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inkolnito · 18 hours ago

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Paddock Confidential - Chapter 5: Gala Lights and Guarded Hearts

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x Lira Räikkönen (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private Lira, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes: This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

Big chapter

The descent from the Swiss mountain outcrop was quieter than the climb, yet the silence vibrated with an unspoken energy, a charge layered beneath the surface of their easy companionship. The Richard Mille watch, accidentally revealed, had become a silent testament to the truth Ollie felt with near certainty, a truth Lira knew he now suspected. Her swift deflection back to the mundane practicalities of wind and chocolate had been a clear signal

Not yet. Not now.

and Ollie, respecting the boundary as fiercely as he guarded his racing lines against aggressive rivals, had instantly acquiesced. Still, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted on that sun-drenched perch.

He knew.

And the charged glance that had passed between them confirmed that she knew he knew. The waiting game continued, but its nature had changed; it was no longer about Ollie searching for clues, but about Lira choosing the time, place, and manner – if ever – to voice the name that hovered, unspoken, between them.

Walking down the winding path through the fragrant pines, Ollie found himself observing Lira with a new, heightened awareness, a filter of understanding overlaying his already deep affection. He noticed the minute details that spoke of a lifetime conditioned by unique circumstances: the way her eyes instinctively scanned the treeline not just for beauty but perhaps for unseen watchers, the quiet confidence in her movements that seemed at odds with her reserved nature, the way her fingers, often smudged with graphite from hours of sketching, curled slightly when she was deep in thought, as if holding something precious and fragile within. He saw the fierce intelligence that sparked in her cool grey eyes, now tinged with his empathetic understanding of the immense weight she must carry, the constant, wearying vigilance required by a life lived adjacent to, yet deliberately shielded from, an intense, often predatory, global spotlight. His affection, already deep and growing daily into something that felt suspiciously like love, deepened further, now inextricably intertwined with a fierce, almost primal urge to protect her, not just from external threats like intrusive media, but from the very burden of the secret itself. He wanted, more than anything, for her to feel safe enough, trusted enough, with him, to finally set that burden down.

Lira, walking slightly ahead as the path narrowed through a dense patch of ferns, seemed introspective, quieter than usual, though not noticeably tense. The guardedness he’d glimpsed flicker in her eyes on the summit after he’d noticed the watch had eased, replaced by her usual calm, observant composure. Yet, Ollie sensed a subtle shift beneath the surface, a fractional lowering of the invisible, heavily fortified walls she kept so meticulously maintained around her personal history. When he offered her a hand to steady her over a gurgling stream that cut unexpectedly across the path, she took it without the almost imperceptible hesitation he’d become accustomed to. Her cool, strong fingers clasped his for a moment longer than strictly necessary, the contact feeling different now – less like bridging a gap between two separate entities, more like acknowledging a shared, albeit unspoken, reality.

Back in the small, anonymous, yet charmingly traditional lakeside hotel near Montreux that served as their temporary haven, the slightly charged atmosphere from the mountain dissipated into a comfortable, almost domestic rhythm. They made dinner together in the tiny, functional kitchenette attached to their room – Ollie, as usual, relegated to enthusiastic but clumsy vegetable chopping under Lira’s watchful, critical eye (after nearly sacrificing a finger to a particularly stubborn butternut squash that refused to yield), while Lira moved with quiet competence, transforming simple, fresh local ingredients into a surprisingly delicious pasta dish infused with fragrant herbs she’d identified on their hike.

The unspoken knowledge about the watch, about her likely identity, sat between them, not as an awkward barrier demanding attention, but as a newly laid, yet unacknowledged, foundation upon which their relationship was now being built. Ollie found himself unconsciously censoring the casual F1 gossip or speculation he might normally share during dinner, suddenly hyper-aware of how certain names, certain team dynamics, certain anecdotes about media intrusion might land for her. Lira, perhaps sensing his caution or simply feeling more relaxed in the aftermath of the unspoken understanding, seemed to offer slightly fewer cryptic responses than usual, her answers to his gentle questions about her solitary exploration of the picturesque lakeside town feeling marginally more open, though still meticulously devoid of specific personal history or family references.

Later that evening, curled up together on the slightly lumpy but comfortable hotel sofa, they watched an old, atmospheric black-and-white French film Lira had unearthed from the hotel’s surprisingly eclectic DVD library. Subtitles glowed softly on the small television screen. Lira leaned her head against Ollie’s shoulder, a gesture that had become more frequent, more natural, since they’d officially become a couple just before the hike.

Tonight, however, it felt weighted with a new significance, a silent offering of trust in the wake of the day’s unspoken revelations. Ollie carefully rested his own head against the top of hers, breathing in the unique, subtle scent of her dark hair – something clean, like rain on cool stone, mixed faintly with the lingering aroma of the pine forest they’d walked through hours earlier. He felt an overwhelming wave of tenderness surge through him, a fierce desire to keep her safe within this quiet bubble, away from the swirling complexities he now understood hovered just outside their door. He didn't need the verbal confirmation, the explicit naming of the name he felt certain belonged to her father. The shared understanding, the implicit trust demonstrated by her continued presence beside him, felt more profound, more meaningful, than any spoken word could be at that moment. His patience, he realized with sudden clarity, wasn't just about respecting her boundaries anymore; it was about actively protecting the Lira he knew and loved, the one who felt safe enough to rest her head on his shoulder, from the potentially overwhelming weight of the Lira defined by a famous, demanding lineage.

He would wait. He would continue to wait for her timing, indefinitely if necessary.

The weeks following their Swiss escape unfolded into the familiar, demanding rhythm of the F2 off-season. For Ollie, it meant throwing himself back into the relentless grind of preparation for what he desperately hoped would be his final year in the feeder series. The ultimate goal – a coveted F1 seat for the following season – burned brighter, felt tantalizingly closer after his strong rookie campaign, yet remained precarious, demanding absolute focus and peak performance in the upcoming championship battle. Grueling physical training sessions pushed his body to its absolute limits under the watchful eye of his trainer, Eoin. Endless hours were spent strapped into the sophisticated Prema simulator, honing his reflexes, learning the nuances of the updated car regulations, and searching for those elusive thousandths of a second that separated the good from the great. Obligatory sponsor appearances required his cheerful, polished, media-friendly persona. Factory visits involved intense, data-heavy technical debriefs with Marco and the engineering team, dissecting every aspect of the previous season and planning for the next.

Through it all, Lira remained a constant, quiet, grounding presence in his life, though often physically distant due to her own unspecified commitments and travels, which she referred to vaguely as "work" or "visiting family friends." They texted daily, their messages evolving beyond simple check-ins and logistical arrangements for their next meeting into longer, more meandering exchanges. They shared mundane details of their days – Ollie’s frustrations with a particular simulator setup, Lira’s description of a striking piece of street art she’d discovered. They sent links to articles or music they thought the other might appreciate – Ollie introducing her to some lighter indie bands, Lira countering with challenging experimental composers. They developed inside jokes based on shared experiences or observations, messages that required no explanation between them but would be utterly incomprehensible to anyone else. Lira’s replies were still often concise, sometimes frustratingly so for the naturally effusive Ollie, but the underlying connection felt stronger, more secure, less tentative with each passing week. Significantly, she never once mentioned the watch incident on the mountain again, never alluded to the unspoken knowledge that now hung between them, and Ollie meticulously followed her lead, allowing the silence on that specific, loaded topic to stand, respecting the boundary she had implicitly reinforced. He understood it wasn't about secrecy from him anymore, but about the weight of the revelation itself.

She would appear, sometimes with little warning, for short, intense visits to his UK base near the Prema factory. A text might arrive out of the blue, concise and practical – ‘Near Oxford tomorrow afternoon. Coffee around 3?’ – and Ollie would invariably drop everything, reshuffle simulator sessions, postpone meetings, invent excuses for his trainer, just to steal a few precious hours with her. They explored quiet corners of the Cotswolds, getting deliberately lost down narrow, hedge-lined country lanes; visited museums in London, Lira’s choices always leaning towards the less crowded, more obscure galleries showcasing challenging modern art or ancient historical artefacts that seemed to resonate with her old-soul sensibility; spent countless rainy afternoons in his functional but increasingly personalized apartment, reading side-by-side in comfortable silence or talking for hours about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing easily now.

During these visits, Ollie continued to notice subtle shifts in her demeanor, faint thaws around the edges of her carefully maintained reserve. Lira seemed incrementally more willing to share small opinions, fleeting observations about her day, even occasional, carefully edited anecdotes that hinted tantalizingly at a life lived across different cultures, different landscapes – mentioning a specific type of cinnamon pastry only found in a small Finnish harbour village she’d apparently visited, or describing the unique quality of light reflecting off a vast, frozen Swiss lake at dawn – though always, always stopping short of revealing specifics about family connections or formative personal experiences. She still deflected direct questions about her past with a practiced, almost effortless ease, but the deflections felt less like outright rejection now and more like a gentle, almost apologetic reinforcement of a necessary, deeply ingrained boundary he now understood stemmed from years of conditioning.

She also continued to offer her startlingly astute insights into his work, often after silently observing him analyse data or watch onboard footage from the simulator late at night. Her comments were never intrusive, never framed as unsolicited advice, always delivered quietly, almost as if thinking aloud while processing the information visually. Yet, they invariably cut straight to the heart of a technical problem or highlighted a subtle nuance he and his experienced engineers had overlooked.

"The way you're modulating the throttle through Turn 4 seems less consistent than Pourchaire's trace on this overlay," she might murmur, pointing a slender, ink-stained finger at a complex squiggle of lines representing throttle percentage on his laptop screen. "His line shows a smoother, slightly earlier application point. Maybe related to the differential locking percentage on corner entry, affecting rear stability?" Ollie learned to listen intently, valuing her unique, analytical perspective more and more, recognizing it as a rare gift born, he now fully believed, from a lifetime spent absorbing the intricate language and complex dynamics of elite motorsport from the most privileged, yet deliberately hidden, vantage point. He never questioned how she knew these things anymore; he simply accepted the input gratefully, storing it away, another fascinating layer to their unique, evolving dynamic. He sometimes wondered if she even realized how much she knew, how naturally the technical language flowed from her.

The question of introducing her properly to his wider world, beyond just the vague mentions of a "private girlfriend" to teammates and the carefully managed video call with his family, remained a complex, sensitive issue. He knew his family was curious, his mum occasionally asking gentle, probing questions in their weekly calls about the "lovely, quiet girl" he was clearly so smitten with, the one who rarely appeared on camera during their chats. He longed to share Lira more openly, to have her meet his parents properly in person, to integrate her into his life beyond these stolen moments and discreet meetings in neutral locations.

But he understood, more profoundly now after the silent communication on the mountain, the immense risk that entailed for her. Her anonymity, her ability to move through the world unburdened by her father’s colossal fame, was precious, fragile, and clearly something she guarded with fierce determination. Exposing her to the well-meaning but inevitably curious questions of his family, let alone the relentless speculation and gossip mill of the F1 paddock, felt like a potential betrayal of the profound trust she placed in him, the trust underscored by her continued silence on the one topic that defined her external identity to the world, even if not to him.

The invitation arrived via a sleek, embossed email from the FIA: Ollie Bearman was formally invited to attend the prestigious FIA Prize-Giving Gala in Baku, the glittering culmination of the motorsport season, recognizing champions from across the FIA’s various disciplines. As a top F2 contender, his presence was requested. It was an honour, a sign of his growing stature within the sport, an opportunity to network, to be seen on the biggest stage outside of a race weekend.

His first thought, immediately after the initial buzz of excitement, was of Lira. Could she come? Would she come? It was the polar opposite of their usual quiet escapes – the highest concentration of F1 personnel, sponsors, global media, and cameras imaginable, all crammed into one opulent ballroom. It felt like throwing her into the lion's den.

He broached the subject tentatively that evening during a phone call, Lira’s voice calm and quiet on the other end, likely sketching in whatever anonymous European city she was currently inhabiting.

"So, got an invite today," Ollie began casually, trying to sound nonchalant. "The big FIA Gala thing. End of season awards, fancy dinner, penguin suits required."

A beat of silence on the other end. "Ah," Lira said finally, her voice carefully neutral. "The shiny party."

Ollie chuckled. "That's one way of putting it. Anyway… I have to go, obviously. Good for the career, networking, all that jazz." He paused, taking a breath. "And I was wondering… hoping, actually… if you might consider coming? With me?"

Another silence, longer this time. Ollie could picture her frowning slightly, weighing the implications. "Ollie," she said eventually, her voice low. "You know what those events are like. Cameras everywhere. Everyone watching everyone. It’s… not really my scene." Understatement of the century.

"I know, Li, I know," Ollie said quickly, reassuringly. "And believe me, the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable or put you at risk. But… I’d really love for you to be there. With me. We could be careful. You wouldn't have to walk the red carpet or anything! Stick together, find a quiet table, leave early? Just… be there?" He hated asking, hated putting her in this position, but the thought of navigating the glittering, high-stakes social minefield of the Gala without her quiet, grounding presence beside him felt suddenly unbearable.

He heard her sigh softly on the other end. "Let me think about it," she said finally. It wasn't a no.

A few days later, she texted him. ‘Okay. Baku. But strict rules apply. Minimum visibility. Maximum escape routes planned.’

Ollie grinned, relief flooding him. ‘Deal! Promise.’

