#the interviews they go on and the questions and their responses

[effieotto]

when Haymitch says that Proserpina wasn’t a bad person, but just extremely clueless, he backs his argument by saying that she wasn’t evil, she just had a lot of things to unlearn. which is a funny choice of words, cause while Katniss see her team as dumb kiddos, who couldn’t know any better because they simply didn’t have the brains to do so, haymitch doesn’t see their problem as a lack of education. actually, by saying she had a lot of things to unlearn, instead of arguing that she wasn’t very bright and needed to learn better, he’s subtly recognizing that the crux of the problem is not necessarily the quality of the education or how much capable those people were to absorb it, but how biased their system is in stimulating the critical process of their children. the capitol’s strategy was to corrupt their minds with the strongest and most efficient method of brainwashing —they held total power of how further their children could go in terms of knowledge. they manipulated the truth, made up scenarios and changed narratives so they could force them into unnoticed submission.

Intelectual control is the best way to make sure your people won’t start questioning your methods, cause as long as they don’t know any different, they don’t have anything to compare you to. and if you can hold the power of how much of the reality they know, you can easily control their natural desire for change…

and saying they are like that because they are child-like dumb is pushing them way too shallow into the conversation. the point of the capitol isn’t the lack of education. the problem is how much their academic influence aren’t used as a tool of ideology control. the smartest folk at school will still look up at the games as a blessing for the community, because snow’s intention was to efficiently erase the reality off their brains so they can work in his favor. so as long as you don’t have a reason to think out of the ordinary, due to some specific experience, or has the means and desire to educate yourself against what the common sense says, you won’t go any further…

and it’s fun cause most of those people wouldn’t even try to go out of the box, because that system was comfortable for them. if your choice is either to be starved in a war or to be comfy with your family in your three stores mansion, eating shrimps and going to parties in your fancy clothes at weekends, and the price for it is just to watch, for a week every year, twenty-four unknown children sacrificing themselves for the cause (which most of the people in the capitol believed to be a privilege to them, since that was the propaganda the tributes had to sell during interviews —which is another can of worms i am not going to open now), why would you want it to end? if all the government asks you in exchange for your protection is to be in line and don’t let your mind wonder to uncomfortable thoughts you didn’t even want to visit anyway, why would you? that’s the world you’ve been living on since ever, you don’t know anything else. in school they teach you that’s the only normal and you don’t have anything else saying it isn’t, so why would you feel bad? at home your mom and dad tells you the games are fun, so why wouldn’t you think they’re fun? should you feel bad just because you were lucky to be born in the capitol? that’s not your fault, that’s just what it is. if the districts choose to revolt years ago and then lost the war, that’s their fault, not urs

As Katniss says herself:

“In fact, all three are so readily respectful and nice to my mother that I feel bad about how I go around feeling so superior to them. Who knows who I would be or what I would talk about if I'd been raised in the Capitol? Maybe my biggest regret would be having feathered costumes at my birthday party, too” Catching fire, page 46

my question is, in this line of responsibility, where the submission ends and the oppression begins? if we can’t blame them for the way they think, because of how much knowledge they were granted by snow’s tendency of masking the reality, can we blame them for not realizing sooner that it was wrong? and not being to blame for the ideals that were carved into their scowl, does exonerate them from their actions?

i don’t know, those people are just so interesting

[and to be clear, i am not talking about the high classes of the capitol. it’s implied that those who’d access to real information, either from somehow being related into politics or for fitting the category of sponsors who were more or less involved in the underground political process of the victors lives, are part of a limited range of people! the majority of the capitol, though still extremely problematic, weren’t granted a close view to the backstage, thus most of their knowledge about it came exclusively through Snow and his controlled, manipulated narratives]

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

I don't know how to phrase this but like -

I need Hobie Brown - but like as Gorillaz.

Like you know the British cartoon-band 'Gorillaz'? And they have animated characters with names and personalities but the characters aren't actual people and the real people making the music is one dude, one comic book artist, and a bunch of collaborators?

The group that made Feel Good Inc? - that one song with the dude laughing and cackling in the beginning u know the one

DO THAT - WITH HOBIE BROWN. SIMPLE

Like - the Gorillaz go DEEP on the concept.

The characters age. Noodle goes from ten to her mid twenties over the course of the bands discography. They have arcs, and between albums the characters go off and develop before reuniting - and you can hear the change in each album

[they're dressed like that in the second one cause Murdoc (green guy) started a cult so thats what the albums about] The music videos connect and tell a story - The Feel Good Inc video connects to the El Manana video connects to the Plastic Beach video etc

REAL PEOPLE and artists can be featured with them LIKE CAN YOU IMAGINE IT

Hobie Brown feat. Little Simz

Like... Release a limited-run Spider-Punk comic, find a cockney-working class artist to voice him, record punk songs that apply to his arc, DRAW HIM AN ALBUM COVER, ANIMATE SOME MUSIC VIDEOS

HAVE HOBIE DO 'INTERVIEWS' WITH ACTUAL MAGAZINES PLEASE I BEG OF YOU

Have the magazine just sends over the audio of the questions, then have someone animate Hobie sitting there, answering as if the person were sitting across from him. (Which Gorillaz has done multiple times)

LIKE WHY ISN'T THIS A THING. Imagine a video of Hobie lounging lazily on a couch telling Rolling Stone about his next album or single Am I...AM I WEIRD FOR WANTING THIS SOO BADLY

The fact there isn't like a full length Hobie Brown music video with sexy clothes and a crazy concept and wild lyrics and HOBIE SINGING like.... ?????? WHere is it????

I NEED A LADY GAGA VIDEO BUT HOBIE. RIGHT NOW.

FUCK IT PUT HIM IN A LADY GAGA MUSIC VIDEO PUT HIM WITH FKA TWIGS

I'm going to be physically sick if i don't get this SOON AND NOW. WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY.

[sophaeros]

ALBERT HAMMOND JR.: After I moved in with Catherine and he moved in with Juliet, we just didn't hang out the same way anymore. I missed his energy. I got sad; I felt a distance between us. That was a big part for me in this band—just hanging out with him, just being friends with him. We lived together for seven years. I've never lived with a girl that long. JULIAN CASABLANCAS: Does that mean anything to me? I mean, of course. The way I remember it, we were roommates and we moved places and I wanted to stay roommates and I feel like maybe he was not so into it anymore. Albert, you don't know what you've got til it's gone, baby!

— Albert and Julian on Julian's marriage to Juliet, from Meet Me In The Bathroom by Lizzy Goodman, interviewed around 2011 (x)

[watery-melon-baller]

anyone have any interviews tips or tricks

i have a job interview tomorrow morning and im super nervous

[solargeist]

despite my previous post, I don’t know how to handle when people talk abt things I don’t know or understand bc I focus too hard on my own reactions so I don’t accidentally offend them bc there’s only so many times you can say “oh really?” before you sound sarcastic ‼️💥

[crescentmp3]

i think dread is like when you're inside the ocean and you don't know how to swim and there's the light of an anglerfish right there staring you in the face

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Hngngng my ADP apointment isn't thorough another fortnight but I just realised what a FANTATSIC birthday present thst getting sorted would be bc the first payout would be backdated *months*

[asinglesock]

job interview on Monday!!!

[ef-1]

I know I might be in the minority here, but I didn't find anything offensive in that Daniel video. Like those formats are built to be on the borderline offensive style and at least for me Daniels answers were not bad or offensive.

I might be a bad feminist idk but I was enjoying him laughing the whole time, like that man can't keep a straight face to save his life.

I dont think it makes you a bad feminist bb but you're allowed to not be offended by things just as people reserve the right to be offended as well

[fawnindawn]

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

[bitchyblkqueer]

going through a sebastian stan phase in 2024 has been so humbling

[whimsicalnancy]

— i got into the void state back to back 4 times

guys, i think I've found a cheat code to effortlessly reprogram the subconscious mind to enter the void state, tho it can be used for other things as well.

the cheat code:

so, I was honestly getting so bored of making and listening to the same old type of subliminals. you know… the typical affirmations on loop, layered with rain sounds or some aesthetic music. they worked, sure but I kept thinking, there has to be a smarter, smoother, unique way to speak to the subconscious.

so I was just sitting and thinking...umm if my future self already had everything I wanted. how would she talk? how would she act?

and this wild idea popped into my head out of nowhere:

“wait… what if I recorded a fake interview with my future self?”

like “hey, how has your life changed after the void?”

and me then answering the question and yapping as if I have already had mastered the void..

