had been going at it like rabbits. You started near the doorway with him pounding into you from behind. After you came once, you made him pull out and got down on your knees, sucking him off like a thirsty wreck. Then you had a round in the bathtub of the suite with you on top of him. He wasn't limp yet, so you got on top of him on the toilet again and bounced your way till his climax.

He still wasn't done because you ended up on the bed and he decided it would be a good idea to eat you out. You're just glad none of you were drunk out of your minds and everything happened consensually. He had an amazing dick, perfect girth and just long enough with a wicked curve, it's a pity you'd have to let it go today. Yet, you can't help but eye it hopelessly as it hung limp in front of you, almost begging you to caress it again.

"Aww you little-" You coo at his dick, reaching out in front of you to take it in your hands. You feel its weight and its fleshy texture and relish it. "I just can't leave it alone." you tell his soft length as he smiles at you.

That was one good thing about this guy. He didn't say awkward things. He was to the point, very kind in his after care, naughty but not excessively and oh my god are his groans out of this world. He is a looker too. I couldn't tell in the horrendous lighting of the club but now with steady lighting and even in the majestic rays of the rising sun, this man looks hot as hell.

You slump down to take his warm cock into your mouth gratefully and start sucking on it, feeling the length gradually increase and harden inside your mouth.

"Mmm.." you hum and grab a hold of his ball sack and fondle them, not wanting them to feel left out from the action.

You pay special attention to the underside of his cock as he grabs a hold of your hair with his shivering hands and makes you sink down on his length till it hits the back of your throat.

yummy.

You let his cock feel the merciless squeeze of your throat cavity as you go cross eyed from the sensation of being used like this. You moan and hum some more to add to his pleasure and grab a hold of his thighs with force. You look up at him with teary eyes to give him the green signal to let go and with a gasp, he looks up.

You are able to appreciate how thick and veiny his neck is as his seed paints your inner throat white, shooting warm liquid down your throat. He keeps thrusting and doesn't stop until his balls are dried out. You keep his limpening dick in your mouth for a while longer, collecting some of the cum in your mouth, intending to play with it for a bit when he pulls out.

"God. Just wow." He says after leaving your mouth as he watches you blow bubbles with his cum and let it drip down your lips only to scoop it with your fingers and force it back into your mouth.

"Shit. You'll make me hard again."

You blow a big bubble from his cum and wait for it to pop before speaking.

"Why, you're turned on again?" you ask, with half lidded eyes.

"Can you tell me your name?" He asks hopefully. Does he want this to be something? does he want more of you?

Well, he ain't getting any.

"Mouth's full." You reply teasingly, dodging his question and grinning with your teeth covered in his cum.

Your conversation is suddenly interrupted though by a long beeping noise coming out of your digital watch and you check the time.

6:15AM.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!

The man sees your mouth form a big O as you stare bleary eyed at your watch, the cumming almost dripping out of your mouth. At this point he felt it was ridiculous you hadn't swallowed yet, nasty.

But swallow you did, and very quickly. You moved with such pace that it was a blur in front of him... and he had seen many fast things in his life.

"I-I'm sorry." you say, pulling your pants on and buttoning up your shirt. You opt to leave your bra and panties; he can have them for all his good work.

"I gotta go!" you say.

"Hey wait! At least tell me your name... or your number, anything!" He pleads. You make the mistake of turning back to look at him. Blushed, with sleepy eyes and puffy lips, locks of dark hair falling beautifully on his delicate face. He looked so vulnerable and needy that you almost feel bad, but your boundaries were clear from the start.

This vegas trip was your medicine to heal from a broken heart. You weren't going to leech on to someone emotionally again. Never!

"Looks like our time here ends..." you say, trying to sound as sorry as possible.

"I don't know if I'll ever meet you again baby boy, but hey! you made me cum. That's brownie points!" you smile at him encouragingly before fleeing from the hotel room with your phone, wallet, and no underwear.

You take quick steps in your kitten heals and head for the receptionist's desk, hoping and praying that here is no white goo on your teeth. First, you locate where this damn hotel is and next, you ask for a pharmacy which luckily, they happen to have.

You book your cab as your Plan B and water bottle gets billed. You check your clock again. 6:23AM.

Ahhhh!!!

You urge the cab drive to max out on his speed and he tries his level best to achieve super-car levels of pace while you down your plan-b. You make it to the hotel you and your friends were staying in just in time and only get 30 seconds to yourself to wash your wrecked face before you have to hop on to your work meeting on your laptop.

"Hey guys, how's it going? Everyone ready for today's standup?"

As a Principle Software Developer at a Megacorp, it's hard to take days off for Las Vegas on demand, at a short notice. Work from home was the only negotiation.

You grind for the rest of the morning and a large part of the afternoon as your friends and their boyfriends wake up from their sleep at their own pace, ask you about where you've been and grab some lunch for all of you. They have a lot of questions to ask but you're willing to answer absolutely none.