The Gala was every bit as overwhelming and opulent as Ollie had anticipated. Held in a vast, glittering ballroom in one of Baku’s most luxurious hotels, it was a sensory overload of flashing camera bulbs, clinking champagne glasses, expensive perfume, booming announcements, and the murmur of hundreds of conversations in a dozen different languages. The air crackled with success, ambition, and barely concealed rivalry. F1 legends mingled with rising stars, team principals schmoozed with powerful sponsors, and journalists circled like sharks, hunting for quotes and candid moments.

Stepping into the ballroom felt like diving headfirst into a churning sea of noise and light. Lira’s senses immediately went into overdrive. The sheer volume of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses crashed against her eardrums. The glare from the crystal chandeliers felt harsh, artificial, bouncing off mirrored surfaces and sequins. The air was thick with competing perfumes, too sweet, too strong. Her eyes automatically scanned the room, cataloguing faces, noting the positions of known journalists, calculating distances to exits.

She recognized a particularly persistent paparazzo who had ambushed her father years ago near the entrance – his presence sent a cold spike of adrenaline through her veins. Ollie’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, a warm, grounding point in the overwhelming chaos, but her muscles remained coiled tight beneath the velvet of her dress. Every nerve ending felt exposed, hyper-alert. This was the world she had spent her life avoiding, the glittering cage her father had inhabited. Being here, willingly, felt like a betrayal of every instinct she possessed. Only Ollie's steady presence beside her kept the rising tide of panic at bay

– for now.

Ollie, looking slightly uncomfortable but sharp in his tuxedo, navigated the initial reception area, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, accepting congratulations on his strong F2 season. Lira stayed close beside him, a striking yet deliberately understated figure. She wore a simple, elegant, floor-length black velvet dress that shimmered subtly under the chandeliers, her dark hair swept up in a loose, intricate knot that exposed the delicate line of her neck. Her only jewellery was the familiar Ouroboros ring and a pair of small, sparkling diamond studs that Ollie suspected were deceptively expensive. She carried a small black clutch bag and wore minimal makeup, letting her pale skin and expressive grey eyes command attention. To the casual observer, she was simply a beautiful, elegant, yet intensely private young woman accompanying the rising British star. But Ollie, hyper-aware, saw the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her eyes constantly scanned the room, tracking movement, assessing potential threats, her hand resting lightly, almost imperceptibly, on his arm, grounding herself.

They bypassed the official red carpet entrance entirely, slipping in through a side door arranged by Ollie’s manager. Lira politely declined champagne, opting for sparkling water, her gaze constantly sweeping the periphery. Ollie introduced her sparingly, only to people he trusted implicitly, like his manager and Marco, his engineer, who offered warm, respectful greetings without lingering.

They found their assigned table, thankfully tucked away slightly from the main thoroughfare, shared with a couple of FIA officials Ollie vaguely knew and a slightly bewildered-looking WRC driver and his partner. Conversation was polite but stilted. Lira contributed minimally, offering quiet, intelligent responses when directly addressed but mostly observing the room, her expression calm but watchful.

Ollie spotted familiar faces across the vast room. Max Verstappen holding court near the bar, looking relaxed after another dominant season. Charles Leclerc laughing with Carlos Sainz at a nearby table, the easy camaraderie evident. Fernando Alonso, ageless and intense, engaged in animated conversation with Flavio Briatore.

Arthur Leclerc found them first, sliding into an empty chair at their table with his usual effortless charm. "Ollie! Lira! Hiding away back here? Smart move." He grinned, his eyes sparkling with friendly mischief. He chatted easily with Ollie about the season finale, then turned his attention to Lira. "So, Lira, enjoying the F1 glamour? Or is it as tedious as it looks?"

Lira offered him a small, polite smile. "It's… loud," she conceded diplomatically.

Arthur laughed. "Understatement! You need the survival guide. Rule one: avoid anyone holding more than two microphones." He chatted for a few more minutes, regaling them with amusing paddock anecdotes, seemingly oblivious to Lira's reserve, before being called away by his own team principal.

Later, Lando Norris stopped by, bouncing with his usual infectious energy. "Bearman! Good season, mate, seriously impressive!" He clapped Ollie on the back before his gaze fell on Lira. "And you must be the famous Lira! Heard a lot about you," he added with a cheeky wink towards Ollie.

Lira simply inclined her head politely, her expression unreadable. Ollie tensed slightly, but Lando, despite his playful nature, seemed to sense the boundary. He directed a couple of lighthearted questions towards Lira about whether Ollie was behaving himself, received quiet, non-committal answers, and then bounced off towards the McLaren table, leaving Ollie breathing a sigh of relief.

The most significant encounter began with a familiar voice calling out from across the crowded floor. "Lira? Is that really you?" George Russell appeared through the throng, navigating the tables with purposeful strides, his expression a mixture of genuine surprise and warmth. He reached their table, shaking Ollie’s hand firmly first. "Ollie, good to see you, congrats on the season." Then he turned fully to Lira, a wide, incredulous smile spreading across his face. "Li? Wow. Didn't think I'd ever see you at one of these things. It's been… what? Years?"

"George," Lira replied, her voice remarkably calm, though Ollie felt her hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his arm beneath the table. Her nod was polite, a slight inclination of her head. "Hello."

"Seriously, it's wild seeing you here," George continued, his eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly taking in her presence at the Gala. "Last time I think we properly spoke, we were probably teenagers arguing about who cheated at Mario Kart back in Finland." He chuckled, the comment painting a brief, vivid picture of a shared past Ollie hadn't known existed. "Good to see you."

Lira offered a small, non-committal smile, a masterclass in polite deflection. "Good to see you too, George."

George looked between them, perhaps sensing the slight reserve from Lira despite his own easy familiarity. "Well, Ollie, good season, well deserved to be here." He paused, then added with a friendly grin directed back at Lira, "Keeping this one in line, are you?"

Ollie laughed, playing along. "Trying my best, George."

Lira simply murmured, "He manages."

George chuckled again. He chatted easily for a few more minutes, asking Ollie insightful questions about the F2 car, sharing a brief, amusing anecdote about his own early career struggles, making them both feel remarkably at ease despite the high-profile setting. He exuded a natural confidence and warmth. As he made his excuses to leave, pulled away by a Mercedes team member, he gave Lira another warm smile. "Seriously, Li, great seeing you. We should actually catch up properly sometime."

"You too, George," Lira murmured, watching him walk away, a complex, unreadable expression flickering across her face before her usual composure settled back into place.

The encounter left Ollie thoughtful. George's genuine surprise at seeing her, the casual reference to shared teenage years and Finland – it confirmed a history, a connection far deeper than Lira had ever let on. Yet, she hadn't acknowledged it, hadn't elaborated. It was another layer peeled back, only to reveal more questions. The respect Ollie felt for her control warred with a growing ache, a longing for her to finally trust him with the full truth, whatever that entailed.

The evening wore on. Awards were presented, speeches were made, champagne flowed freely. Ollie and Lira mostly kept to themselves, observing the spectacle. The atmosphere grew louder, more boisterous as the formalities concluded and the networking intensified. Ollie felt Lira growing increasingly tense beside him, her earlier composure fraying slightly around the edges as the noise level rose and the press photographers began circulating more aggressively through the room, their flashes popping like random bursts of gunfire.

They were making their way towards the exit, hoping for a discreet escape before the main exodus began, when it happened. A scrum of photographers suddenly converged near the doorway, alerted to the departure of a major F1 star – perhaps Hamilton or Verstappen. The narrow exit became instantly choked, a chaotic bottleneck of bodies, flashing bulbs, and shouted questions. Ollie instinctively put an arm around Lira, trying to shield her, attempting to navigate a path through the periphery.

But the density of the crowd, the sudden, blinding strobes that felt like physical blows, the feeling of being hemmed in, trapped – it triggered something visceral in Lira. Ollie felt her go rigid against him, her breath catching in a sharp, panicked gasp. Her hand clamped onto his arm with surprising force, her knuckles white.

He looked down at her face in the intermittent glare of the flashes and saw raw, unadulterated fear in her wide grey eyes, a terror that went far beyond simple discomfort or annoyance.

She looked utterly overwhelmed, frozen, transported somewhere else entirely.

The deafening roar of shouted names and questions became meaningless noise, the heat and smell of the tightly packed bodies suffocating.

"Lira? Hey, it's okay, we're almost out," Ollie murmured urgently, his own adrenaline spiking in response to her palpable fear. He tightened his grip, no longer just shielding but actively maneuvering, using his shoulder to create a small pocket of space, pushing firmly but politely through the final few feet of the scrum, finally breaking free into the relative calm of the hotel corridor beyond. He steered her quickly towards a quiet alcove, away from the flow of departing guests.

"Lira? Breathe," he urged gently, turning her to face him, his hands resting reassuringly on her arms. "We're out. It's okay now. Just breathe."

She leaned heavily against the wall, her eyes closed, taking deep, ragged breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her face was deathly pale beneath the harsh corridor lighting.

"I'm sorry," she whispered finally, her voice shaky, not meeting his eyes. "I just… I can't… the flashes…"

"Hey," Ollie said softly, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. "Don't apologize. Are you okay?"

She nodded mutely, though tears were now welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. The carefully constructed composure she maintained so rigorously had shattered, leaving behind a raw vulnerability that tugged fiercely at Ollie’s heart.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that this reaction wasn't just about tonight. It was rooted in something deeper, something painful from her past. And he suspected it was intrinsically linked to the secret she guarded so fiercely.

The flashing bulbs. The shouting voices. The feeling of being trapped, suffocated by bodies pressing in, lenses like hungry eyes staring, stealing pieces of you.

The sudden chaos ripped through the present, and for a terrifying moment back there, Lira wasn't in the opulent hotel corridor in Baku in 2024. She was ten years old again, small and powerless, clinging desperately to her father’s hand outside a restaurant in Monaco.

The memory slammed into her with the force of a physical blow, vivid and suffocating. Monaco. Ten years old. The sun wasn't just bright; it was blinding, bouncing off the polished chrome of supercars and the impossibly blue water of the harbour, creating a glare that hurt her eyes. The air, thick with the scent of expensive sunscreen, exhaust fumes, and the salty tang of the Mediterranean, vibrated with the high-pitched scream of distant F1 engines practicing on the track above. They’d just finished a rare, quiet family lunch at a discreet restaurant tucked away from the main bustle – just her, Isi (Kimi), and Minttu. Kimi, shielded behind dark sunglasses and a nondescript baseball cap pulled low, had actually seemed relaxed, a rare, almost imperceptible softening around his usually guarded eyes as he watched her younger half-brother, Robin, then just a toddler, attempting to stack sugar cubes. Lira had felt a fragile bubble of happiness inflate in her chest, a fleeting sense of normalcy in their extraordinary lives.

Then they stepped outside the restaurant door, back into the glaring sunlight.

It wasn't a gradual convergence; it was an explosion. Instantaneous. A wall of sound and bodies erupted from seemingly nowhere, surging towards them like a human tidal wave. Men mostly, large men with predatory eyes, shouting Kimi’s name – "Kimi! Kimi! A word! Kimi!" – their voices a harsh, demanding cacophony. Microphones attached to long booms jabbed aggressively towards her father’s face. Cameras appeared, dozens of them, lenses like huge, unblinking insect eyes, aimed directly at them. The flashes started immediately, a relentless, blinding barrage, turning the bright Monaco sunshine into a disorienting, sickening strobe effect that made spots dance before Lira’s eyes. She felt her small hand engulfed, almost crushed, in her father’s much larger one as he instinctively pulled her tight against his leg, trying to forge a path through the sudden, suffocating throng.

His body went rigid beside her, the relaxed posture vanishing instantly, replaced by a familiar, cold tension. She saw his jaw clench beneath the shadow of the cap, his face hardening into the blank, impenetrable mask he wore for the public, the one that earned him the nickname 'Iceman'. He muttered terse, automatic "No comments" in Finnish, his voice low and flat, trying to push forward. But the crowd was too thick this time, too aggressive, fueled by the frenzy of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend.

They were surrounded within seconds, physically hemmed in against the rough stone wall of the restaurant, the escape route to their waiting car suddenly seeming miles away. Lira felt rough hands brush against her arms, the heat and unfamiliar smell of strangers’ bodies pressing suffocatingly close. Sweat, cheap cologne, stale cigarette smoke. The shouting intensified, becoming a meaningless roar, individual words lost in the aggressive wall of sound. Questions were hurled like stones: "Kimi, are you retiring?" "Is it true about Ferrari?" "Who’s the girl, Kimi? Your daughter?" That last one, shouted close to her ear, sent a jolt of pure ice through her veins. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up her throat, stealing her breath.

She couldn't breathe.

The air felt thick, used up. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, burying her face hard against the rough denim of her father’s leg, trying desperately to disappear, to make herself small, invisible. The flashes continued, relentless, painful even through her closed eyelids, red and white bursts against the blackness. She felt Kimi tense beside her, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest, an animalistic sound of contained fury she had never heard before. He shifted his body, trying to physically shield her completely, one arm coming around her protectively while the other pushed back forcefully against the encroaching bodies. "Leave her alone!" His voice, usually so calm, so laconic, cracked through the noise, sharp with a cold, terrifying anger, laced with undisguised fear for her.

"Back off! Get away from her!"

But it was like throwing pebbles against an avalanche. The crowd surged again, emboldened by his reaction. More flashes exploded directly in her face, the heat from the bulbs momentarily warming her skin even through closed eyelids. Someone stumbled, falling heavily against her side, knocking her off balance, her small body colliding painfully with the stone wall. A sharp cry of fear escaped her lips, swallowed instantly by the surrounding chaos. She felt a hand grab at her own arm, trying to pull her slightly away from her father, maybe for a clearer photo.