BRUH, HOLD ON

i’m not gonna lie, I felt like an absolute genius in that moment. like when I would be focused on the interview, background sub affirmation will sweep in through my subconscious. giggled so hard.

i did some research and let me tell you why this is a genius idea and why this would work.

• it activates neuroplasticity through simulation:

when you listen to a conversation that sounds like your future self casually recalling success, it triggers mental simulation a process where the brain mentally rehearses an experience. thanks to neuroplasticity, our brain begins rewiring itself to adapt to this new "reality," even if it hasn't happened yet.

• bypasses critical filters and reconstructs self-image:

typical affirmations often trigger the Reticular Activating System (RAS) to filter them out if they don't align with your current self-image. but when you're hearing a relaxed, believable conversation like "Yeah, it's just normal now, i don't chase it anymore" it flies under the radar. this style avoids resistance and quietly restructures your internal self-schema, making lasting changes to your identity without inner conflict.

• it engages the limbic system for emotional encoding:

subliminals that evoke emotion trigger the limbic system, the emotional core of the brain responsible for memory and behavioral shifts. when you hear yourself speaking from a place of fulfillment like joy, ease, or pride - it creates emotional anchors in your subconscious. this emotional charge imprints the new belief deeply, making the transformation stick in a way dry affirmations can't replicate.

my success with this:

i decided to make a subliminal based on that idea, for the void. i kept the affirmations low in the background and made the interview part fully audible. I recorded myself answering interview-style questions in my own voice, but as if I were already the version of me who had completely mastered the void. and putting it all together took over 2hr not gonna lie, but it was all WORTH IT 💅🏻🫶🏻

even while I was creating it, i kept getting this giddy, butterfly-in-my-stomach kind of feeling. like, listening to MYSELF talk about MY dream life? ugh, it was something else.

anyway, when it was finally done, i was like, "I'll try it out tonight." but of course, my curious little self couldn’t wait. so i hit play immediately. laid there, sometimes zoning in on the interview going on, sometimes just vibing with the calm music. halfway through, I started feeling symptoms but since you’re not supposed to focus on them, i redirected my attention right back to the interview.

and then BAM! everything went silent. like, really silent. the next moment i could hear the subliminal again. then it went all black. then i heard the sub again. it was like i was literally going in and out of the void on a loop. wild, right? 💀 i was laying there with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, completely amazed. then before i could attempt again, my mom called me and i had to go.

now cut to that night, i literally jumped onto my bed like it was a trampoline, put on my subliminal, and just laid there. and yep, symptoms showed up again. then pitch black. i was like, “wait, lemme check if I’m in the void,” and that’s where I messed up, the moment i brought my awareness to the 3D, poof, i was out. AGAIN. i was like, girl, what are you doing???”

but I was too tired to care, so i replayed the subliminal, didn’t focus too hard, and just started making scenarios in my head to help me sleep. and then, out of nowhere, i felt this wierd, tingly pull, my heart was racing like crazy. and yup,

there i was, in the void, the pure consciousness!

calm 💅🏻 quiet 💅🏻 all pitch black 💅🏻

this time, i didn’t even bother checking or analyzing shit. i just stayed chill and eventually fell asleep ‘cause I was completely wiped out.

did i manifest:

not yet. after my last void attempt, i haven’t really tried to get in again. i’ve been working on upgrading the sub and fixing a few music issues. but guess what? i’m planning to use the sub to enter the void again on my birthday and manifest something special for me. something i had been desiring for decades:) and when i do, i’ll show y’all, just like I did with my other manifestations in the past. better be ready babe.

final words:

if anyone else has already played around with this concept or came up with something like this before, big love and credit to you<3

and people, steal this idea! just talk to yourself, literally.

sit down and have a full on convo like you’re the version of you who already has it all. whether you call it your higher self, future self, or just “that version of me” .. speak from that place. out loud. say how your life feels now, what you’ve created, how normal it all is.

stop waiting. start being.

[themonsterunderthebed]

@pspspspspspspst i had an addition in my drafts folder about exactly this already so i hope you don't mind my pulling out your reply to address here! because YES i think so so so much about armand and what he's really trying for here. what he's doing and thinking and plotting. because here's the thing, right, i don't think louis is particularly manipulative. not in the way armand is. even what i described above, i don't think that's him manipulating armand in the same way that armand manipulates the psyches of those around him. it's louis seeing an opportunity and taking it -- but crucially, armand offered him that opportunity.

and armand offers it to him on purpose. armand, who can and will weaponize anything to protect himself and his relationships, sees that need for control in louis and uses it to worm his way in deeper. again, it's no coincidence that he shared his history in direct response to louis' accusation, in direct response to the lestat comparison. it's no coincidence that that's the form of apology he chose. the vulnerability he shares is real -- but it's also strategic, because i don't think armand knows how to do anything that isn't strategic. the way he's survived, his entire life, has been by using whatever he can and whatever he has to to make sure those around him accept him. in louis, he recognizes that the thing that will tether louis to him most effectively is giving louis the illusion of control over him.

and i think it both is and isn't an illusion. armand is such an incredibly complex character (ask me why i spend 70% of my waking hours thinking about him). i think he made the conscious and manipulative choice to hand control over to louis and be the submissive. but once that choice was made, i think he viewed it as final.

armand is someone for whom roles are set in stone. if he's the maitre, he WILL be treated as such and he WILL demand the obedience he feels is appropriate to the role. he will not have any compunctions about using his superior physical powers to harshly enforce coven discipline (e.g. executing wayward cult members for the children of darkness, forcing claudia to wear her costume dress at all times). but he is also bound to and trapped by this role -- he doesn't recognize, isn't capable of recognizing that he could do anything differently. if he doesn't want to be the coven master anymore, he isn't able to just leave -- he has to allow a situation to develop that will allow his role to change.

and this makes sense with his history -- at no point has he been afforded any agency over his life. he was kidnapped and sold to the brothel, "saved" from the brothel when marius purchased him, ripped from that home by the cult, and then forced to go to paris. outside forces have defined every change in his life, and he has never experienced that it can be possible to enact change himself. at this point, acknowledging that he could do so would likely upend his entire worldview. how do you change a mindset that's been beaten into you for hundreds of years? a part of realizing that you have agency over your own life is recognizing that there were times when that agency was taken from you, and recognizing that that hurt. that process is difficult enough on the scale of a mortal human's life, a mortal human's trauma -- how do you cope with that on the scale of centuries? as long as he never fully has that agency, he never has to face up to its loss.

all this to say, armand is not capable of changing his place in a relationship. once he allows himself to be placed in the submissive role, from his perspective, that's where he has to stay. it's not a matter of louis manipulating or forcing him to maintain that submissiveness. it's that he cannot comprehend that he could change that role for himself. the only choice he allows himself is the initial decision to inhabit that role for louis -- and that's easy, it's familiar, submissiveness is something he knows how to do and a strategy he trusts to get him the results he wants. he decides he wants to keep louis, decides what version of himself louis will be most likely to stay with, and becomes that. and so from then on he schemes and manipulates in the shadows, engineering situations that allow outside forces to shift his relationship and its dynamics while retaining the apparent passivity that characterizes the role he must play.

this is long enough as it is so i won't go on, i'll just mention quickly that 1) i do also believe that he genuinely enjoys being the submissive in his own way and 2) this is what makes the scenes from the 1970s SO incredible from a character perspective, because we finally see an armand pushed past the point where he can maintain his meticulous self-control and where, for a second there, he becomes himself and it is terrifying.

thinking about louis de pointe du lac meeting a man who is manipulative, alluring, powerful, secretive, and obsessively in love with him; a man who reminds him so much of lestat, a man who has a history with lestat; he meets that man, and finds himself falling again. but this man, it turns out, has a submissive streak that lestat didn't. and somewhere in him, louis de pointe du lac thinks, "a lestat i can control."

he meets someone who reminds him so much of his abuser -- and i do believe that's how he's conceptualizing lestat at this point in time, possibly in a conscious effort rather than an internalized perception, but still -- and thinks, "a do-over. a part 2. and this time, i can get it right. this time, i'll be in control."

louis accuses armand of being similar to lestat at the museum, and in direct response, armand shares the vulnerability of his past, and reveals that that vulnerability is still present and thus still exploitable. this is how he differentiates himself from lestat (notably, without having to change his behavior at all otherwise -- the very next thing he does is physically threaten claudia in the exact way lestat once did). and louis accepts that as sufficient and immediately incorporates it into their power dynamic. and sure, i'm perfectly willing to believe that a part of that was a natural tendency towards being dominant. but i am also absolutely convinced that another part is louis, whose last relationship made him a tamed thing, meek and frightened, grasping this opportunity to rewrite that narrative for himself. taking this replica of lestat and asserting his power over him from the start, to prove that he can.