Once you're finally done with the day's work, the sun is beginning to set, and you take a minute to meditate and finally retire to the shower. This is the first time since yesterday morning that you truly have a chance to clean yourself thoroughly and to think clearly.

What were you thinking?

The reality of the situation drones in on you as the unforgiving cold droplets assault your skin. You still feel his dick on your tongue, his cum clumped in your throat, his veiny neck, his firm arms on your hips, his legs intertwined with yours.

God, what did you do?

This is... this is all Megumi's fault. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be this broken today.

You let a few tears slip out in the gracious masking of the shower.

When you finally emerge fresh, your friends are waiting for you.

"We're going out!" your friend, Momo, exclaims.

"What? Where?" you ask. There were no plans for today.

"Well Noritoshi here wants to see one his fancy car races. Apparently, they do that in Vegas. There's a track and everything." your friend explains as her boyfriend, Noritoshi nods in excitement.

"It's Formula One, Momo! I have been dying to see one race live, at the circuit." He mumbles, more to himself than to us. "Initially, I only booked the tickets for Momo and me but I was able to get three free ones!"

"You guys can come along if you want to." Momo tells me and my other friend, Miwa and her boyfriend, Kokichi.

We all look at each other and before I can protest, they say yes on my behalf too.

Motorsports huh. I've heard of it yes. Though I appreciate a good quality car, I have never been a fan of racing as a sport. Isn't it a rich people exclusive anyway? I mentally scoff at the thought of my cheering on from the stands at a circuit and definitely catch Miwa narrowing her eyes at my expression.

"Dress up well. The crowds are all bigshots." Kokichi tells Miwa. "Not that you don't always look good, babe."

"Oh stop you!" Miwa blushes, putting her cheek on Kokichi's shoulder.

Ugh couples.

All of us get dressed to the best of our abilities with Noritoshi absolutely decking himself out in his formula one merch. He is wearing a teal accented and black leather bomber jacket with the words "Mercedes" stamped on it. He also carries a cute little plushie of what I assume is a current driver. The plushie looks soft and limp just like...

I widen my eyes in lieu of publicly slapping myself. Fucking. Get over it. Y/N!

Kokichi eyes the plushie with disgust.

"Bruh come on. Him, really?"

Noritoshi isn't having it though. "He's one of the greats. If you don't believe it, you're in denial. Thank you very much."

"He's not as great as my man Geto Suguru. The beast in his Red Bull!"

"Suguru, that ass? He's a cheat and you know it-" Noritoshi wants to continue but Momo stops him.

"We're getting late! Let's get going." The five of us leave the hobby and hop into our convertible (Kokichi won't let us rent anything else).

Kokichi drives, with Miwa in the shotgun handling the music. Momo, the shortest sits in the middle with Noritoshi to the right, making sure the tickets and everything else is in place. I am in the left, zoning out, happy to look at the twinkling lights of evening Vegas. This city is like an anti-depressant. Fast acting and temporary.

"Hey, Y/N." Momo suddenly pulls on my arm.

"Mhm?" I ask, keeping my eyes shut.

"How was it last night? With that guy you went off with?" She asks, curious.

"Don't wanna talk about it." I admit. Because I will then never stop thinking about his stupid dick.

"You will have to tell me some day!" She yells in a hushed voice.

"Not that I'll ever see him again, Momo." I remind her.

"You didn't even get his number?" She prods.

"Nah."

"Okay what's his name?"

"...."

"You can't be seriously, Y/N!"

I raise my hand to shut her up for a bit. I don't want to have this conversation after a long night of fucking and a long day of work.

Miwa must be forgetting why I came on the trip because she starts vibing to some slow, romantic song, holding Kokichi's hand as I try to play deaf. I place my head on my folded hands atop the window, gazing out at the passing light poles on the highway, in front of a pinky-purple sky. The sunset today is ethereal.

I almost begin to hear Megumi's voice in my head when Noritoshi suddenly laughs out, holding his plushie in the sky.

"Kokichi, would you look at that!" He says sarcastically pointing in a direction which makes us all turn our heads.

I follow his line of sight and spot a huge billboard approach us. It is so massive that I can clearly see what's on it from like half a mile away. It is made to stand out with blue and teal led lights framing it.

What catches my eye isn't the billboard decoration though. It's what's on it.

I nearly let out a choking sound but catch myself just in time.

On the billboard, larger than life is the human version of Noritoshi's plushie, clad in black and teal with a shining helmet in hand and standing proudly in front of his wicked Mercedes accompanied by the tagline which Noritoshi chants now.

"The Legend of Vegas returns to conquer for the Third Time! KING Yuta Okkotsu!"

Continued here in Part 2

Your likes, comments and reblogs really encourage me to write more! So do interact with this post and let me know your thoughts 🧡