Terror, absolute and paralyzing, seized her.

Suddenly, Kimi moved with startling speed and force. There was a sharp cracking sound – maybe a camera hitting the wall – and a man yelped in surprise or pain. Kimi roared something guttural, furious, in Finnish, a string of curses that needed no translation, shoving people back with a strength born of pure adrenaline and protective rage. His movements were economical, controlled, but radiated a chilling fury. Security guards, alerted by the commotion, finally pushed through the dense pack, creating a small, precarious corridor. They were rough, efficient, manhandling Kimi, Minttu (who looked pale and shaken), and a sobbing, trembling Lira towards the sanctuary of their waiting blacked-out car. Bundled inside, the heavy doors slammed shut, muffling the shouting, but the flashing lights still pulsed relentlessly against the tinted windows, strobing the interior like a nightmare disco.

Lira was trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, unable to catch her breath, the feeling of those strange hands, the crushing bodies, the blinding lights seared into her memory. Kimi pulled her onto his lap immediately, his arms wrapping around her like steel bands, holding her tight against his chest. His own face was pale beneath his usual tan, his jaw still clenched, his eyes behind the sunglasses blazing with a cold, hard fury she had never witnessed before. He didn't say much – he never did in moments of crisis – just murmured soothing, nonsensical Finnish words against her hair, his hand, usually so steady on a steering wheel at 300kph, shaking almost imperceptibly as he stroked her back. But the fierce, almost violent protectiveness radiating from him, mingled with a profound, gut-wrenching helplessness against the ravenous beast of his own fame, was something she would carry with her forever.

The feeling of being hunted, trapped, exposed, utterly powerless, violated by unseen eyes and unwelcome hands – it hadn't just scared her; it had fundamentally scarred her, etching itself deep into her psyche, shaping the walls she would build around herself for years to come.

The roar of the Monaco scrum slowly faded, replaced by Ollie's concerned voice. Now, leaning against the cool marble wall of the Baku hotel corridor, the echo of those flashes still searing behind her eyelids, Lira felt the familiar cold tendrils of that childhood panic begin to recede, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. She opened her eyes to find Ollie watching her, his own face etched with concern, his warm hands still resting gently on her arms.

He hadn’t recoiled. He hadn’t bombarded her with questions. He had simply shielded her, guided her out, and now stood before her, his gaze filled not with curiosity or judgment, but with quiet, unwavering support. The contrast between the chaotic intrusion back then and Ollie’s steadfast calm now was stark.

He knew. He’d known since the mountain, maybe even before. He knew who her father was, understood the implications, yet he hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, hadn't treated her any differently. He had waited. He had protected her silence. And tonight, he had physically shielded her from the very thing that terrified her most, the thing inextricably linked to the secret she carried.

In that moment, something inside Lira shifted definitively. The weight of the secret, carried alone for so long, suddenly felt unbearable. The constant vigilance, the deflections, the half-truths – they were exhausting. Ollie’s patience, his kindness, his unwavering acceptance despite the unspoken knowledge hanging between them, deserved more. He deserved the truth. After tonight, after seeing his unwavering protection when she shattered, keeping the walls up felt like a betrayal. He deserved to understand the depth of her fear, the reason for her walls. He deserved to know exactly who he had committed to, complexities and all. Trusting him felt less like a risk now, and more like a necessity, a release.

She took a deep, steadying breath, meeting his concerned gaze directly. The tears had subsided, leaving behind a raw vulnerability but also a newfound resolve.

"Ollie," she began, her voice quiet but clear, stronger now. "Can we… can we go back to the room? There’s something I need to tell you. Properly."

Ollie searched her face for a moment, his expression softening with understanding. He nodded slowly. "Of course, Li," he said gently, his hands sliding down to take hers. "Whatever you need."

He led her away from the fading noise of the Gala, his hand warm and steady in hers, a silent promise of safety in the midst of the glittering, predatory world they both inhabited.

The waiting game was finally, truly over.

Back in the sterile quiet of their Baku hotel room, the opulence of the Gala felt worlds away, yet its chaotic energy lingered like a bad taste. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the glittering cityscape, creating an insular, almost suffocating intimacy. Ollie had ordered room service – comforting, bland food neither of them really felt like eating – which now sat largely untouched on a small table. Lira was curled on the armchair near the window, knees drawn up to her chest, staring blankly at the drawn curtains as if she could still see the flashing bulbs through the thick fabric. The black velvet dress she’d worn with such understated elegance hours earlier now seemed too formal, too exposed for the raw vulnerability clinging to her.

Ollie sat on the edge of the bed opposite her, watching her silently, his heart aching with a mixture of empathy and helplessness. The raw fear he’d seen in her eyes during the paparazzi scrum had shaken him deeply. It wasn't just discomfort or annoyance; it was a profound, almost primal terror, rooted, he now understood, in experiences like the Monaco incident she hadn't yet shared but whose shadow clearly haunted her. He had wanted her to tell him her secret when she was ready, but he hadn't anticipated it being potentially triggered by such a frightening event. He waited, giving her space, letting the adrenaline subside, unsure what to say or do beyond simply being present.

Silence stretched in the hotel room, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city and the frantic thrumming of Lira’s own heart. The echoes of the Gala – the noise, the lights, the crushing proximity of strangers – still reverberated within her, triggering the cold tendrils of the panic she’d fought so hard to control for so many years. The flashback to Monaco, sharp and visceral, had ambushed her, reminding her of the brutal reality that lay just beneath the surface of her carefully constructed anonymity.

That feeling of being hunted, exposed, utterly powerless while clinging to her father’s hand – it never truly faded.

It was the ghost that haunted her footsteps, the reason she craved shadows and quiet corners, the reason Ollie’s steady presence felt like such a vital anchor. She risked a glance at him. He sat on the bed, watching her, his usual cheerful expression replaced by one of quiet, deep concern. He wasn't pushing, wasn't demanding explanations for her reaction.

He was just… there.

Waiting. Patient. Supportive.

As he had been since the day on the mountain when he’d seen the watch and known, yet chosen silence, chosen to let her keep her shield intact. He deserved the truth. Not the deduced truth he already held, but the truth offered freely, from her. He deserved to understand the fear that had gripped her tonight, the fear intrinsically linked to the name she carried. He deserved to know the full weight of the legacy, the baggage, that came with loving her. Trusting him felt like leaping into an abyss, dismantling fortifications built brick by painful brick over a lifetime.

What if knowing, really knowing, changed things? What if the name, the reality of her father, became a barrier between them, an invisible third presence in their quiet world? What if the pressure became too much for him, for them? But then she thought of his unwavering respect, his gentle kindness, his fierce protectiveness tonight. She thought of his easy laugh, the warmth in his eyes, the way he saw her, Lira, the artist, the quiet observer, not just a potential connection to fame or a puzzle to be solved.

He had earned this trust. And carrying the secret alone, especially now that he essentially knew, felt heavier, more isolating, than the potential risk of sharing it. Keeping it hidden felt like a lie of omission, a barrier she herself was maintaining between them. She owed him the honesty he had so freely given her. She took a deep, shaky breath, the decision solidifying within her, heavy but necessary. She finally met his gaze across the quiet room.

"Ollie," Lira began, her voice low but steady now, cutting through the tense silence. Ollie looked up immediately, his expression attentive, patient.

"That… reaction," she continued, gesturing vaguely towards the door, towards the memory of the flashing lights. "Downstairs. It wasn't just about tonight. It’s… happened before. When I was younger." She paused, gathering her courage. "Being with my dad… sometimes it attracted that kind of attention. Aggressive. Scary. Especially when I was small."

Ollie nodded slowly, his eyes filled with understanding. "I figured it might be something like that," he said softly. "You don't have to explain, Li."

"But I want to," she insisted quietly, meeting his gaze directly. "You deserve to understand. Why I am the way I am. Why the privacy is… everything." She took another deep breath, her hands twisting in the velvet fabric of her dress. "You know already, don't you? Since the mountain? About the watch?"

Ollie held her gaze, his expression open, honest. "I think so, yeah," he admitted gently. "I pieced things together. But Li, I swear, it doesn't change anything—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted softly, holding up a hand. "Please." He fell silent immediately, waiting.

"It's not just a watch," she clarified, her voice barely a whisper. "It was his. One he wore often. He gave it to me a few years ago… said I needed something reliable." A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. "Typical him."

She looked down at her hands again, tracing the pattern of the velvet.

"You waited," she murmured.

"You knew, but you waited for me. You didn't push. You just… let me be Lira. Not… not the daughter of…" The name seemed to catch in her throat, the weight of it immense.

Ollie felt his heart ache for her. He wanted to rush across the room, pull her into his arms, tell her it didn't matter. But he stayed put, respecting the space she needed to finally voice the truth.

Lira looked up again, her grey eyes luminous, filled with a mixture of fear, resolve, and profound trust. "My dad," she said, the words spoken clearly now, deliberately into the quiet intimacy of the hotel room. "The reason I hide, the reason the cameras are terrifying, the reason George Russell knows me..." She took one final, steadying breath.

"It's Kimi," she stated simply, holding Ollie’s gaze, letting the name settle between them, finally acknowledged.

"Kimi Räikkönen."

The name, finally spoken aloud by her, landed in the room not with the shock of revelation, but with the quiet, profound resonance of confirmed truth. It filled the space, explaining so much – her knowledge, her reserve, her fear, her need for sanctuary.

Ollie didn’t react with surprise or awe. He simply held her gaze, his expression softening with empathy, with love. He rose slowly from the bed and crossed the room in two strides, kneeling down in front of her armchair so they were eye-level. He gently took her trembling hands in his, holding them firmly, warmly.

"Okay,"

he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Okay, Lira. Thank you. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me." He squeezed her hands gently. "And listen to me very carefully." He waited until her tear-filled eyes met his again. "This changes nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing about how I feel about you. If anything," he continued, his voice earnest, passionate, "it just makes me admire you even more. Knowing what you've had to navigate, how you've protected yourself, how strong you are… it’s incredible."

He saw the tension visibly drain from her shoulders, the fear in her eyes slowly receding, replaced by overwhelming relief. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her pale cheek, but this time it felt like a tear of release, not panic.

"You're still Lira to me," Ollie continued softly, lifting a hand to gently brush the tear away with his thumb. "My Lira. The artist who sees things no one else does, the girl who can somehow make sense of my messy telemetry, the one who makes me laugh even when I've qualified P19. That's who I fell for. The name… it's part of your story, yes, but it doesn't define you. Not to me." He paused, wanting her to absorb the words. "And that paparazzi stuff? The flashes? We'll handle it. Together. I promise you, Li, I will do everything I possibly can to protect you, to keep you safe, to keep us safe. Your secret, our secret now, is locked away. Okay?"

Lira nodded, unable to speak for a moment, biting her lip to control the tremor. Then, she managed a watery smile, a smile that reached her eyes, transforming her face with its raw vulnerability and dawning relief. "Okay, Ollie Bearman," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

She leaned forward, pulling her hands free to wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Ollie wrapped his own arms around her tightly, holding her close, feeling the fragile tremors subside as she clung to him. He rested his cheek against her soft hair, breathing her in, feeling an immense sense of privilege, of responsibility, of overwhelming love.

After a long moment, she pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes, though her hands remained resting on his shoulders. Her expression was still fragile, but lighter somehow, the immense weight she’d carried visibly lessened.

Ollie offered her a gentle, slightly crooked smile, wanting to ease the remaining tension, to bring back a hint of their usual dynamic. "So," he said softly, his eyes twinkling, "now that the big secret's out... does this mean I can officially ask for setup advice without pretending I just thought of it myself?"

A genuine, watery laugh escaped Lira, startlingly loud in the quiet room. She swatted his shoulder playfully, though tears still clung to her lashes. "Absolutely not," she declared, her voice regaining a touch of its usual dryness, though the relief in her eyes was unmistakable. "My consultancy rates are extremely high, Bearman. Stick to Marco."

He grinned back, his heart soaring. She was still Lira. His Lira. The name was out, the truth acknowledged, but the person he loved remained. "Fair enough," he conceded easily, standing up and pulling her gently to her feet. "Probably safer for my ego anyway."

She rolled her eyes, but the fear was gone, replaced by the familiar spark of wry amusement. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as they stood looking out at the drawn curtains, the unseen city glittering beyond. The Gala, the flashes, the fear – it all felt distant now, overshadowed by the quiet intimacy of this moment, the profound significance of a secret finally shared, a burden finally lightened. The waiting game was over. A new chapter, grounded in honesty and mutual trust, filled with unknown challenges but faced together, had just begun.

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#oliver bearman #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #ollie bearman x reader #f1 fanfic #ollie bearman x oc #f1 x oc #oliver bearman x oc #formula 1 #ob87

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artbyblastweave · 17 hours ago

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Hey man, love your content, and it seems you have the subject matter expertise to address a recent query of mine (spoilers ahead for some Iron Man comics just in case):

Iron Man comics aren't my favourite but I have kept up with some of the more recent runs, and alongside the way Tony Stark has been depicted outside of his own running series, the impression that I've gotten is that Marvel . . . doesn't really know what to do with him??