[butchniqabi]

Situations where you exhibited cruelty?

I don’t know if it would be cruelty, but anger, rage, certain desires that would have never exhibited in my brother. There was a moment when I was 15 — I’ve been trying to articulate this for so long, and your question is putting me down the slippery slope. I’ve been trying to articulate it, because it’s important, but I’ve been ashamed. People ask me, why did you become a writer? I give the answer that makes sense: I went to Pace University, I tried business school because I wanted to help my mother. I couldn’t do it, and I went to Brooklyn College and to an English department, and then I became a writer. That’s not untrue, although I don’t know if it’s honest, and your question is now bringing me to this idea of cruelty and goodness. There was this one event when I was 15 that I think altered the course of my life, although at that time it was not an epiphanic moment. But the desire to be a writer probably started with the desire to commit myself to understanding suffering. What was the moment?

I’m trying to be eloquent. I don’t know if I will be. I’ll say it first, then describe it. When I was 15, I decided to kill somebody. Oh, my God.

I didn’t do it. Ah, my God. [Long pause.] I was working on the tobacco farm, and I rode my bike every day. It was five miles out. You wake up at 6 in the morning. I rode my bike, and I went to work mostly with migrant farmers. You’d get paid under the table, and if you show up every day, you get a $1,000 bonus at the end of the season. It was this hot July evening. I was in my room and I look out the window and see that someone has stolen my bike. It was someone I knew in our neighborhood. He was a drug dealer. You would put your bike outside on the stoop when you’re running in and out, and this guy was known to grab your bike, and there’s nothing you could do about it. But I snapped that day. I saw him, and I was so angry, because I knew: I’m not going to get this back, I’m going to lose my $1,000. For context: My mom made $13,000. I go outside and say, “Give me back my bike.” And essentially he said, “Eff off.” I lost it. I went across the street to my friend Big Joe’s house. I knocked on his window. I remember putting both of my hands on the windowsill. I have no shirt on. I’m sweating, I’m so angry, and I said, “Please let me borrow your gun.” [Vuong begins to cry.] I’m so sorry. Can I give you a hug? [Vuong and I embrace.] I appreciate that you’re being honest, but if it’s too much, we can stop. OK?

I think what I’m trying to get at is that I didn’t become an author to have a photo in the back of a book. Writing became a medium for me to try to understand what goodness is. Because when I was begging my friend, “Please give me your gun,” he said: “Ocean, I’m not going to do that. You need to go home.” What was so touching to me is that I was not responsible for that. Someone else’s better sense saved me.

[cressidagrey]

Not an accident

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Oscar gets asked about his daughter in an interview. It does not go well. 

Warnings and Notes: Chris Piastri bashing (The poor guy hasn't done anything in real life (As far as I am aware at least) but I needed a bad guy and he fit the bill. Sorry. Mention of Bee's very traumatic birth.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar Piastri sat in the chair with the usual polite calmness etched into his features, the lights warm against his skin, the mic clipped neatly to his collar. He’d hundreds of interviews by now—race recaps, performance breakdowns, media days—but this was one of the first few times he’d walked in knowing the questions wouldn’t stop at racing.

Not after the reveal.

Not after the world found out about Bee.

He braced himself without moving, only the faint twitch of his fingers against his knee betraying any tension.

The interviewer was the usual type: bright smile, confident voice, a clipboard full of questions that made Oscar’s stomach twist the moment he saw the label “life off-track.”

And then it started.

“Oscar,” the interviewer began smoothly, “you became a father at just nineteen years old, and that’s a massive responsibility. How difficult has it been to balance being a father at such a young age with the demands of Formula 1?”

Oscar exhaled slowly. Once. Deliberate. He lifted his gaze, eyes flat and unreadable.

“I don’t balance them,” he said.

The interviewer blinked, startled. “You don’t?”

Oscar’s voice was steady. “No. Because that question assumes my family is something I need to compromise on to succeed. And they aren’t.”

A pause stretched between them like a held breath.

Oscar blinked, fingers tapping the armrest now. His jaw ticked, just barely.

“I’ve been racing since I was a kid. My entire life has revolved around this sport. And then my daughter was born, and suddenly, I had something even more important. That didn’t take anything away from my racing—it gave me more to race for.”

The interviewer tilted his head slightly. “You don’t think it held you back?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “No.”

“But wouldn’t it have been easier if you had waited? Focused on your career first, then thought about settling down later?”

His jaw tightened. The polite edge in his expression vanished, replaced by something sharper.

“You seem very concerned about how I live my life.”

The interviewer faltered for the first time. “It’s just—most young drivers aren’t in your situation. They’re traveling freely, making the most of their careers without the extra weight—”

Oscar’s entire body went still.

“Extra weight?” he repeated, voice low.

“I just mean—”

Oscar’s tone sliced through the room like a scalpel. “No, I heard exactly what you meant.”

His eyes locked onto the man, cold and dark.

“I don’t consider my wife and daughter ‘extra weight.’ They’re the best thing that ever happened to me. My career isn’t something that exists separate from them—it’s because of them. Everything I do, I do for them. If you think loving my family is a burden, that says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

The interviewer cleared his throat, tried to pivot. “Well, balancing Formula 1 and a family is a lot for anyone, let alone someone so young. Some people might say it’s—”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Some people might say what?”

“That it’s a distraction. That it could have—held you back.” The interviewer paused, then added almost casually, “You became a father at just nineteen, which isn’t exactly… typical. I mean—surely that wasn’t planned?”

Oscar’s silence was lethal.

“What did you just say?” he asked quietly.

“I just meant—”

Oscar leaned forward slightly, calm but unmistakably furious. “No, I want to hear you say it again.”

The interviewer hesitated now. The air in the room was thick, tense, electric.

Oscar’s voice dipped even lower. “You’re asking me if my daughter was an accident. Live. On television. …Are you serious right now?”

Silence.

The interviewer shifted, suddenly nervous. But it was too late.

Oscar leaned in, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Did you seriously just imply that my daughter was a mistake?”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you—”

“No, say it. Be a man about it. Say exactly what you meant.”

“I—I just meant if it was difficult—”

“Difficult?” Oscar let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You sit there and ask me if my daughter was a complication, like she’s some kind of setback? Like she’s something I have to work around?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“That’s exactly what you meant. And let me tell you something, since you clearly don’t get it.”

He leaned forward again, voice calm, words lethal.

“First of all, whether my daughter was planned or not is absolutely none of your business. But since you’re so interested in my personal life—no, Beatrice wasn’t an accident. She was very much wanted. She was very much planned.”

His tone was steel. Precision. Fury cloaked in professionalism.

“You sit there, smiling, asking if my daughter was an inconvenience, if she ‘complicated’ my career. Like she’s a hurdle I had to overcome. Like she’s some kind of burden.”

His jaw clenched. The camera caught the twitch in his cheek.

“Let me make something perfectly clear. My daughter is not—has never been and will never be—a burden. She and her mother are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bee is the one thing in my life that is bigger than racing. And if you think for a second that I regret having her, then you have absolutely no idea who I am.”

Silence.

“You wouldn’t ask Max that about his girlfriend. You wouldn’t ask Lewis if his family was a ‘challenge’ to his career. But you think it’s okay to sit here and imply that my daughter was a mistake? You’re acting like my wife and daughter are a burden. Like I should regret them. Like I’d be better off without them.”

Oscar’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “You don’t get to talk about my family like that. You don’t get to act like my biggest joy is some kind of inconvenience. Like the love of my life and the little girl who calls me Papa are things I should have avoided.”

The studio was silent.

“You think I wasn’t ready for this. That because I was nineteen, I couldn’t have possibly wanted this life. Like I didn’t make a choice. Like my wife and I didn’t sit down and decide that we wanted a family. That we wanted her.”