Far as I can tell, Stark's characterisation seems to be suffering perpetually from a sort of arrested character growth. Every comic run starring him seems to blatantly recycle story beats that revolve around his resources and especially his proprietary tech being seized by malicious actors and turned against him and assorted innocents. In the 2022 run it was Feilong's corporate takeover, in the current run it's Roxxon and AIM iirc, don't remember any other specific examples but I'm certain this and other such story beats have repeatedly reared their heads with minimal changes between runs.

Stark himself seems to perpetually be reacting to all of this with an attitude of "oh no, my tech has once again been stolen for nefarious ends, this is all on me, I must be better" only for the cycle to repeat again. He also can't seem to shake the habit of acting unilaterally without consulting anyone (except sometimes Rhodey and Pepper and even then only sometimes). The most recent run of West Coast Avengers where he attempts to rehabilitate Ultron, his attempt to arm a questionably framed Latverian rebellion in the One World Under Doom tie-in, there's a run where he acquires the Power Cosmic and gets very power-trippy all within the same issue, even the AXE stuff where they resurrect (?) a whole ass Celestial seems to cast him in a particularly unkind light as though he didn't act alone, the blueprint for the Celestial's equivalent of a nervous system (I think) was explicitly based on Stark's own biology; the Celestial itself narrates: "If I have a father, it is Tony Stark."

I get that any given character will always be fundamentally attached to certain themes that they can't ever stray too far from, because if they do then there's no point using that particular character, but it frustrates me that the way Marvel chooses to engage with Iron Man's particular themes is to have him just not learn his lessons over and over again. He's certainly not the only one suffering from this; off the top of my head whichever Hulk run came directly after Immortal Hulk seems to have barely followed up on or paid off anything that Al Ewing and co. set up. But for whatever reason out of all of them it's Iron Man who sticks out like a sore thumb to me specifically.

Any thoughts on all this? Is my analysis even critically sound? I hope it is but my knowledge of Iron Man and Marvel comics in general only extends so far; my observations are primarily from the last 2-3 years so I can't speak to what preceded that.

Your perception is absolutely correct. Iron Man flying too close to the sun and fucking up is basically the default beat, the thing that'll always be recognizably Iron Man to comic readers and moviegoers alike now that you can't spin him as an anticommunist playboy anymore; this was the backbone of the Civil War and Secret invasion arc, Johnathan Hickman's Avengers run leading into Secret Wars, and a whole bunch of stuff you just listed that I haven't been paying particularly close attention to. They've given him amnesia at least once in order to keep this cycle going. Maybe more than once.

Iron Man specifically has a couple unique storytelling problems that feed this cycle and contribute to the specific beats you've observed. First of which is that he's unique among superheroes in that a plurality of their audience are ideologically opposed to the existence of people like Tony Stark ; he's even more tightly tied to the playboy tech billionaire archetype than even Batman. This primes a lot of his contemporary storytelling to adopt an apologetic tone, and for a lot of his stories to sic him on even worse billionaires and magnates so the authors don't look like they've forgot about the negative effects of capitalism as commonly practiced.

I also think there's an argument to be made that the films specifically raised the saliency of the idea that Iron Man's Thing is getting caught in this cycle. It's not totally native to the films and the post-2007 comics seeking synergy with the films- see Demon in a Bottle and Armor Wars- but, in line with the realization that you can't make a weapons manufacturer an uncomplicated good guy in a post-GWOT post-cold war cultural context, the movies went really hard on the idea that he keeps fucking up and then overcompensating for previous fuckups in a way that generates new fuckups. The first movie is him trying to unfuck the damage he's done to the world as an arms dealer, Age of Ultron sees him produce Ultron directly and the Twins indirectly, Civil War has him back the Sokovia accords because he's projecting his own desire to be punished for the lack of oversight onto everyone else, Homecoming and Far from Home both have Spider-Man cleaning up villains generated by his business practices, and so on. They grafted on one of Hank Pym's big science-sins in order to reinforce this cycle, that's how committed they were to it.

In the movies this actually all mostly worked because there was an end to it. Not the most cohesive end, but he did die, and then there was a whole epilogue Spider-Man film wrestling with the idea that he was a complicated guy and that Peter shouldn't repeat his mistakes. Comic books don't have the luxury of a termination point; the arc can't conclude even in an unsatisfying way. They have to tread water. And if they have to tread water, best to do it in charted territory, with a type of story beat that'll be immediately recognizable to anyone just getting into the comics from the movies. Accessibility to the fabled "new reader" is an additional concern that contributes to this, with Iron Man and every other character; see also the TvTropes page on the Fleeting Demographic Rule, the gamble that they can get away with this kind of self-plagarism because the odds are good that the first time a casual reader encounters this kind of beat will be the only time they do so.

An additional element at play here, and one where I'm unsure of the long-term effects, is RDJ's departure from the movies. He's now been gone long enough that MCU Iron Man, even as late as Endgame, can be plausibly constructed as a nostalgia property. There is currently a wave of tweens who've plausibly never seen Iron Man headline in anything. This takes the pressure off of the comics to synergize with the movies, which is good on a level because some really dogshit stories happened as a result of that pressure, like Civil War 2. The flip side of that pressure is that there's nothing they specifically need the character to be doing, no A-list Hickman-headed Uberplot he has to play a key role in- I mean, he'll be there, but that'll be down to inertia. I think that lack of pressure will free up space for a new angle, but until someone comes up with that angle it might also encourage that same return to the mean.

What's going to pull him out of this is what pulls every character who ends up in this position out of it; someone genuinely invested will come along with a genuinely novel angle or approach, and their run will sell like hotcakes, become seminal, and eventually become another of the default beats that they constantly retread. After all, the first time they did a corporate takeover plot it probably hit really hard.

#thoughts #meta #ask #asks #iron man #Also to be clear both the Bendis Mega-arc and the Hickman Mega arc were in aggregate quite good due to the long-term planning involved #they haven't executed a really well-structured mega arc in a minute so similar beats read as wheelspinning

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wardenparker · 21 hours ago

Text

The Unbearable Weight of Perfection, ch 9

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When an accident of fate throws Javi G into the path of his soulmate, his instinct is to dive in head first. Adjusting to life as the fated partner of someone you barely know is going to be harder than either of you suspect, but anything worth having is worth working for. Isn't it?

(This story is heavily inspired by the lovely house museums that I work in every day and the fantastic few months that HBO was using our houses to film a TV show in fall! I spent each day on that set in wonder and I can't wait to share the experience with all of you through this story.)

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this story include: Cursing, alcohol, food, references to abusive family members -- i.e. Lucas, discussion of money/finances.* Talk of pregnancy/family planning. Family drama. Vaginal sex, unprotected sex, lovemaking. Summary: Javi encounters a little trouble working on his next script, so you decide to get away for the weekend - to an unconventional destination. Notes: Sorry for the slight delay this week, gang. And to the few of you who pointed out a missing section in the last chapter, I will be fixing it this week. Please accept my sincerest apologies for that editing snafu.

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8

Thursday, June 5, 2025

Blowing out a breath, Javi stares at the screen and the cursor that seems to mock him as it blinks at him. After weeks of the scenes pouring out of him, he’s hit a wall. Unable to decide where the scene and ultimately, the film, will go. He needs a change of scenery, he decides as he pushes back from his desk. Needing to see you and remind himself of the character he has envisioned. “Sweetheart?”

“In the living room!” You’ve been hard at work for days with an idea of your own and feel like you’ve barely come up for air except to work and have meals with Javi. Designing clothes again after so long has your mind buzzing.

He takes his time, stopping by the kitchen for a drink and making sure he gets one for you. You are so like him when you are in the middle of something, ignoring your needs. “How is it going?” He asks as he sets down the cup on a safe surface. He has learned his lesson when he had spilt a cup on some of your delicate fabrics. He had felt guilty and had insisted on going to buy you more, even though you said it could probably be washed out.

“I think,” you’re beaming, grinning, and practically giggling as you add one final streak of color to your sketch. “I finally have a design.”

“That’s great!” Javi beams, delighted that you are so absorbed in your hobby. He loves it, encourages it. Knowing how much guilt you push down from the way your family acted about your passion.

“It’s a little dramatic,” you admit. “But I know you wanted us to match, so I tried to keep the theme throughout.” When you flip your sketchbook around to show him, the image of a floor-length red evening gown with a cowl neckline, plunging low back, and dramatic wings exposing your back and shoulders that taper down to small buttons before giving way to the slight train off the long skirt is matched by the jacket-less tuxedo design as its partner. The last steak is color you added was the matching red stripes of material up his pant leg, which compliments a matching black set of pants and waistcoat in stunning jacquard fabric. The dramatic wings of your gown’s back are echoed in the lapels of the waistcoat, the small buttons are the same design as that of your gown. The pieces work in tandem as a set. The only added accent of color is the soft, almost imperceptible yellow of the dress shirt you’re going to make him. As if the shirt itself had been antiqued.

“It’s…” Javi is at a loss for words as he stares at it for a moment, honestly wishing that somehow this piece had been created for the film. “Stunning.” He whispers, not touching the drawing but his fingers edge around the page. “It looks like a modern era romantic costume.” He adds, looking up at you. “I love it.”

“I was thinking about adding a pocket to the waistcoat…” you bite your lip, cheeks warm with how excited he seems. “To put a red pocket square inside. Unless you think that’s too much?”

“No, it’s perfect.” He argues, shaking his head. “The exact fabric of the dress, sí?”

“Yes! Exactly. To carry the color through.” His excitement is always so infectious and you’re grinning again. “I don’t know what I want to do about shoes yet, but if I can find you glittery dress shoes I might burst with excitement.”

“If we can’t find what you want, we can always have them made he reminds you. “The costume department loves you and they work with everyone.”

“I can’t imagine it’s difficult to make glittery Oxfords,” you hum, chewing on your lip for a second. “I wonder if Louboutin makes them? Imagine black glitter on top with that red sole?”

“Call them up and see.” He says casually. “Tamara is in talks to model their women’s line.”

“Call them up?” You snort, huffing at him for being so casual about it. “Who am I to just call up Christian Louboutin and ask for custom shoes?”

“You are Javier Gutierrez’s wife - soulmate -” he scoffs back at you playfully as he pulls out his wallet and retrieves a black credit card, “who has one of these.” He knows money talks more than anything else. With unlimited funds, they would do anything you wanted.

“I’m never going to quite get used to the kind of power your name has in this town,” you tell him, leaning over the table to kiss him softly. Though Javi is relatively new in Hollywood he’s already getting a lot of attention — and his name opens a lot of doors. The rest? He’s right, the high budget opens the rest of the doors for him.

“I want you to have what you want.” He smiles. “Your exact vision.”

"Thankfully, we have time for me to get my gumption up." Once again, his utter faith in you has you believing that anything actually is possible. It's amazing the way he can do that every time. "But tell me how your work is going, love. We've both been at our projects all day."

Javi sighs softly, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Not good.” He admits, eyes dropping down to the tops of his house shoes. Feeling a little like he had let you and everyone else down. “I’ve written two sentences.”

"Oh, honey." He puts such hard expectations on himself, and he is always his harshest critique. "That's okay. Not every day is going to be a massive outpouring of words."

“Yeah.” He sighs again, feeling your hand going to his back and rubbing gently. “I might need a change of scenery.”

"Like getting out of the house to clear your head, or are we talking getting out of town for the weekend?" The filming schedule is a little different this week and you have extra days off so Javi might be thinking of taking advantage of that.

“Either, both.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Being so indecisive on the movie means that he’s indecisive on everything. “But you have your work too.”

"We're not filming again until Monday," you remind him, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. "I can take a break now that I have a design for our premiere outfits. Why don't we get out of town for a few days? See if we can wipe some of that worry away?"

“I don’t want to pull you away if you need to get started.” He knows getting away would help, but he also feels incredibly guilty about that.

"Sweetheart." Another kiss to his other temple and you smile softly. "I'm making two outfits for an event that is at least a year away. I can more than spare a few days to help you. I'd be glad to."

“Are you sure?” His question is soft, vulnerable. Hoping you aren’t just telling him what he needs to hear.

"I'm very sure." You promise him. Both of your hands slip around his to hold onto him, offering him the gentle strength of support. "Tell me where you want to go and I'll book the trip while you shower off this uncertainty."

“You pick.” He lifts his brows and gives you a pleading look. “Whatever you want.”

"Okay," you agree, giving him another kiss. "Go pack for a weekend away and I'll be upstairs as soon as I make the arrangements." You know what will help – or at least you have an inkling – and though it may end up being uncomfortable at times, helping Javi is worth it.

“Thank you.” He smiles and leans in to steal one more kiss. “I love you, amor.”

"I love you, too." Otherwise, you wouldn't be about to do what you're going to do. But for Javi? You're realizing that you really would give him anything.

Javi lets you go, reluctantly, but he knows your advice to shower away his frustration is a good one. You always know what he needs, even if he doesn’t.

As soon as he heads upstairs, you pull open your laptop and set to work booking the hotel and plane tickets, as well as arranging the rental car. Hopefully this helps. Hopefully you're not about to put yourself through the emotional ringer for nothing.

******

Friday, June 6, 2025

“Where are we?” He knows the destination, he got on the plane, but he has not idea why you brought him here. Wheeling his carry on, he follows as you lead him towards the car rental signs. You had just smiled at him as you bundled him into the car once you got the keys.

"This..." As if the world has summoned the most dramatic possible timing, you point out the upcoming road sign with a half-smile. Welcome to Mystic, CT it says in bright, cheery lettering. "Is my hometown."