The interviewer’s voice was paper-thin. “I was just asking—”

“No, you weren’t just asking,” Oscar snapped. “You were making a point. A pathetic, lazy point. So let me make one of my own—”

He leaned in, every word clipped and crystalline. “I have never, not once, questioned whether being a dad would hold me back. Do you know why?”

A beat.

“Because loving my wife and daughter doesn’t make me less of a driver. It makes me better.”

Oscar’s tone turned to steel. Absolute and final.

“So let me spell it out for you, since you seem to have a hard time understanding. My daughter was not an accident. My daughter is not a challenge. My daughter is not an obstacle. She is my world. Fliss and Bee are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

The pause that followed was blistering.

Oscar’s eyes cut through the silence.

“And if you ever—ever—talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.”

The interviewer was ghost-white, gripping his notes like a lifeline.

Oscar didn’t look at him again.

He leaned back. Let the silence linger.

And then, coolly:

“Next question.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1insidergirl: oscar piastri just verbally assassinated a journalist on live tv for implying his daughter was an "inconvenience" and honestly? good.

@/lanblessed: you can see the moment oscar goes from calm to australian dad rage. interviewer said "extra weight" and oscar said "time to die"

@/verstappenvevo: if i was felicity i would’ve made that entire interview my ringtone

@/gridchaosofficial: lando watching that interview like: 😳🥹😨💘🐝📊🧁

@/f1girlboss: oscar piastri just verbally suplexed that interviewer with the calm fury of a man who’s been waiting YEARS to be asked that exact question. father of the year. husband of the decade. driver of my heart.

@/beewatch24: the way he went from calm to “say it again. be a man about it.” like sir this is formula one not game of thrones

@/trackmoments: Oscar being asked if having a family held him back and him answering “it made me better” has me curled up in a ball. you don’t understand.

@/michelinmealwife: interviewer: “surely it wasn’t planned?” oscar, full deadpan fury: “what did you just say?” me: cancels everything for the rest of the day to watch this meltdown on loop

@/mclarencult:  he really said “if you ever talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.” THAT’S a man. THAT’S a husband. THAT’S a father.

@/undercutcentral: You could hear the exact moment the interviewer realized he f**ked up. Piastri went from “media trained” to “do not test me.”

@/felicitynation: Everyone talking about Oscar defending Bee but don’t forget he said “Fliss and Bee are the best thing that’s ever happened to me” LIKE OKAY I’M CRYING

@/haasapoint: Oscar Piastri just did more for paternal representation in motorsport than 50 years of PR combined.

@/beatriceupdates: The way he didn’t raise his voice once. Just iced that man out with pure devotion and fury. He’s not called Ice Spice Piastri for nothing.

@/nobodysgirlfriend:  you can literally see the moment oscar’s expression shifts from neutral to I will end you 10/10 dad rage. I respect it.

@/felicitysbreadloaf: imagine being a journalist and walking into an interview thinking you can imply a child is a “setback” and walking out with your dignity in ashes. couldn’t be me.

@/racingbeeupdates:  🚨 Oscar Piastri just eviscerated a journalist live on air for implying his daughter was a “mistake.” I have never seen someone go from calm to lethal that fast.

@/beeandflissupdates:  Not to be dramatic but if anyone ever implies Bee was a burden again I hope Oscar drives a McLaren directly over their kneecaps.

@/gridtea: the way oscar kept his voice even the entire time?? no yelling. no swearing. just pure, icy rage and surgical verbal destruction. I would have cried on set.

@/formulalads: oh my god did oscar piastri just evaporate that interviewer on live TV???????

@/lan_doughnut: Lando’s probably backstage with popcorn like “YES KING DESTROY HIM”

@/engineeredforlove:  Him: I don’t balance them. Interviewer: 😬 Him: Because my family is not something to compromise on. Me: dead

@/wheelfeels:  This is your reminder that Oscar Piastri became a dad at 19, chose that life, and then defended it like a seasoned lawyer in a murder trial. 💅

@/notyouagainf1:  sorry but what was that interviewer ON. “Surely she wasn’t planned?” WHO SAYS THAT OUT LOUD. ON CAMERA. TO A FATHER??

@/beeandfliss: The question wasn’t even subtle like… “do you regret your child?” is INSANE journalism. Did they think Oscar was just gonna smile and nod???

@/theundercutpod: Imagine sitting across from Oscar Piastri and thinking “yo, let me imply his daughter is a mistake and see what happens.”

@/f1reactions: Oscar’s response was a MASTERCLASS in composure and fury. The interviewer should be ashamed. You don’t talk about people’s families like that. Ever.

@/tiresmokeandtea:  The way the interviewer spiraled from “how’s parenting?” to “your kid was an accident right?” in 45 seconds like it was casual small talk. WILD.

@/f1legalbriefs: PR should’ve cut the mic the moment “extra weight” left his mouth. Unprofessional. Dehumanizing. And Oscar had every right to shut it all the way down.

@/griddreams:  i’m sorry but who LET that interviewer cook?? like did they genuinely think asking “was your daughter a mistake” on live tv was gonna go well???

@/f1familychronicles: literally who approved those questions. “did you plan your child?” “isn’t your wife a burden?” what the actual hell

@/paddockwivesanon:  Let’s be clear: that wasn’t journalism. That was misogynistic, condescending BS dressed up as an “honest question.”

@/oversteerandtears: listen I’ve seen dumb F1 media questions but “was your daughter an accident?” is straight-up career suicide. like. sir. be serious.

***

Lando had seen Oscar angry before.

Not often—Oscar wasn’t the slamming-doors or yelling-in-the-garage type. His anger was usually cold, controlled. The kind that showed up in clipped sentences and narrowed eyes and a post-race debrief that ended early because he’d already told them three times what was wrong with the setup.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

Lando stood just off-set, arms folded, watching as Oscar stalked out of the interview area like a man who had just walked away from a wreckage—calm on the outside, but with wreckage in his wake. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. And his hands? Shaking. Barely. But shaking.

And that scared the hell out of Lando more than anything.

Because Oscar didn’t shake.

He didn’t snap.

He didn’t break.

The interviewer, pale as a sheet, hadn’t moved from his seat. PR was scrambling. The camera crew had stopped pretending to work. Lando just stood there, stunned, as Oscar walked past him like he didn’t even see him.

“Mate,” Lando said, reaching out instinctively, “what the hell happened?”

Oscar didn’t stop walking. Just muttered, “They called Bee a mistake.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“They asked if she was an accident.” He said it like the words still tasted like ash. “If she held me back.”

And then he was gone—shoulders taut, eyes fixed ahead like he was afraid if he stopped moving, the fury would swallow him whole.

Lando didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

Because that? That wasn’t race-day frustration or missed-lap anger.

That was something else.

That was Oscar Piastri, quiet and even-tempered and scarily precise, brought to the edge of rage.

And Lando—who’d spent years next to him in briefings and press junkets and those awful team-building days—had never seen anything like it.

He swallowed hard.

Oscar had always been calm, cool, calculating.

But now Lando understood something he hadn’t before:

You don’t mess with the people Oscar loves.

Because if you do?

He will burn you down with perfect diction and a smile so sharp it cuts.

And you won’t even realize you’re bleeding until it’s far, far too late.

***

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Oscar hated that.

He had spent years mastering stillness. Learned early that silence could speak volumes, that restraint was sometimes more powerful than reaction. He could wait out storms. He could hold pressure in his bones and still keep his voice steady. He could drive through chaos at 300 kph and come out the other side calm.

But not this.

Not that question.

Not the way the interviewer said it, so casual, like Bee was an unexpected speed bump in a promising career. Like Felicity was a mistake he hadn’t learned from yet.

His hand trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen blurred for a second. Then cleared.

Fliss 💛

He hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hi, love,” she answered, breath warm, voice soft and familiar, like home. Like the low light of the farmhouse kitchen at night, the way she always said "you're back" when he stepped through the door, like she hadn’t expected him to leave a piece of himself behind on every flight.

He sat down hard on a bench just outside the studio. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked instantly, picking up on something in the silence.

He hadn’t said a word yet.

“I’m fine,” he said, and the lie sounded wrong even to him.

A pause. Then: “Oscar.” Her voice was quieter now. Serious. “What happened?”

He swallowed. Let the words sit there like stones.

“They asked if Bee was an accident.”

Silence.