“Are you—” he hadn’t expected that answer and he stares out the window in shock. “Your hometown…”

"You said you were stuck," you explain, hoping that this decision was the right one. Flying first class on the overnight flight to the east coast was gorgeous, but you could have flown anywhere. "And since the character is based on me...I hoped giving you some insight into how I grew up and where I came from might help?"

“It’s …it’s perfect.” He admits, twisting his head to look at you with concern on his face as he reaches for your hand. “But are you okay with being here?”

"I mean, I didn't call my parents or anything." That would be a huge step too far for you and you weren't prepared to do it in any way. "But showing you the things I actually like about this town? I can do that."

“Oh.” He nods seriously, understanding. You might never introduce him to your parents and he can accept that. “Then we will do just that.” He smiles. “Show me everything you liked here.”

"You know it's nothing to do with you." Driving into town, you head for the hotel that you registered for early check-in at. "It's that my step-dad is a dick bag who brainwashed my mom into being the worst version of herself." You sigh softly, turning right into the parking lot. "My actual father was her soulmate. I only remember him being happy and supportive. Even if that's just what he showed to his kid, at least it's a good thing, right? And then right after he died, she met Scott. And shit just went way downhill from there."

“Sweetheart,” he frowns slightly as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “You don’t have to justify it to me.” He snorts. “My cousin tried to kill me, remember? I wouldn’t let you within one hundred meters of him. I understand.”

"We really have the best families, don't we?" You huff, rolling your eyes to make him life as you park the car.

“Another little thing we have in common.” He agrees. “It doesn’t matter, we have made our family what we want it to be.”

"Yes we have." And for that you will be forever grateful. Javi understanding that family doesn't have to be blood has been amazing.

“Are we going to sleep before taking on your town?” Sleeping on a plane is never the best rest and he’s actually tired.

"We can if you want to." You sleep a hell of a lot better on planes than he does, but you wouldn't mind a nap. "It's still early. What if we take a nap and get up for lunch time?"

“Are you sure?” He feels like he’s nothing but a burden right now and he hates that feeling.

"I'm sure." Unbuckling your seatbelt and stretching, you lean across the center console to give him a kiss before opening the driver's side door of the rental car. "Come on, mi amor. Believe it or not, there's a lot of stuff to do in this little town. A nap is a good idea before we get started."

“Just an hour or so.” He promises, knowing that he will feel better when he’s laying next to you, wrapping up in your arms.

"If you need more, that's okay, too," you promise him.

“Lead the way.” He agrees, eager to see a place from a movie he’s seen. It’s been a long time, but he has a feeling you will be watching it together sometime this weekend.

Back to the car and off across town, the original location for Mystic Pizza is mostly the same as you remember it as a kid. It's still fairly clean and welcoming, the staff are still mostly pretty girls and all wearing t-shirts with the place's logo on them. It's an oddly warm sort of feeling, actually, but you welcome it. When the cheerful blonde seats you in a booth next to a window and hands you menus, you actually breathe a little easier. At least in this place, there's no chance of running into your mother. She still hates anywhere that your dad loved.

“What was your favorite pizza as a child?” He asks. “Pepperoni? Or were you adventurous?”

"They had this special..." you trail off slightly, looking down to check the menu and see if it's still there. "Here." It's right at the top, which somehow makes you feel an unexpected kind of warmth. "I guess it's their house special. Pepperoni, meatball, sausage, green peppers, onions, and mushrooms. That's what Dad and I would get."

“Then that’s what I want.” He decides immediately, wanting to bring back as many positive memories for you as he can. He can practically see you when you were younger from the few photos you’ve shown him. Making him smile as he imagines a little girl of his own that manages to look like your twin.

"If we're doing the childhood special, then we also need root beer," you tell him, and laugh at the memory of it. "Root beer in glass bottles felt like the fanciest thing in the world. Billie and I would pretend they were beer."

He chuckles. “Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you that I grew up drinking wine.” He teases.

"With where you grew up, that makes perfect sense." When a waitress comes over, Javi lets you order and hands over his menu with yours easily. "I would honestly be more surprised if you hadn't grown up drinking wine."

“I wish I still had some bottles from our collection.” He admits with a sigh. “My grandfather made wine when he was young and bored. Lucas finished it all off.”

"Lucas sounds better and better all the time." At least he's in prison now. Far away from Javi where he can never hurt him again. That's the solace you take whenever your husband's cousin comes up in conversation.

“He loved the wine.” He shrugs. “Claimed I was too sentimental. Wine is made to be drunk.”

"I love that you're sentimental," you counter, reaching over the table to take his hand. "And there's nothing wrong with wanting to keep physical memories."

“He would always open bottle on special occasions. My grandfather.” Javi tells you. “He would have loved you.”

"My father would have liked you, too." Your fingers are intertwined on the table top now. Something so habitual of the way you are together – always touching, always making sure the other is okay. "He always told me that whoever I found to spend my life with would have to shine just as specially as I did. You definitely would have fit that bill to him."

Having approval of his soulmate’s parent is always something that Javi had wondered. His failings as a person, as a man, were always so glaringly obvious in his family but he smiles as he thinks about what could have been. “He sounds amazing.” Javi admits. “My father…he always wanted more.” He squeezes your hand. “But at the end, he just hoped I found my soulmate. He would have enjoyed you. Your sass, your quiet strength.”

“My father would have liked your sense of humor.” All the memories you have of the man involve laughter and play. Of course you were little, but it always seemed to you like your mother forgot how to laugh after your father died. “And he would have loved how we met, too. The romance of it all.”

“He was a romantic?” Javi asks, encouraging you to talk about your father as much as you can remember. It helps you, especially after your mother had all but banned you from talking about your father.

“I think so.” The waitress comes back with your drinks and you smile and thank her before she speeds off again to help other tables. “I remember him always giving mom little presents. And bringing home flowers every Friday when he came home from work.”

“Every Friday?” He is impressed and makes a note to start bringing you flowers. Your face softened and your eyes fluttered when you spoke about it and he wants to show you that kind of love.

“Every Friday.” You confirm with an unconscious nod of your head. “My stepdad did this…He doesn’t like effort. So when they got engaged he bought her fake flowers and told her they were better because they never die. I don’t know how she fell for it.”

“That’s…” Javi makes a face of disapproval. “Efficient.” He decides tactfully, although his inner monologue is screaming ‘cheap!’.

“It sucks,” you agree flatly.

“What else can you tell me about him?” He asks. “What kind of things did he take you to do besides eat pizza?”

“He tried to get me into sports,” you snicker. “And when that failed, he started taking me to museums and the aquarium. We’d go sightseeing a lot. Play tourist in our state and the states nearby.”

“So you feel close to your father when you work.” Javi observes. “Tying back into your memories of visiting museums with your father.”

“I…” You pop the cap off of your root beer and look up at your husband in quiet surprise. “I actually never thought of it like that.”

“You haven’t?” It’s his turn to be surprised, blinking at you for a couple moments. “I had just assumed—” he gestures. “Honestly, I immediately wondered if that was why your mother insisted on history for your degree.”

“My mother just didn’t want me to study fashion.” That clarification is something that still nudges you, but it is what it is at this point. “Scott convinced her that they should pull my tuition payments if I studied something impractical. I picked history because I couldn’t stomach the idea of giving up on art altogether.”

“My mistake.” Javi does try to see the good in everyone, a terminal condition he’s afraid. “At least they didn’t want you to go the Finance route.” He huffs, threading his fingers through yours and bringing your knuckles up for a kiss.

"It's not a mistake, love. I just didn't notice the connection before."

Javi hums softly, watching you look out the window as you reconcile that.

When you seem to have digested at least a percentage of those thoughts for now, you look back to Javi with soft eyes. "Can I take you to our favorite place after lunch?"

“Absolutely.” He agrees with the quickest nod. “I want to see that.”

"It's a museum," you clarify, although you don't have to. "A living history museum of a little whaling village where the employees dress in period costume and teach you about different parts of life in a village in the mid-1800s."

“Oh!” His eyes light up. “That is amazing. I – would love to see that.”

"It's a really neat place. They used to have car shows every summer when I was a kid, too. Antique cars and fire engines." His enthusiasm is always infectious, but today in particular, it's soothing as well.

“Oh wow.” That piques his interest. “I used to have a few cars that would be considered classics, but unfortunately American cars were hard to get.” He could have imported them, but he hadn’t tried for some reason.

"You want to build your collection again, don't you?" You ask, smiling at your husband's wide eyes. "Thats why you wanted the oversized garage."

“What? No.” He chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Maybe a few cars?” He offers. “Nothing drastic. Not like the hanger of cars I had before.”

"As long as we have something that is safe and practical once we have kids." That's your bargain. Your only actual concern. What Javi does with his high earnings is up to him, especially because you're already more than comfortable even before his movie paychecks.

“I think we should get the G-Wagon for the kids.” He tells you. “It’s more reliable than a Range Rover.”

"Then we'll do a test drive when the time comes," you agree. "Once we decide we're ready and want to start trying."

“Or we can buy one now and get you used to driving it.” He offers with a grin and a small shrug. “When you don’t want to take the Porsche.”

"Test drive first?" Tempering Javi's excitement is sometimes a full-time job, but you don't mind. Not when it involves things like getting excited about your future together.

“Of course.” He agrees, nodding because he knows he can shower you with another gift. He loves giving you things. It’s how he shows you he cares.

"Agreed." You're both smiling when the pizza comes, something which happened so often in this restaurant when you were a kid that it only seems right for it to happen now. Hopefully this trip helps Javi. If not, you'll try again with a new destination. But so far it's helping you more than you thought possible.

The pizza smells amazing and he’s just happy to be here. Watching your eyes light up with happy memories of your father. Pizza should be a scene. Something to invoke those flashbacks. He bites his lip and makes a note of it.

"The trick," you tell him as the pizza gives off steam in front of you. "Is to add chili flake. It's good on its own, but I know you like spicy food as much as I do."

“Show me.” Javi is never shy about requesting to see what you mean and he’s grabbing the shaker of red chili flakes and holding it out to you.

Pulling off a slice for each of you, you dust them both with a healthy but not overwhelming amount of chili flakes, making sure to leave the rest of the pizza untouched in case he likes it better without.

“American pizza, from a movie famous place.” He’s had plenty of pizza before, he loves it, but this is special. He lifts up his slice when you do and smiles. “Thank you.”

"Of course." His smiles really do light up every room, and you beam it back at him in turn. "I'd do anything for you, mi amor. Taking you out for pizza is the least of it."

“You do so much more for me than just that.” He insists but then he’s diving into the slice with a hungry eagerness. Groaning when the taste hits him and he rolls his eyes in pleasure.

"Good?" You ask, although it's obvious from his face that he likes it.

“Amazing.” He takes another bite and wiggles slightly in his seat with his own little happy dance.

And that is how you and Javi end up eating a chili-flake-covered lunch at Mystic Pizza before heading out to Mystic Seaport. You can only laugh when he observes how half the businesses in town seem to be named after the town somehow, because he’s right. Even your hotel is the Inn at Mystic.

******

“This was just what I needed.” He throws himself back on the bed and sighs happily. He had left his laptop back in L.A., wanting to unplug, but his notebook is full of ideas and little snippets to include in the script. He rolls his head to the side. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” There’s one more surprise for him tonight, but right now you’re just glad to see him light and bright and smiling again. So much so that you open your arms to welcome him into your side without hesitation.

Javi moves closer, always eager to get closer to you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in as he does. “You always know exactly what I need.”

"You take such good care of me," you remind him, even though he knows that very well. "I try to repay that kindness and love any time I can."

“I don’t do half of what I want to.” He promises, burrowing into your neck happily and kissing your pulse.

That makes you hum a little, and laugh along with it. "You'd go crazy if I said you could, wouldn't you?"

“Nooooooo.” He huffs, pouting slightly against your skin and answering in a tone that means the complete opposites. He absolutely would if you let him.

"Mmhmm," you giggle, tilting your head a little to give him more access but leaning in to nip at his jawline all the same. "Sure, baby."

He groans softly, shuddering at the pressure of your teeth. He loves when you are just as touchy and affectionate with him as he craves.

"I love you, baby." Murmured into his skin it's almost like a prayer, and you love the way he gravitates in toward you like a magnetic force is pulling him.

“I love you too.” It’s almost crazy how much he loves you. As if he is obsessed. He can’t even fathom how someone could have this, love like this and turn away from it. You shuffle closer and press against him, making him immediately think of touching you.

His hand finds your hip and squeezes, making you hum softly, and you lean into his touch without hesitation. "You were right..." Dragging your lips across his skin when you whisper into it makes both of you shiver. "These little getaways are fun."

“How is it for you?” He asks, even as he kisses your shoulder. “Being here?” He knows that you left on bad terms and he hopes that one day he can show you his home, knowing the turmoil would be the same for him as it has to be for you.

"It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would," you admit, with your face still buried in his neck. "I guess it's been long enough that I'm sort of numb to a lot. Bringing you is...it's bringing the good back."

“Good.” He murmurs softly, his hand sliding up to your back to rub it gently. “I want you to lean on me if you need to.” He’s learned that he’s responsible enough to be that person, especially for you.

"I know I can. And I do." Unlearning the idea that your emotions – and existence – are a burden to your love ones has taken a while, but to make your marriage a healthy one you would do a hell of a lot harder things.

“I like it.” He admits softly. “That you can count on me.” He smiles against your skin. You snuggle closer and sigh as your hands slowly slide up and down his arms and back.