“They asked if I regretted having her,” he said, voice low. “If she ruined my career. If she was a distraction. If—if we hadn’t meant to have her.”

Her inhale was sharp and audible through the line. “What?”

“I shut it down.” His voice cracked despite him. “Hard. Probably too hard.”

“No such thing.” She sounded furious now—quietly, lethally furious, like the way she only got very rarely and that promised vengeance. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Another pause.

Then, gently, “Where are you?”

“Back hallway. Between media and the McLaren room.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

He smiled. Brief. Shaky. “You don’t have to. I did enough damage for both of us.”

“Don’t care. You okay?”

He looked down at his hand, still clenched around his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“I just—” He swallowed again. “They don’t know. What it was like.”

He didn’t have to explain. She knew.

The hospital walls. 

The sound of monitors screaming as they wheeled Felicity into emergency surgery. 

Oscar standing there, useless, blood on his hands and no idea if his wife or daughter would survive the next ten minutes. 

Signing papers he didn’t understood, that felt like a death warrant, but where the only, the only way to even have a chance to safe them. 

Bee in the NICU, with more wires attached to her than she had limbs, a newborn baby girl with a scar all the way down her chest where surgeons had cut her open to save her life. 

Felicity unconscious, her skin grey and cold, as they pumped her body full with medication and sedatives and antibiotics and anything else they could think off. 

3 days until he could hold his daughter for the first time. 6 days until his wife opened her eyes again. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Oscar whispered.

Her voice cracked. “I know.”

“They don’t get to talk about you like that. Or Bee.” His voice sharpened again. “Like I wasn’t the luckiest person alive the moment I got both of you back.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I almost lost everything before I ever really got it,” he murmured. “And now people want to act like I should be… what? Regretful? Like I should have waited? Like if I could go back, I wouldn’t choose this?”

A sound came through the phone—her breath catching.

“Fliss,” he said, his voice breaking for real now, “I’d still choose you. I’d still choose her. Every single time. Even knowing how terrifying it was. I’d still choose it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I would too.”

He could hear Bee’s babbling in the background, talking to Button about her cereal like the world wasn’t on fire.

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning.

“Can you—can you put me on speaker?” he asked softly.

There was a rustle, a beep, and then—

“Papa?”

Bee’s voice. Bright. Clear. Safe.

“Hi, Bumblebee.”

“Button said he wants ice cream but I said no, because it’s not a food group.”

Oscar laughed through the tears he hadn’t realized were there. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I saved you some cereal,” she added seriously. “But I ate most of it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bumblebee. I love you. I’ll be home soon,” he said.

“We’ll be here.”

He sat there for a while longer after Felicity hung up, phone still warm in his hand, eyes closed.

The anger was still there. But quieter now.

He could breathe again.

***

Andrea Stella had sat through hundreds of driver debriefs in his career.

He’d worked with World Champions. Managed egos the size of paddocks. Navigated every kind of media disaster F1 could throw at a team. He liked to think he was hard to rattle.

But this?

This had rattled everyone.

The media room was still humming with tension when they got back to the motorhome. Sophie from PR was already mid-crisis mode—headphones in, phone glued to her palm, tapping out what Andrea suspected was a fire extinguisher disguised as a media statement.

Lando slumped into the nearest chair, wide-eyed and weirdly quiet. That alone set off Andrea’s internal alarms.

Zak Brown stood with his arms crossed, watching Oscar, who had yet to sit down.

Oscar Piastri, who was usually measured to the point of maddening, stood like a man who had just walked out of a courtroom, not a media call. Shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

Andrea cleared his throat.

No one spoke.

Right. So that was how this would go.

“I take it we’ve all seen the footage,” he said finally, quiet but firm.

Sophie didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s already trending. Hashtag Oscar Piastri is the number one global tag on X. Half the comments are calling it iconic. The other half are debating whether or not it was professional.”

Lando raised a hand. “Just to be clear, I’m in the ‘iconic’ camp.”

Zak gave him a look.

Oscar didn’t move.

Andrea turned to him carefully. “Oscar. Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Oscar’s fingers curled once around the edge of the table. “They asked if my daughter was a mistake.”

Silence.

Andrea inhaled slowly. He hadn’t seen the full interview—just the snippet Sophie had shown them before hauling everyone in. But he’d heard the tone. The steady, controlled fury. The kind that didn't explode—but flayed.

“And your response was…” Andrea paused. “Passionate.”

Oscar looked up at that, eyes dark and guarded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I would,” Andrea said without missing a beat. “I’m not here to reprimand you.”

That seemed to surprise everyone, including Oscar. Even Sophie glanced up.

“I’m here to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“By muzzling him?” Lando asked suddenly, sitting forward. “Because if that’s the plan, I’m out.”

“We’re not muzzling anyone,” Andrea said calmly. “We’re protecting our drivers. That question should never have made it through the vetting process. Sophie?”

Sophie sighed. “It was an independent syndicate. We only got the final questions ten minutes before.”

“That’s ten minutes too late,” Andrea said. “We’ll be stricter. From now on, no interviews with unvetted press. I don’t care if it’s the New York Times or Top Gear or someone’s bloody podcast.”

Zak nodded once in agreement. “Fine by me.”

Oscar finally sank into a chair. He looked tired now, the adrenaline clearly ebbing, replaced by something heavier.

Andrea leaned forward, voice softer. “Oscar, no one here is angry with you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. ““I was asked, live on television, if having a family ‘held me back.’ If I should’ve waited. If my daughter—my three-year-old daughter—was a complication. And then he asked if she was planned.”

Zak let out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I saw it. We all did.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, the picture of exhaustion. “What exactly do you want me to do? Apologize?”

“No,” Andrea said immediately. “You were right.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Oscar,” Andrea continued, measured, “I have worked in this sport a long time. I’ve seen what it does to young drivers. To people who start young, who grow up here, who become machines to survive. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lash out. You defended your family.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly.

“But—” Sophie began.

Andrea raised a hand. “That interviewer was out of line. Deeply. Recklessly. He made assumptions about your wife, your daughter, your entire life. If anything, I’m proud you didn’t throw the chair at him.”

Zak gave a soft snort. “Yeah. If it were me, there would’ve been a chair.”

Oscar didn’t laugh. Not exactly. But some of the iron in his shoulders unspooled. “So what happens now?”

“We control the narrative,” Sophie said, slipping into PR triage mode. “You’re not apologizing. We’re framing this as a boundary. You were disrespected, you responded with clarity and composure. You’re a father, and a husband. And people are going to understand that.”

“We’ll have to smooth things with a few sponsors,” Zak added. “But honestly? Most of them like when a driver shows some spine. Especially over something that personal.”

Lando finally stirred. “You know people are already calling it ‘The Piastri Clapback of the Year,’ right? I mean. I thought you were going to ice that guy through the floor.”

Oscar looked away. “I wasn’t angry for me.”

Andrea’s voice softened. “We know.”

“I was angry because… she’s going to grow up in this world. And if people talk about her like that now, when she’s not even old enough to go to primary school—what the hell are they going to say when she’s fifteen? Or twenty?”

That landed hard.

The room fell quiet again.

Andrea looked at the young man across from him—this precise, quiet driver who never caused a fuss, who internalized stress like it was a competition, who everyone said was unshakable.

And thought, No wonder this cracked him open.

“You did the right thing,” Andrea said, final and firm.

“You’re a father first. A driver second.”

Oscar exhaled, just once. But this time, it sounded like relief.

And Andrea—keeper of calm in the chaos—made a silent promise to himself.

If anyone ever went after Oscar’s family again?

He would not be nearly so diplomatic.

***

GRID GROUP CHAT

Lando: I WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY STATE FOR THE RECORD THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE TERRIFIED OF OSCAR PIASTRI THAN I AM RIGHT NOW

Charles: He didn’t raise his voice once I felt physically ill Like I had disappointed a headmaster I respected

Pierre: I have never been so terrified And I wasn’t even in the room

George: The way he said “next question” like he had just buried a body and wiped his hands on his fireproofs 😭

Pierre: He surgically dismantled that man with calm vocabulary and fatherly wrath. 10/10. Would follow into battle.

Lewis: He protected his family. Good. Also: that interviewer needs a vacation. And perhaps a priest.

Carlos: I paused the video halfway through and had to take a walk.

Yuki: He made no threats. But I felt threatened.

Lando: I was IN THE BUILDING HE WALKED PAST ME I SAID "ARE YOU OKAY" AND HE SAID "THEY CALLED BEE A COMPLICATION" AND KEPT WALKING I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE SINCE

Max: if someone said that about penelope i would have flipped a table oscar’s version was scarier respect

Lance: Was that interviewer okay after?

Esteban: Define “okay”

Daniel: They showed the full clip on Sky. I was eating a sandwich and almost choked. Man said “extra weight” and Oscar’s soul left his body before returning as a precision airstrike.

Valtteri: He smiled. That was the worst part. He smiled and ruined that man.

Charles: i’m genuinely scared for Bee’s kindergarten teacher if she ever gets a bad report card

Oscar: I can read this, by the way.

Lando: and we love that for you

also: remind me to never, ever, ever imply that your wife or daughter are anything short of divine blessings thanks

George: No seriously, that was… devastatingly composed. Are you alright?

Oscar: Fine now. Fliss and Bee are okay. That’s all that matters.

****

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: I just saw the clip. Oscar. That man is lucky you kept your cool.

Hattie: I would’ve punched him. On live TV. Straight up.

Mae: You were so calm. But brutal. I’m proud.

Edie: You okay, Osc? That was intense.

Oscar: I’m fine. He crossed a line. I responded.

Chris: Okay, hang on. Before we all get defensive, maybe the interviewer didn’t mean it badly. He just said what a lot of people probably think. Oscar, you were 19. It was early. No one expected—

Oscar: Don’t.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: Don’t. Don’t ever say that again.

Chris: Look, I understand you were upset. But the interviewer wasn’t totally out of line. He was just saying what a lot of people are thinking.

Nicole: Chris.

Chris: What? We’ve talked about this before. Bee wasn’t exactly planned. You two were what, 19? The guy just said what’s on a lot of people’s minds.

Oscar: Stop.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: No. You’re not just saying. You’re repeating something I’ve told you a hundred times not to say. Bee was not an accident. She was wanted. Chosen. Loved before she even existed. Fliss and I made that decision. Together.

Nicole: Chris. Stop.

Oscar: You think I haven’t heard this before? That I don’t know what people say behind my back? That I threw away my career, that I was too young, that it was an accident, a mistake? You think I don’t know?

Oscar: But to hear it from you— To hear you STILL think that after everything—after what Fliss went through, after what Bee went through— Do you have any idea what that feels like?

Chris: It’s not about judgment. I’m just trying to be realistic—

Oscar: You want realistic? Realistic is Felicity and I making a decision and standing by it. Realistic is Fliss fighting for her life after giving birth. Realistic is Bee in surgery at 20 minutes old while I sat in a hospital chair praying she’d live long enough to roll over one day. Realistic is us building a life from scratch. So don’t come in here, years later, and tell me what you think we should’ve done instead.

Nicole: Oscar, honey, take a breath—

Oscar: No, Mum. I’m not doing this again. Not with him. Not anymore.

Hattie: …Okay, Dad. Maybe read the room for once?

Mae: He named her after Mum, and you’re still acting like she wasn’t supposed to exist.

Edie: You know who wasn’t ready? You. You’re the only one who still can’t accept this family looks different than what you expected.

Chris: I just wanted the best for you—

Oscar: And yet you never once trusted I knew what that was. I’m done justifying my life to you. If you can’t respect my family—my wife, my daughter—then don’t expect to be part of it. I won’t let Bee grow up thinking love has conditions. Not from anyone.

****

Felicity’s phone buzzed as she wiped Bee’s fingers clean of strawberry jam.

It was nearing dusk, the light outside golden and syrup-thick, catching the curve of the farmhouse windows. Bee had insisted on a picnic dinner in the lounge—mostly crackers and fruit and a lopsided sandwich she had "made herself." 

She glanced at the screen: Nicole Piastri (Mum-in-law) – Calling…

Felicity blinked. Nicole rarely called unprompted. Especially not during dinner hours.

She picked up, already half-bracing. “Nicole?”

There was a pause, just a breath too long. Then— “Hi, love. Is this a bad time?”

Felicity sat back on the floor, one arm absently wrapping around Bee, who had settled in her lap. “We’re mid-picnic, but you’re fine. What’s going on?”

Nicole’s sigh was soft, but it wasn’t casual.

“I just… wanted to let you know something. Before Oscar does.”

Felicity went still. “Okay?”

“There was a… situation. In the family group chat.”

Felicity didn’t speak, but something in her chest curled. She could guess.

Nicole went on. “Your father-in-law…” Her voice wobbled, just slightly. “Chris said some things he shouldn’t have.”

Felicity closed her eyes. “About Bee.”

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

Nicole exhaled. “He still thinks she was an accident. That you and Oscar should’ve waited. That it would’ve been ‘easier’ if she’d come later.”

Felicity was quiet for a long time. Bee squirmed slightly, and she ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, keeping her grounded.

“Did Oscar say anything?”

There was a pause. Then— “He snapped. Properly. Not like yelling, not unkind. Just… done. He told Chris he didn’t get to rewrite history to make himself feel more comfortable. That Bee was chosen. Wanted. He told him if anyone calls her an accident again, they don’t get to be around her.”

Felicity swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Good.”

Nicole’s voice dropped, soft and apologetic. “I didn’t know he was still holding onto that.”

“Chris never said anything to me,” Felicity murmured. “But I always wondered why he was a little… distant, when we told him. Not upset, just—off.”

Nicole’s silence said enough.

Then—gently—  “I wanted to call because I don’t want you thinking we all feel like that. I don’t. And neither do the girls. Bee is ours. Entirely. You are, too.”

Felicity’s eyes stung.

“I know,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Felicity’s throat tightened. “We really did plan her, you know. We talked about it for months.”

Nicole cleared her throat. “I know. And… just for the record? That little girl has brought more light into our lives than I knew we needed. And the way Oscar talks about you, about her—I don’t think he’s ever had a single doubt.”

“I know he hasn’t.”

“I just wish his father could see it that clearly.”

Felicity looked down at Bee, who had fallen asleep in her lap, one sticky hand clutching a cracker.

“He doesn’t have to,” she said softly. “He’s not the one raising her. We are.”

Nicole paused. Then— “I’m so glad you’re part of this family, Felicity.”

Felicity smiled, even if her heart was still aching. “I’m glad too.”

They ended the call quietly.

Felicity sat on the floor for a while longer, rocking slightly, Bee warm against her chest. Then she whispered into the crown of her daughter’s hair:

“You were never a mistake. You were the beginning.”

***

Felicity had tried.

 Really, she had.

She’d been patient. She’d bitten her tongue in every family dinner conversation where Chris made offhand comments about “young love” and “life coming at you fast” like Bee had crash-landed into their lives instead of being wanted, planned for, and loved before she ever existed.

But after Nicole’s call, after hearing what was said in that group chat—

She was done.

She sat down at her vanity table, opened the shared folder titled “Project Lemonade: TTC 2019” on her laptop, and pulled up everything she needed.

Screenshot of her fertility tracking app, calendar view, June–November 2019 marked in obsessive detail.

The appointment confirmations from June 2019, two weeks after their wedding.

The notes from her OB consultation.

Even a screenshot of a text thread from that July, where Oscar had written, “Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

And her reply, “Okay. But I’m charting this.”

She copied all of it—PDFs, screenshots, date-stamped calendar entries—and dropped it into a zip folder titled: BEE WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

Then, she opened her messages with Chris.

And typed:

Felicity: Since it seems like there’s still some confusion, here’s the full documentation of when and how Oscar and I decided to try for Bee.

 June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

You’ll find medical records, cycle tracking logs, and a conversation from the week we decided we were ready.

Bee was not a surprise. Bee was planned. Loved. Hoped for. Wished into existence with intention and care and spreadsheets and so many vitamins I smelled like a pharmacy.

 And I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

Attached: [Bee_Was_Not_An_Accident.zip]

***

She hit send. 

Across the room, Bee was asleep in the big bed, curled up with Button and a blanket Felicity had crocheted when she was still pregnant—months after that first calendar entry.

Planned.

Wanted.

Cherished.

Felicity exhaled and turned her phone screen off.

There.

Now it was in writing.

She never wanted to have this conversation again.

***

Chris hadn’t meant for it to spiral.

He really hadn’t.

He sat in his home office, the late afternoon sun slanting across the papers he hadn’t touched, the coffee beside him going cold. His phone was on the desk, buzzing once, then going still.