One of your hands slips under his shirt, savoring the touch of bare skin to bare skin, and you tip your chin back to be able to kiss him softly. "You're better than my sweetest dreams, amor. In every way."

He can feel the shift. The silent question you won’t voice but that you need answering. He hums, tilting his head down to meet your lips. The air growing thicker between you in those few seconds.

Javi is the best man you have ever known in your life. Period. There is no debating that for you. But it always seems to surprise you when he reminds you that he feels the same way about you. The fact that you are soulmates has knit you together so well that you wonder how you didn't just imagine each other into being. And it permeates everything – even the charge of sexual tension that comes in like a heavy fog to surround you. You're allowed to want him – your lover, your husband, your soulmate. But it still takes you by surprise sometimes and you gasp into his kiss as the feeling takes you over again.

You are his drug, his addiction. His want and need poured into you until he fears that he is obsessed. He’s aware that he has obsessive tendencies, well aware, but this is deeper. His fingers turn coaxing, sliding under your clothes as you respond to him with an enthusiasm that makes his blood sing.

His hands, disarmingly broad like the rest of him, begin a slow exploration of your skin that has nothing to do with the fact that he has every inch of you memorized. It’s coaxing and exposing, and your own needs mirror his exquisitely. The only difference for tonight is that when you peel away his clothes, he’ll be bare. But when he peels away yours, he’ll find the gorgeous little lingerie set you bought to surprise him with.

Javi loves worshiping you. Loves pressing kisses to your skin and whispering words of affection and desire to you. Always wanting to make you feel like you are the most precious thing he has, because you are. “Hermosa.” He murmurs softly, unbuttoning your pants and pulling your shirt out of it.

“Mi vida…” your answer comes on a sigh, and you shift on the bed ever so slightly to make it easier for him to start to undress you.

Fabric is peeled away. Javi finds it incredibly ironic that you love making clothes, dressing yourself, but he loves you best when you are stripped down and wearing nothing but the smile he adores.

His hands still when he finally gets your first layer discarded on the floor, finally taking a moment to drink in the dark crimson lace lingerie set you’ve been hiding under your clothes all day.

“Amor.” His eyes are greedy, so greedy as he stares at you. “You wore this for me?”

“Of course I did.” You’d excused yourself to the surprisingly spacious bathroom in first class on the plane and swapped your comfy cotton underwear for something more appealing just before landing. “I thought it was romantic. We’ve been married two months this weekend.” Which is nothing in the broad scheme of things, but you love every second spent with him and intend to celebrate.

He doesn’t know how he missed you putting this on this morning, but he’s smirking slightly as he imagines taking it off. “Two months.” He hums. “That deserves celebrating.”

“It absolutely does.” You could not agree more.

Javi memorizes this moment, the way you look up at him and he lunges down to kiss you. Letting his passion for you take over as he does.

There is a reason you hadn’t planned on doing anything on your first night of your weekend away. This was your plan. A night of forgetting the world exists while you make love to your soulmate. Could you do this anywhere? Of course. But treating Javi as the most special person in your life is a standard because he is exactly that. He has been the perfect husband in so many ways so you strive to be the perfect wife in return, and in holding yourself to those high standards you’re building something incredible together.

Now it is time to admire his gift and the only way to do that is up close. Javi’s mouth trails over the lace and silk, hands touching what his lips don’t. Whispering praises and promises in equal measure.

It's heaven, to be alone and to be indulgent with him. To be Javi's sole focus is to be the center of the universe. To be the only thing that matters in the world. It is to be worshipped, plain and simple.

He loves the skimpy, sexy little lingerie, but he enjoys ripping it off of you. “Oops.” He huffs, grinning because he’s not really sorry.

"And that," you huff, tongue firmly in cheek even as you sigh over his hands on you. "Is why I will never buy expensive lingerie."

“Is that why?” He runs his nose up your sternum. “But I really like ripping the expensive things.”

“Oh do you?” Your breath flutters along with your racing heartbeat as he drags his tongue along your skin and nips at the places he knows are most sensitive.

“I do.” He chuckles, making it sound like he is repeating his vows again.

The warmth of his breath against your skin makes you hum, and you rake your fingers through his curls to make him look up at you again. "I do too, mi amor."

He knows what you mean and his face flushes with pure pride in knowing that you chose him. Not just because of the universe saying you belong together, but because you want him.

The softness of the moment doesn’t dampen the heat, only morphing it into something with a deeper meaning, and you nudge your nose against his to steal a kiss. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”

"I know that my life wasn't complete until I found you." He hums, his hands slowly reaching for yours and tangling his fingers with yours.

"Neither was mine." His hand is easy to bring to your lips, but you lean up to kiss him immediately afterward.

You take his breath away. Javi squeezes your hand as he shifts up, pressing down onto you and then he untangles his hand to push under your back and pull you closer.

When every shred of clothing is pulled away and he finally slides inside you, it feels like coming home. Your legs hitched up over his hips to hold at his waist keep him just as close as his arms do and every breath you take mingles together to become a panting sigh with every thrust and roll of hips.

Making love is his passion, his purpose. His reason for drawing this breath. Feeling connected in the most intimate way and bursting with love.

No time spent showing each other the depth of your love and devotion could ever be anything but bliss. So many nights are given over to that dedication that some of your friends have probably made sly comments about it, but you and Javi never give up the opportunity to pour your hearts and bodies into fully dedicating time to lovemaking. To worshipping each other. To proving entirely that the heart you carry on this earth belongs to each other.

“I love you.” The reverence in his words is almost mocked by the sharp snap of his hips. Desperation for you to come apart making his thrusts faster, harder. Giving you the pace that seems to drive you wild. “Fuck, I love you.”

Vows and praise echo between you, chasing that perfect release, until the moment you tumble over the edge together. The force of your orgasm brings him right along with you, leaving the two of you wrapped around each other still murmuring words of love in the afterglow.

Javi loves laying with you, just like this. Both of you sweaty and satiated, his mind drifting to the future. “I think we should start trying for a baby after the movie premiers.” He murmurs softly, stroking your arm gently as you listen to his heartbeat slow.

“That will be…” Trying to do math in your head is a little tricky when he’s just pushed all the logic out of your head, but you hum while you think. “The movie is coming out for Valentine’s Day. We could be pregnant by our first anniversary.”

“How do you feel about that?” He asks. “Too soon?” He’s worried that he’s pushing, but he’s also completely obsessed with starting your family together.

“Amor, if I hadn’t just designed a fitted silk gown for the premier, I would say the wait is too long.” You turn your head to be able to look at him fully and punctuate it with a resounding kiss. “Good thing I have plenty of time to design something else if I want to.”

“That’s why I said after the premier.” He promises, unwilling to compromise even a little about the both of you wearing a creation of your imagination to a telling of his own. It was symbolic balance in his mind.

“We can start trying a little before.” Now that he’s opened the lid on this particular can of worms, you’re excited to dream about it. “Even if I were a few months pregnant for the premiere, it would be okay.”

“Why don’t we start trying when filming ends?” He suggests. “That way it will be a little closer to the premier and you won’t have to worry about fitting into your dress?”

You bite your lip, suddenly giddy at the thought even though you know there is a whole other section of filming to be done before then. Months more of work that can't happen just yet. It's a long process but it's so, so wonderfully worth it. "Yes. That's perfect."

He looks just as equally excited and he swallows slightly, eyes suddenly suspiciously moist. “Perfect.”

Leaning up to kiss him, you don't stop trailing your lips gently across his face until you've kissed away the moisture from under his eyes well. "I'm so grateful for you, mi amor. Every day and in every possible way."

“I want to make you proud.” He murmurs. “Everyday. I want you to be proud that I am your soulmate.”

"I am proud of you." And that feeling grows every day, as remarkable as it is. "And I always will be. Just like I'll be proud to walk the red carpet with you, carry your baby, do silly little errands with you, and anything else we could ever think to do together."

******

Saturday, June 7, 2025

“Where today, amor?” Javi asks as he scoops some eggs into his fork. The diner is close to the hotel, a place you said you worked when you were in high school.

"We could walk around downtown today if you want to?" The French toast is still every bit as good as you remember it being, and so is the coffee. It's actually nice to revisit a few places, since there are still some good memories here. "Or go to the aquarium? Whichever we don't do today can be tomorrow's plan."

"What would be your perfect day?" He asks, brows up as he considers the options. "When you were younger? If you could plan a day to be as selfish as you could be and indulge in what you wanted?"

"That's what I do now." Across the table, you put your hand over his and squeeze gently, making your rings wink in the yellowed diner light. "I get my nails done with my best friend, we eat whatever we like, and have amazing jobs." He looks at your doubtfully, making the smirk bloom on your lips. "But, if we're talking about high school me? I would comb through the used books in the basement of Lavelle Books, get a frappe from Drawbridge, and...probably go walk around Mystic River Park."

“Books?” He perks up at that. Since writing screenplays, he has become a voracious reader as well. Culling ideas and images from the words better than any movie ever could. “Then that is what we will do.”

“I didn’t think you would mind the bookstore.” Javi is almost as avid a reader as you are, and the bookshelves in the little house are full to bursting. Somehow you don’t think you’ll have trouble filling the shelves of a full library when the big house is finished.

“Not at all.” He agrees. “How is your French Toast?” He asks, knowing that you had been happy to see your favorite breakfast special was still available.

“Just as good as I remember.” Nostalgia can be like that, but you still grin happily and motion toward his plate. “What do you think of your omelet?”

“It’s good.” He nods and smirks before he takes another bite. “Though it’s not as good as those you made two weeks ago.” He praises. “Those were amazing.”

“You like every breakfast better when it comes after sex,” you tease.

“What can I say?” He winks at you as the waitress walks towards you with the coffee pot. “Food tastes better when your pussy lingers on my tongue.”

“Javi!” Your hiss his name and swat playfully at his hand, but the waitress didn’t hear him. It’s just your cheeks burning with affectionate embarrassment when she gets close enough to refill your cups and drop off the check.

He laughs, grinning at you while your fluster. “Tell me I’m wrong?” He asks after thank the lady with a nod of his head and a quick flash of a polite smile.

“If I did, that would be a lie,” you point out, snatching the bill away to pay it yourself. “And I never lie to you.”

He huffs at you, frowning slightly when you pull your card out of your purse. “Use the credit card, amor.” He chides. “That is what it is for.” He shakes his head, slightly amused because he’s never met a woman so unwilling to spend his money in all his life.

“I want to treat my soulmate in my hometown,” you insist. “This was part of my dream when I was little too.”

He grunts, sure that you are making that up, but he doesn’t argue with you. “Fine.”

“Yeah,” you smirk, always ready to pay him a compliment. “You definitely are a fine looking man.”

He rolls his eyes, but there is a hint of a pull to his lips as he lifts his coffee cup.

After you finish your last cups of coffee, you decide to leave the rental car in the lot nearby where you parked it and walk, heading through town toward your old favourite bookstore which sits at the mouth of the boardwalk. It actually is a cute little town when you look at it through the eyes of a tourist and you're glad you decided to bring Javi here. The chance to clear his head and to put some distance between you and the bad memories of your hometown is worth it.

There is something almost idyllic about strolling through a small town with your hand folded into his. Charming in its simplicity and comforting in the small smiles and nods of acknowledgement from residents as you pass by. Shops are open, welcoming. Eye catching displays making both of you pause as you make your way past.

The trip to your favorite bookstore ends in needing to purchase a canvas bag so you can carry the heavy load of new-to-you books, but Javi happily shoulders the weight and takes your hand again while you head off down the boardwalk again — explaining as you go that a frappe is just a kind of milkshake and it’s not some earth-shattering new sweet that he’s been missing out on his whole life.

“So we could make this at home?” He asks, tilting his head as he tries to understand beyond just the memory attached to it.

“Absolutely.” The ice cream shop is in sight, and you point out the bustling storefront to him. “I’m pretty sure I can get malted powder on the internet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in a store and that’s the secret ingredient.”

“Malted powder?” Now he frowns as he looks over you. “Like Whoppers?” He loves American candies and would have them shipped over for this movie theatre candy hoard.

You giggle, delighted that he made the connection but also at the adorable look of confusion on his face. “Yup.”

“Interesting.” He hums, smiling at your obvious happiness. “You have never shown me any food or drink that you love that I have not adored.” He reminds you. “I am sure I will be obsessed.”

“You’re going to love it.” It’s not exactly a difficult prediction, considering how much he loves sweets. But you’re more than comfortable in the assumption that you’re going to be ordering malted powder to be delivered to the house in California for when you get home.

“I suppose you are buying this too?” He asks with a hint of amusement in his voice. He’s gonna let you do whatever you want, but you hadn’t even let him buy the book at the store. This weekend apparently is completely your treat.

“Yes, I am.” It’s ice cream. Even at your brokest, this splurge would be reasonable. At the door to the ice cream shop, you turn around to kiss him. “And since you’re being so good about indulging me this weekend, I promise that whatever your next whim is for a treat or a splurge, I won’t make a single comment about it.”

“Not one little word?” His brows shoot up and he’s grinning. Knowing that you would at least pout at him.

“Pinky promise,” you swear, holding out your little finger to him.

He looks at it and then back at you before he hooks his finger with yours and chuckles. “Good.”

Inside Mystic Drawbridge Ice Cream, Javi lights up with the size of the menu and the bustle of families alone tends enjoying the weekend. Your arms are slung around each other’s waists to keep close and you tick your hand into the back pocket of his jeans, reveling in the weathered material and the fact that he chose to pack one of the shirts you made for him to wear today. There’s a nice hit of nostalgia here too, and you point out one or two people you used to know to him discreetly as you wait in line.