New message: Felicity.

He glanced at it absently—expecting a polite clarification, maybe a tense thank you for his input, though he hadn’t quite expected gratitude. Not after the group chat. Not after what Oscar had said.

He hadn’t meant to start a war.

But the moment he opened the message, he knew he’d lost.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was… clinical. Final. Devastating.

His eyes skimmed the words once.

Then again.

And again.

The words stung in their simplicity, in how clearly they were laid out, how organized and timestamped and unshakeably real they were.

June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

Spreadsheets.

He swallowed.

He opened the zip file without thinking. It was all there. Meticulously kept. Organized by month and theme. Felicity had highlighted her ovulation charts. The OB consult letter was dated two weeks after their wedding. The texts with Oscar were warm and real, giddy in that quiet, unmistakably them way. A young couple building something with both hands, even if the world around them didn’t understand.

His son’s message:

“Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

Her reply:

“Okay. But I’m charting this.”

Chris sat back in his chair. Staring.

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Not really. He thought they were too young. Too quick. He had told himself he was being reasonable. Concerned. Offering perspective.

But what he’d done—over and over—was chip away at something sacred.

He had called love a mistake.

He had taken his son’s joy and dressed it in skepticism. He had looked at his granddaughter—the brilliant, bright-eyed little girl who called him Grandad with strawberry jam on her chin—and failed to see the miracle of her.

He had, with every casual word, implied she shouldn’t have existed.

And Felicity had stayed silent.

She had never once snapped at him. Never yelled. Never stormed out of a room or thrown it back in his face. She had smiled politely through dinners. Let him hold Bee. Answered his small talk. Shared updates when asked.

And now—now, finally—she had said what he hadn’t been willing to hear.

I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

He stared at the line.

Then closed the file.

And sat in silence.

There were no words he could send back that would fix this. No response clever enough to untangle the damage.

He thought of Oscar in that interview—so composed, so furious, his voice like ice.

He thought of Felicity holding it in for years.

He thought of Bee.

He had always loved her, in his way. But maybe not the right way. Not in the way that said I believe in how you came to be. I believe your life is a gift, not an accident.

And now?

Now he wasn’t sure if they’d ever let him close enough to prove he’d learned.

Chris looked at the blinking cursor in the message box. His fingers hovered, stilled, then pulled away.

For once in his life, he didn’t hit reply.

Because some things—finally, painfully—had been said exactly as they needed to be.

And it wasn’t his turn to speak anymore.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Chris Piastri

Chris: I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. What I said in the group chat. I want to apologize. Properly. You were right to call me out.

Chris: I let my own assumptions get in the way. I didn’t listen. I didn’t respect the decisions you and Felicity made. I see that now.

Chris: You didn’t need judgment. You needed support. And you deserved that from me—from the beginning.

Chris: I’m sorry, Oscar. For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For making you feel like Bee wasn’t a gift.

Oscar: … Where is this coming from?

Chris: I’ve been thinking. And reflecting. And I received some things today that made it very, very clear I’ve been wrong.

Oscar: What things?

Chris: Felicity sent me a file. With everything. The charts, the messages. The appointment letters. It was… undeniable.

Oscar: She sent you what?

Chris: She wanted to make sure I understood. That there was no room left for doubt. And there isn’t. Not anymore.

Oscar: She shouldn’t have had to do that.

Chris: I know. But I’m glad she did.

Oscar: You think a file is what makes Felicity credible? That her tracking spreadsheets make her believable? Is that really what it takes for you?

Chris: No. I just… I didn’t understand how much care went into it. How much planning. I didn’t want to believe it was real because I was afraid for you. I let that fear turn into something else. And it came out wrong. Again and again.

Oscar: She didn’t tell me she sent you anything. You realize that, right?

Chris: She probably didn’t want to put you in the middle again. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

Oscar: It is a big deal.

Oscar: Felicity had to defend our daughter’s existence with spreadsheets. You do understand how insane that is, right?

Chris: I do.

Oscar: I’m not angry that you got the file. I’m angry that it had to happen at all. That she had to pull medical records just to get basic respect.

Chris: I’m sorry. Truly.

Oscar: You want to show you’re sorry? Stop acting like we owe you an explanation for the life we built.

Chris: I’ll do better.

Oscar: Don’t say it for me. Say it for Bee. Because she’s going to grow up smart enough to know when someone’s love comes with strings. And I won’t let her think that’s what family looks like.

Chris: Understood.

***

The front door creaked open just after midnight.

Oscar stepped into the farmhouse with his bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie damp from the misting rain that had rolled in while he was driving. He closed the door gently behind him and breathed in the familiar quiet.

The house smelled like lemon balm and vanilla and something else—cinnamon? Maybe Bee had talked Felicity into baking again. That thought alone made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

He toed off his shoes by the door, left his bag where it fell, and padded softly through the hall.

The lounge light was still on. Dim. Warm.

Felicity sat curled up in the armchair in one of his old hoodies, a cup of tea balanced on her knees, one leg tucked under her. Her hair was twisted up, messily clipped back like she hadn’t really planned on staying up—but she always tried to wait for him after a race. Even now. Even still.

Oscar stopped in the doorway.

She looked up, met his eyes, and smiled quietly. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile back—not yet.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Bee did,” she murmured. “I just… couldn’t quite. Not until you were home.”

Oscar stepped into the room, his eyes scanning her face.

Then, without preamble: “Why didn’t you tell me you sent him the folder?”

Felicity stilled, the tea cooling in her lap.

Oscar sat down across from her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was holding something fragile.

“I found out from him,” he added softly. “And I—God, Fliss, I had no idea. You had that ready? All this time?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled and set the tea down on the side table.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” she said at last. “I just… didn’t want to burden you with it.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “You think defending our daughter’s existence is a burden?”

“No,” she said gently. “I think you already carry enough. I’ve seen what those comments do to you, Oscar. I didn’t want to add to the weight.”

“You didn’t add anything,” he said, sharper now. “He did.”

Felicity dropped her gaze. “He said it again, didn’t he?”

Oscar nodded slowly. “And you knew he would.”

“That’s why I sent the file.”

There was a beat of silence. Only the soft tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant wind brushing the farmhouse walls.

“Do you remember Novmber 2019?” she asked quietly.

His brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“We got that positive test.” She smiled, small and private. “And we both cried. Do you remember that?”

“I remember shaking,” Oscar whispered. “Because I couldn’t believe it. Because I was so happy I felt sick.”

Felicity looked up, eyes shining now. “That’s what I wanted him to understand. That this wasn’t a mistake. That we wanted her. Planned for her. Loved her before she was even real.”

“You shouldn’t have had to prove that.”

“I know. But I needed to say it. On my terms.”

Oscar stood up, crossed the room, and knelt beside her chair.

He reached for her hands, cradling them between his.

“You know what scared me?” he said softly. “Not that you sent him the folder. That you felt like you had to do it alone. That you didn’t tell me because somewhere deep down, you thought maybe it wasn’t my fight too.”

Felicity blinked fast. “It wasn’t about keeping you out. It was about protecting you. That interview—what they said about Bee—you were already carrying so much.”

He leaned in and kissed her knuckles, each word slow and steady: “You don’t have to protect me from defending our family.”

She exhaled, trembling a little, then pulled him into her arms. Oscar sank into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, head tucked beneath her chin. She held him there, rubbing gentle circles into his back.

“You were brilliant in that interview,” she whispered. “Brutal. Beautiful. Like always.”

He huffed a small, tired laugh. “I didn’t know my voice could sound like that until I said it.”

“You meant every word.”

“I did.”

She kissed his hair. “So did I. In the folder. Every timestamp. Every note. Every line.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“She’ll never doubt it,” he said softly.

“No,” Felicity murmured. “She never will.”

[urprettylildoe]

𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓁ℯ𝒹

♡ yandere football player x fem reader ♡ Every girl wanted to be with him and every guy wanted to be him, and to everyone around the world he was considered the embodiment of perfection. But there's more to what meets the eye, and you're one of the only people who know that very well. ♡ word count: 1.9k words ♡ warnings: yandere/obsessive behaviour, dependency, toxic relationship, kidnapping, attempted drugging, very brief and implied self-harm, nsfw (non-con)

His team had won yet again.

Critics weren't just analysing the performance itself but one particular figure that always made his presence known; whether it was deliberate or natural.