“You went on a date with him?” Javi frowns slightly, not even realizing that his grip on your waist tightens slightly, possessively. As if this one date wonder could someone steal you away from him.

“Once, amor.” Even though you’d just said it, you still punctuate the fact that you’d only gone on one date with this particular boy the one time. “We went to a movie and he talked through the whole thing. In the theater.”

"A crime." He nods sagely, as if that told him everything he needed to know about that particular man. "It is good you did not waste anymore time on such a man."

“See?” You grin and kiss his cheek. “You get it.”

He’s placated and grumbles slightly, feeling foolish for being so annoyed by this previous date.

“I’m sure there are plenty of women in your past I would be much more jealous of.” But only because you love him, and because you wish you had had so many more years with him.

"None of them hold a candle to you." Not even Gabriela, as much as that would surprise anyone who had known about the torch he had carried for her for years. It pales in comparison to what he feels for you.

“And none of mine hold a candle to you, either.” They never could, and you cuddle into his side happily.

“So what is your milkshake going to be?” He asks, looking at the positively dizzying array of options. “Remind me.”

“Chocolate peanut butter with malted powder.” It isn’t worth reminding him that they’re called frappes here, although he did seem entertained by the word earlier. “It’s my old standard.”

“That sounds good.” He agrees. “But they have a one that tastes like bacon?” His eyes widen as he rereads the description.

“The American obsession with bacon knows no bounds,” you grin. “Are you going to try it?”

“Salted caramel, bacon and malted powder.” He grunts and shrugs. “Why not?”

Your grin grows. “Can we trade tastes? It does sound good.”

"Absolutely." He answers with a grin of his own. "I want to taste what you would crave when you were suffering from your period."

“That is a long list,” you admit, laughing at the thought. “I wonder if it will be similar to anything I crave when I’m pregnant? I have no idea if that is how that works or not.”

“It would be fun to create a list and compare.” He suggests, beaming at the thought of pregnancy cravings. “Keep a tally and see if it’s changes as you get farther along.”

“We’ll have to make a list,” you decide. “And keep track. A column for each baby, if there is more than one.”

“Yes.” There might not be more than one, but he has a feeling that there would be.

When the two of you finally make it to the front of the line, you place your order with the teenager there and thank her as she goes to make it, then step down to the register only to find another familiar face waiting for you — your former next door neighbor is wearing a shiny pin that reads Manager and smiling in a way that is both so broad and so tight that it makes you cringe inwardly with how fake it is.

Javi feels you stiffen, turning his head to glance at you and he recognizes the fake smile you use on the most difficult of guests. There’s only one explanation for it, so he turns to the person at the register and smiles broadly. “I have heard nothing but good things about this place.” He gushes. “Excited to try the frappe.”

“I’m surprised you’ve heard anything about this place.” She says with a layer of false pep.

“It’s good to see you, too, Gillian,” you lie.

Someone you know. Javi squeezes your hip gently, a reminder that he is with you. A steady shoulder for you to lean on if you need. Obviously not your mother, but someone old enough to be your parent. You had grown up knowing her. “She has been looking forward to another one of this all morning.” Javi adds.

“Has she?” Gillian’s eyebrows raise is as imperious as ever.

“Yes, I have.” Matter of fact and mildly pleasant is where you keep your tone, and you hand over your debit card.

“Oh, Gutierrez, how exotic.” She pretends to fawn after inspecting your card unnecessarily. “When did that happen?” Not that it’s any of her business. Not that she cares beyond obtaining gossip.

“A few months.” The expression you shoot Javi is apologetic. “Javi, Gillian was my next door neighbor growing up. Gillian, this is my husband, Javi.”

Javi’s smile stiffens at her reaction to his last name. Not unused to the slight. He nods to her when she looks up, judgement in her eyes and he wants to scoff at the audacity of it all. “Sweetheart, don’t use your debit card.” He tells you smoothly. “Fraud happens all the time, especially at point of sale locations.” The implication is just as light as it can be, but it’s still there. “Use your other card.”

“Of course, you’re right.” Your eyes tick up to his and you smile but it’s a reassuring thing. You’re always going to be on his side, especially when he’s responding to a petty veiled insult with one of his own. You slip your debit card back into your wallet out of sight and come out with your black AmEx card instead.

Gillian’s eyes widen and she takes the card quickly, insulted but she can’t say much. “This is rare.” She hums.

There are so many backhanded replies you could make. Insults about how it’s not rare in your circles. How you’re sure someone else must have paid with a credit card before. But as cross as you are with her for being a casual racist, you’re not trying to start a fight. “Oh?” You settle for, with an innocent tone. “My soulmate takes such good care of me.”

“Soulmate?” That startles her, making her nearly drop the card as her eyes dart back and forth between you and Javi.

“Soulmate.” You smile again and it’s full of polite ice. There’s no reason to ask what she’s up to or how she is. You wouldn’t have cared even if she hadn’t been rude. Gillian is not only your former neighbor, she’s your former bully.

“Well, that’s...nice.” It’s also unexpected since your parents had always contended you didn’t have a soulmate. She runs the card quickly and hands it back. “Your order will be up shortly.”

"Thanks." There is no more small talk, no false pleasantries. You simply shift down the counter after tucking your card back in your wallet and lean into Javi's side as you wait for your name to be called.

“That was…unpleasant.” Javi murmurs to you softly. “But I am proud of you. You handled her with grace, more than she deserves.”

"You just met my childhood bully," you mumble under your breath, disguising it by leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Gillian lived next door when I was growing up. Our parents were friends, so we were forced to spend a lot of time together."

Javi blinks, startled and he looks back and forth between the two of you several times. “No.” He huffs. “There is—” he shakes his head adamantly, “no way the two of you are close in age.” He looks back over at her. “She looks older than me.”

You barely manage to stop yourself from snorting. "I guess being a heinous bitch makes you ugly on the outside as well as the inside. Eventually, anyway."

“Is that why you are so gorgeous?” He coos, leaning in and kissing you softly on the cheek. He’s aware that he can’t make out would you - this is a family establishment - but anyone who sees the two of you would see a man desperately in love.

"Such flattery," you huff, nudging him as if to deny it, except that he finds your cheek burning with pleased embarrassment when he kisses it. "I love you, too."

The machines make a lot of noise, but within minutes two frappes appear and Gillian has vanished into the back. Javi picks them up, adding straws and an extra shake of chocolate sprinkles just because before bringing you your drink.

"Shall we walk?" The urge to get out of your beloved ice cream shop is disappointing but very real. "Promenade on the boardwalk like your film characters would do?"

“Show me exactly what you would do on a date.” He grins, nodding as he offers you his hand.

It's a good walk, out to the end of the boardwalk about back, and you take it slow. Peaking into shop windows, looking out at boats on the water. Joking about what you would name a boat if you ever got one. You trade sips of your drinks – both are good, but you each like the flavor you ordered better than the other – and sigh happily in the sun. It's a beautiful, warm, and the unpleasantness of running into Gillian is forgotten in no time.

“Would you ever want to live here again?” Javi asks, watching as you crane your neck to check out something that is apparently different in the small town. “It reminds me of Hollowstone.” He tells you. “From Gilmore Girls.”

"Stars Hollow?" You grin at him and nuzzle into his side. "No, I don't think so. I mean yes it is like that, but I love California. And besides, our house is being built as we speak. I wouldn't want to give that up for the world."

“You wouldn’t have to.” He promises. “Just- if you wanted to have a place here, I wouldn’t be upset about it.”

"If we ever had a second house...a vacation house or whatever? I wouldn't want it to be here." There are too many bad memories. Too much negativity even on beautiful and relatively peaceful days like this one. "If we had to pick between your first home and my first home? I would much rather have a place in Mallorca so you can go home again whenever you miss it."

He’s initially surprised by your answer but then he realizes he shouldn’t be. You continually put his happiness in front of your own, as he does the same with you. It sometimes causes frustrations but he bites his lip as he smiles. “Perhaps one day.” He decides. “We would have to have a boat.” He tells you with a grin. “It’s a must.”

"Well then, we would have to name the boat, too." Right now it's just a dream. An idle one, granted, but one you enjoy. The thought of bringing your kids back to their father's home in the summer sounds magical. You can practically see them playing on the beach and chasing a stray dog through the spray. Stray...or maybe yours...who knows. "What would you name a boat, amor?"

“Happiest Ever After.” He hums as he looks over at you. “Because that is what it would be.”

“And yet you don’t want to let me name our son after you.” Even as you tut slightly, you still smile up at him with soft eyes. “It’s a very sweet idea.”

“Javi Jr. is a horrible name.” He huffs, but he’s secretly pleased that you would want to have your son carry his name completely.

“Fine,” you narrow your eyes at him and grin. “Javiera for a girl.”

He rolls his eyes and blows a raspberry at you before he finishes his drink and steers you towards a trash can to throw the empty cup away.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” You decide, and smother his face in kisses to prove how delightful you fund the concession.

“You know you have final say on the names anyway.” His own father had demanded his mother name him Antonio, and see how that worked out? She had pushed him out, so she had named him. Javi didn’t see anything wrong with that thinking at all.

“I’d prefer us to agree,” you tell him honestly, linking your arm through his when you start walking again. “We’re both going to be their parents.”

“Yes we are.” He agrees, “but you grow them. That gives you a slight advantage.”

"Perhaps." You shrug. "But only slight."

He grins, shrugging slightly. “Then you should know I want to name our son Carmelo.” He teases.

It wouldn't be your first choice, but for all you know it's the name of some dear childhood friend or a beloved uncle, so you just nod. "We'll put it on the list. By the time I'm actually pregnant we'll have a list a mile long."

Javi laughed, shaking his head. “No, we will have already picked out four names for boys and girls.” He predicts.

"Only four each?" His specificity brings a smile to your face, making you laugh a little and you shrug your shoulders. "Maybe so. Who knows. We have quite a lot of time before the premiere."

“First and middle names.” He adds.

"First and middle." You laugh all over again and drag him over to the nearest bench, taking the opportunity of an empty place to sit to cuddle into Javi's side in a new setting. From here, you can look out over the water and people watch as well as boat watch. You're quite for a long time before you lean your head against his shoulder and sigh. "I always like the name Lila."

“Lila.” He smiles softly as he tries the name out on his tongue. “I like that.” He agrees. “It’s soft, sweet, like our little girl will be.”

"Maybe." A peace settles over both of you and you hug him a little tighter. "Hopefully."

The water is soothing, like it always is, although there’s a coolness to the wind that isn’t present at home. He hums and tugs you closer. “What else do you want to do today, sweetheart?” He asks.

“I don’t care,” you hum. “As long as you’re here, we can just sit here all night and it would be perfect for me. We can do whatever will help you most in writing your script.”

“What would be a good restaurant for dinner after a day date like this?” He asks. “For a couple that doesn’t want it to end?”

“There are a couple of oysters bars in town, and I read on the plane about some new Italian places.” When he raises an eyebrow at you, you grin sheepishly. “There’s an incredible place an hour away, but I don’t know if you want to go all the way to Rhode Island to eat the same seafood you would get here.” An hour in California is nothing. It’s peanuts. It’s your daily commute to work, in fact. But out here in New England, an hour each way is a day trip.

“And would it impress you if your date suggested it?” He asks, already deciding to write a scene just like this for the screenplay.

“Yes…” You squint at him suspiciously. “But there are oysters bars in town. Just because there’s also a good one out by the beach in Rhode Island doesn’t mean we have to go there.”

“And there is a jukebox in this oyster bar?” He asks. “Maybe a dance floor?”

That makes your expression crack, and you go from wary to endeared instantly. “They have live music on the weekends if you sit on the rooftop. And yes, some people dance.”

“And I’m assuming this oyster bar is also on the water?” He guesses, winking at you. “So after the perfect day together, learning everything they can about each other and falling a little bit in love, they go to this oyster bar and eat, have a drink or two and then slow dance to something incredibly romantic playing through an old corner jukebox?”

“It’s beautifully romantic.” Somehow he manages to do this regularly — taking things that are very nice on their own and turning them into the most romantic sounding thing you’ve ever heard. This restaurant your family used to like to go out to for special occasions is now the perfect date night destination with almost no effort whatsoever. “It will be the perfect scene.”

“Only if there is a kiss during the dance.” He murmurs, staring into your eyes and wondering how he got so damn lucky with you.

“I can guarantee it.” Here. There. Anywhere in the world. If the girl in his script is you and the boy she falls in love with is anything like him? She’d be a fool not to kiss him.

“Then we should flesh out the scene.” He hums. “See this perfect romantic spot for their first kiss.”

“Back to the rental car, then?” You won’t let this moment pass without kissing him, though, and that sweet little bench by the boardwalk is momentarily your perfect romantic spot.

Javi smiles into the kiss, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer. The salt air just adds to the romance of the moment and there’s a moment where he swears his heart skips a beat with the easy joy of being with you.

The stern sound of a throat clearing is what breaks you out of your paradise and forces you back to earth, but only momentarily. You have every intention of telling the prudish busybody to fuck off so you can go back to making out with your husband — but the curse dies on your tongue when you open your eyes to find a familiar figure looming over your fairy tale bench.

“Hi Mom.”

Javi’s eyes widen, head turning to see the woman you are addressing with more than a little concern. He had understood you didn’t want to see your parents and apparently they have tracked you down or run into you by a cruel kind of happenstance. “Your mother?”