Looks, money, charisma, talent; what characteristic didn't the renowned football star possess?

Blake's motivator was his love for things that kept him on his toes and sent a rush of excitement through his veins.

The constant chanting of his name from the crowds was like music to his ears. He waved and shot them a pretty smile adorned with dimples that would surely make magazine covers.

Cameras zoomed in on each of the team players as they walked out of the field. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he stared into the camera.

The world out there didn't know that it was reserved for one particular person, and they knew who they were.

A message.

I know you're watching.

♡

"And how do you feel about today's performance?" The lady smiled almost too brightly, holding the microphone up towards him.

"I think we gave it our all today and I couldn't have done without my team," he enthusiastically recited as if he hadn't been practising with his manager for the perfect PR response to the questions. Blake was a natural in front of the camera — he threw in some jokes and made sure to flash those pearly whites every now and then.

The interviewer chuckled, "Oh please, don't be so modest. You were amazing out there, Blake. Give yourself some credit, will ya?"

A few more minutes passed with them going back and forth before he was finally asked million dollar question:

"so, we're all dying to know, any relationship updates we should be aware of?"

For a split second, his flawless facade cracked and his smile faltered, his jaw ticking with something unpleasant. Then, almost as if nothing happened, his expression turned carefully neutral and he maintained a polite smile, "my personal life is just that, personal."

Translation: i'm not answering that. In any other situation, he'd have no problem saying it directly, but he'd rather not listen to his agent talking his ear off about it later.

But the woman obviously did not pick up on the implication and if she did, she didn't mention it. Instead, she leaned in and brushed her hand against his bicep at an attempt of subtle flirting, "Oh, come on. You're one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Surely there's someone special in your life?"

He feigned embarrassment rather than expressing his anger and scratched the back of his head, "you're really putting me on the spot here." He paused, then added, "i'm just focused on my career at the moment. And as they say, good things come to those who wait, right?"

His answer shut the interviewer down and the last line did have some truth to it. Patience is a virtue.

♡

Pushing the bathroom door open, his hands gripped one of the sinks and he took a moment to calm his nerves.

They don't know. They don't know. It's okay.

His gaze dropped to the scar marring his otherwise perfect skin in the mirror, right under his bottom lip. Yet, instead of frustration like his manager had expressed with utter disappointment, warmth he was all too familiar with fluttered in his chest.

This was no burden, but a gift from his favourite little songbird after one of her many tantrums of be let out of the golden cage. Though it is a hassle to calm her back down, he did cherish the mark imprinted on his skin.

Blake tutted, eyes narrowing as he scrutinised it further. It was fading; he'll need to fix that up soon enough.

He shrugged on a jacket and drove home in his sleek car, ready to finally relax. The day drained him of all his energy.

Or perhaps it didn't, because when he reached his home, all of the anger bubbled up to the surface. Patience was not a virtue, because his had reached its limit because of a certain dove.

♡

Tonight was the night.

The night where you would finally be free of the shackles that bound you to that horrible, horrible man.

Blake.

To his fans and the world, he's a passionate and talented athlete. To you? He's a monster. One that stripped you off everything you've known, one that kept you for his selfish desires, one that held a warped version of 'love' in his heart.

You wanted to flee. Not even tell the police, just run far, far away where he couldn't reach you, where you would be your own person and not some pretty ornament he'd come home to admire every day.

Sanity hanging by a thread, you slipped down the marble stairs in just your socks and cute pajamas. Any captive should have injuries and tattered clothes. Except, your captor wasn't normal. And while you didn't have any physical injuries, you were still hurt.

You were supposed to be asleep, if everything went according to his plan (which usually did). The opportunity was too good to pass up; he was leaving for a match for hours. When he had given you the pill with a fond smile, you returned it and made an act of swallowing, all while keeping it under your tongue. The doors were locked due to his paranoia so you couldn't escape through there. Not to mention your hands and feet were tied, so you spent time on those too.

Finally, the makeshift rope was ready. Hours of twisting bedsheets together finally paid off and now you were ready.

One look out the window and you were already nauseous. It was such a high drop and you weren't willing to die, not yet at least. The rope tumbled down till it nearly reached the bottom, only a few feet off the garden grounds.

In and out. Nothing is going to happen.

Wrapping your limbs around the clothing, your hands clenched around it. Your eyes closed and you let yourself slide. Breathing fresh air felt true bliss, like this was your first time.

When you reached the bottom, your knees trembled with the gravity of what's going on. The closest thing you let out to a relieved sigh was a choked sound out of your throat.

You were free. You. Were. Free.

No more punishments, no more suffering, no more of his constricting love, no more-

maniacal laughter rings through the air sharply, making you halt. No.

You'd recognise it anywhere, even if you didn't want to.

"Wow, I leave for a few hours and come back to this?" He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye in amusement, though you caught a vein in his forehead throbbing. "You surprise me every time, baby. Though I gotta admit i'm a little...hurt."

Your heart stopped and you took a step back, whipping around to face him. Such beauty he had, but so undeserving of it. Your nails had dug blood out of your palms, making them dully ache however not as deep as his confessions of 'love' would pierce your heart.

He didn't have nothing in that chest but rotting flesh.

"Now, now, none of that." He grinned as he followed your steps with his longer, stronger legs and you could only pray that he showed mercy. "You really didn't think you'd get away, did you? You truly do underestimate the lengths I'd go for you.

I give you the most beautiful home, the finest foods — my love. And this is how you repay? By running away from me? From us?"

His voice progressively got louder with each word. You really pushed him to the limits.

"I-I'm sorry-"

Cutting you off, large hands shaky with barely concealed raged cluched either sides of your head, "shh, I know you are. But sorry isn't enough anymore."

It wasn't a normal, torturous kind of punishment — no, you wished it was. You wondered if falling from the window was a better fate than this.

His voice softened at your sniffles, almost as if he was comforting you, shielding from a danger that nothing seemed to poise but him. "Hey, hey, don't cry. C'mon, my dove. If you're good, I won't go too hard on you."

Cries spilled past your lips, begging him that you were sorry and that you weren't going to do it again.

And really, you were never going to. Not after what he did to you afterwards.

You were reduced to a small ball to shivers and hiccups underneath Blake on the soft, fluid-stained sheets. The pink sleepwear was discarded on the floor. Equally bare, his muscles from all the training were on display. He was now beaming affectionately as he watched your tuckered out expression.

This wasn't the first time you've been violated, obviously. But this time it felt worse, like the pain of reality came crashing down on you like a tsunami ten times harder than before. It didn't help that he kept on whispering sweet threats in your ear.

He had branded your skin roughly and taken you, only to cradle you gently with a lover's touch. The drug he had injected you with made you a willing participant in his game, made you ache with desire for the one being you wanted to hate.

You slurred like a broken record, unsure of what was even going on anymore, "m'sorry, I didn't mean to...hic"

"It's okay, it's okay" he sang softly, brushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes, "y'know punishing you hurts me more than it does you, but I had to do this, you were trying to leave me, sweet thing."

A small, hidden part of you still wanted to fight for your freedom, to save yourself.

"you're so silly, thinking anyone would believe you if you ran away." He cooed, peppering loving kisses all over your face.

You closed your eyes and weakly whimpered. They would believe you, they would. Wouldn't they?

"Sometimes, the thoughts become too much for that pretty little head, don't they? You can't possible take all of it at once. But that's why i'm here. To protect you from every bad thing in the world."

His hand cupped your cheek as he tilted his head down, pressing his lips against your forehead, "I'll give you the world. Just — promise not to leave me again"

The sentences tumbling out his mouth just made you feel even more horrible.

You were broken. You had tried to convince yourself otherwise, but it was all in vain. He had shattered you into pieces and rebuilt you to fit his preferences. If you looked into the mirror right now, you don't think you would recognise yourself.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you weren't cut out for the world, maybe there were dangerous things out to get you, maybe safety was in his arms.

"Rest, i'll take care of you"

You let your eyes droop shut. Yeah, that sounded about right. He'll take care of you.

Once you finally nestled against the comfort of his chest with tiny snores, was he finally able to celebrate another accomplishment. He can't remember the last time he didn't have something he wanted, even if his beautiful dove was putting up a fight against him.

♡

Copyright © 2025 urprettylildoe. All rights reserved.

Yours truly,

@urprettylildoe