“My mother.”

The disbelief in her expression is matched only by her disapproval, and she opens her mouth once before shutting it again to recompose herself and then trying again. “Tell me why I had to find out you were visiting town from Gillian MacCauly instead of from my own daughter.” She demands. It is not a request or a question in any way.

“Gillian married Andy MacCauly?” You cringe slightly and look back at Javi. “So that’s why she’s miserable.”

“Also a horrible person.” He nods in understanding before he looks over at your mother. “Because she did not wish for you to know she was here.” He answers for you.

Your mother’s eyes bug and she looks positively gob smacked, but you shrug. “I wanted to show my husband my hometown. Not be treated to a guilt trip and verbal abuse. So I didn’t call.”

Her eyes flicker down to your left hand, mouth opening slightly at the impressive ring set on your finger. Making Javi extremely proud that he had chosen the rings that he wanted to give you. “She said you had married.” She frowns, apparently not even remembering your courtesy call.

“I did call the day of the wedding,” you remind her. “We had a soulmate ceremony so there wasn’t loads of planning or bunches of guests. Apparently your own husband elected not to tell you?” Or she forgot, which is equally likely. If her golden child isn’t involved, she doesn’t care much.

She frowns at the criticism and huffs. “Don’t talk about your father that way.”

"My father died when I was a kid." Still seated on the bench, tangled up in Javi and bolstered by his presence, you feel brave. "I never should have started calling your husband Dad, but I was a scared kid. Not a problem I have anymore."

Her mouth drops open and she practically sputters in disbelief that you would be so brazenly disrespectful. “He raised you, cared for you.” She hisses. “He is the only reason we survived.”

“If that’s true,” which you doubt, for various reasons. The first of which being that you remember hearing talk about a life insurance policy way back when you were too young to understand what that meant. “Then good. But while he may have helped raise me, he has never loved me.“ And neither has she. Not since he came along.

He can feel how you are tense, hates that this has ruined a beautiful moment, but he’s proud of you for not backing down from her. His hand strokes your arm, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

“He loved you.” She protests. “You make things so difficult.”

“Maybe I do.” Feeling uncannily calm on the outside despite how hard your heart is beating in this moment of finally standing up to your mother, you simply shrug one shoulder. “Maybe I’ve always been a bad kid and I didn’t realize it. Maybe you were right to favor Tony. But I’m done wondering and I’m done worrying.”

Her brow furrows at she opens her mouth to speak but Javi decides that it’s time to say something. “I could never imagine choosing someone - even a lover - over my child.” He tells her quietly. “Even if I was lonely and had lost my soulmate.” He looks at you tenderly. “She is the last connection to your soulmate you have, and you abandoned her for a man who obviously has contempt for that.” He looks at her. “Shame on you. The man your daughter has described would be ashamed of his other half.”

“I think it’s probably time for us to go, don’t you?” You ask Javi, not even bothering to consult your mother in the decision. It isn’t hers to make and even on the longest odds in the world she would only invite you to dinner to talk down to you.

Your mother, for her part, looks stricken by Javi’s words. Like he had slapped her. “I agree, amor.” He murmurs softly, standing and reaching for your hand to help you up.

“By the way?” It’s a striking realization, that you’re taller than your mother now. She always seemed so intimidating in the past. “Billie told me why Auntie Kay stopped talking to you. So don’t pretend to be blindsided by the idea that you mistreated me.”

Javi curls his arm around your waist protectively and glances back at your mother one more time. “Do not call her unless you wish to apologize.” He tells her. “And then, it will be up to her if she accepts.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just guides you away.

Leaving your mother standing, flabbergasted, in the middle of the boardwalk as you walk away in the arms of your soulmate with your head held high and your heart hammering makes you feel like a superhero. There was no screaming. No fighting. No physical altercation. No scene was made. You were calm and you stood your ground, and as Javi guides you back toward the parked rental car you clutch his hand in relief as much as your own shock. “Now that,” you whisper with wide eyes, “is something I wish I had done in high school.”

“How are you feeling?” Javi knows he was nothing but a riot of emotions when he had completely broken ties with his family, as horrible as they were. Even now, he sometimes feels guilty about Lucas, although he knows he deserves it.

“I’m not sure?” You admit. You might laugh or cry or shake apart at a moment’s notice. Either way, you hold to him like a lifeline. “I’ll set the gps for the restaurant but would you mind driving?”

“Do you still want to go?” He asks seriously. Even though it had seemed like a wonderful idea, you might not be so sure now and that’s okay with him. Even if you just wanted to go back to the hotel, he would be ready to take you. “Completely your call, sweetheart.”

“Honestly?” You sag against his side. “At this point I almost think we check out of the hotel here and go spend the rest of the weekend in Rhode Island. But I think that’s just my instinct to flee the scene.”

“If it will protect your peace, that’s exactly what we will do.” He promises.

In looking up at him, you smother an embarrassed sigh. “I don’t want to ruin your trip.”

“Baby, nothing you can ever do would ruin my trip.” He stops and turns towards you, his eyes seriously focused on yours. “Because I’m with you.” He murmurs softly. “And that is all I need.”

“I’m sorry.” Still rattled from the encounter, you’re sure you’re shaking a little with his hands on your arms. “I just…I guess I figured the town was big enough that we wouldn’t actually see my parents. I really didn’t expect this…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His lips are in your hair, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Why don’t we go back to the room and order room service? Or delivery. Whatever you want.”

“That’s a less dramatic response.” He’s right. You don’t need to flee. You just need to be safe with your partner and try to let out some of the tension that is clinging to you. “Maybe we can use the jacuzzi and order a bottle of wine? Just try to relax.”

“I’ll order two bottles.” He promises with a smile and a kiss for your lips.

“I love you.” For better or for worse. You had promised it in your vows, and Javi is more than living up to his side of the bargain.

“I love you too.” He knows how to get back to the hotel, so he guides you towards the passenger seat. “We will order some wine, and see what they have in their menu. Maybe an appetizer or something? Then we can decide what else sounds good.”

"That sounds perfect." Though you would prefer to curl into his side, you tuck yourself into the passenger seat and buckle in, then pull out your phone to send Billie and Auntie Kay a quick text in the group chat that the three of you share. They deserve to know that some heat might fly their way, though you don't really expect your mother to do anything but bluster and play the victim.

“Your town is beautiful.” He tells you as he starts the car and backs out of the parking spot. “So many places to get lost in. Seek refuge.”

"I wanted you to see the best parts of it," you murmur, tucking your phone away as he pulls out of the parking lot. "Only the best."

“The best part about this trip is watching you enjoy things that you would have when you lived here.” He admits.

"We should go to the aquarium tomorrow, then." It was your other childhood favourite, and right now you just want to remember something nice and push away the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Then let’s go.” He tosses you an encouraging smile. “I want to see if there are different species here on the east coast.”

"Probably." And when you're out of the car again, you will smother him in ample kisses in thanks for being so sweet about the whole thing. "I guess we'll have to go and find out."

“We will.” He agrees, winking at you when he comes to a stop sign. “Does this aquarium have a tunnel?” He asks.

"Of course," you gasp, clutching invisible pearls and pretending to be aghast that he would even ask.

“Good.” He chuckles and nods. “Then we will have to make out in it and pretend we are mermaids.”

"Perfect." Laughing feels so good. Like such a relief. And it's purely thanks to Javi.

“Thought you would like that idea.” He’s happy you laughed, needing to hear it after watching you with your mother.

"I love all of your ideas." Even when they're over the top. Even when they're a little crazy. Everything is still always wonderful in the end.

He pulls into the parking lot and grins. “So then let me suggest something else tomorrow after the aquarium?”

"Whatever you want, baby," you promise him, grateful that the hotel isn't far from downtown.

“Why don’t we find a place for a couple’s massage?” He asks.

"Spa afternoon?" Tilting your head at him, your obvious interest is rewarded with a kiss before you both climb out of the car. "That sounds beautiful, actually."

“Good.” He grins when you almost instantly agree. “Fluffy robes, champagne, saunas and massages.” He winks again. “We will feel like new people.”

"We'll sleep like babies all the way back home." Your overnight flight was already aimed at being relaxing, now it would be even more so.

“Yes we would.” He agrees. “The perfect ending to our weekend adventure.”

“I’m sorry the whole thing wasn’t perfect.” He’ll tut at that, but it’s true. This afternoon and this evening are not the fairy tale that the rest of the trip has been. “But thank you for standing up for me.”

“I will always stand up for you.” He knows you will also stand up for him, but after being powerless against Lucas for so long, he will not be silent when someone he loves is hurt, never again will someone rob you of your peace. He has changed and he likes to believe it’s for the better.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

TUWOP: @inept-the-magnificent @missladym1981 @sunnytuliptime @iamladyp @spishsstuff @famouslyanonymous

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Javi Gutierrez #Javi Gutierrez x you #Javi Gutierrez x reader #Javi Gutierrez x female reader #Javi Gutierrez x f!reader #Javi G #TUWOMT #the unbearable weight of massive talent #soulmate au

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sometimeslwish · 20 hours ago

Text

Something Just Like This (With Rafayel)

T'is the fishies turn! I made the fucking mistake of posting this a day earlier than intended and I had to redo everything *face palm* Anyways, now you know why him and Caleb gave me so much trouble, it's hard to be specific and mention everything when there's so much variety. I said I was going to be more specific about the tags on each post, but... how do I do that when I'm not even going into extreme detail?

Word count: 1,637

Tags: voice acting, just general +18 content, Rafayel putting his whole pussy into his art as always, nothing too explicit, just mentions of fluff, smut and angst, Raf being a bit of an art critique near the end.

Social media handles

YouTube

madebyrafayel (speed paints and some art tutorials)

legendsoftheseaasmr (va account)

Twitter

madebyrafayel – it started as his secondary art account for the more mature stuff, then it became a mess of art, audio sneak peeks and him interacting with Thomas and the fans.

Instagram

madebyrafayel – the most aesthetic out of all of his accounts. It's a well balanced mix of his art, photography and little moments.

How it started

He woke up one day, started drawing, and while thinking about the drawing, he decided he was going to do voice acting. No fanfare, no big "I just found my calling" moment, just a quiet "yeah, I'm going to do this". The moment he was done with the art, he wrote down the storyline and everything about the character he was going to play, made a new account for his voice acting and set out to buy the things for his set up. He lives quite a cushioned and calm life, so he wasn't in any hurry to succeed or be good, he just wanted to have fun.

— He doesn't talk about the account on his instagram or twitter, doesn't mention his plans to anyone. Simply posts videos and lets it grow on its own. He's content with people stumbling onto it.

— His first audio is a merman god audio (God Of The Tides). It's elaborate and the sound effects are quite realistic. He records all the parts for it in one sitting, slowly editing and posting them as he goes. Again, he's in no hurry, he's enjoying his time.

— Obviously, people recognize his art and talk about it, some even try to get his attention and ask if that's him, but he says nothing and lets it fester.

— Thomas comes along after a year and a half, and by then he's revealed that yes, that va channel with art awfully similar to his is actually him. He became his editor and unofficial manager.

— His posting was a mess, sometimes he'd post three consecutive weeks in a row, on others it would take a month or more for him to post. People could see the shift in time management the moment he went from posting randomly to posting bi-weekly. Now he posts his audios on Fridays.

Channel

— Deep blues, watercolor corals and sand tones, a little bit more and the account itself would have a wave animation along with the sound of the shores.

— The intro of his videos is a little animation of himself. It starts with a view of a chibi version of him fiddling with a little fish trinket while he waits for the listener, when they approach, he'll turn and say “Hey, cutie! Wanna hear a new story?” and then pull you along into a room as he starts narrating. He'll stop talking once the place and time has been set and then the sound effects will start and throw you into the first person pov.

— He likes going an extra mile by marking timestamps in his videos, he usually divides them into three acts.

— He draws art of the characters, it's the only thing you see throughout the video. It's always a full body picture that gets zoomed into so the details are slowly shown as the video progresses. You can tell a series is coming depending on how elaborate the drawing is.

— His content is M4A, and very occasionally he's specific about gender. Pet names vary depending on theme, setting and character, but the only one that is truly his is “cutie”.

— Sirens, mermaids, water fairies, spirits, whatever type of sea/water creature he can come up with. Played a naga once, never did it again, no matter how much the fans begged. He'll switch it up and play humans while the listener is the water creature every once in a while.

— His merman god character makes a comeback every once in a while. It's his most famous series along with The Lemurian Painter (a sequel to The God Of The Tides, where the god has fallen along with his people) and Abysswalker (the third installment to the God Of The Tides series, where lemurians have gone extinct and the seas have started to dry up)

— Some characters are connected and make references to something that happened to the others, it's a nice easter egg the fans always look for.

His sfw content

— Summer at the beach. A lot of his audios are set around water, be it a tub, a river, pool or even the beach or in the sea.

— His videos are as elaborate as his art, sometimes even more, you can tell he's putting his entire pussy soul into it. He has playlists for each oc he makes, it's almost like a little multiverse for each one.

— Changes his voice, accent, speech pattern and entire demeanor depending on the character. He's fully immersing himself into the acting and having a blast.

— He does a little bit of everything; friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, doomed romances where a character dies, tooth rotting fluff, dark romance. He has no qualms about playing angel and devil. He'll play an assassin one day and a sweet painter the next.

— All of his oc's have an alternate version of themselves, the sweet ones get a yandere version and the rougher ones get a kinder version. He likes experimenting with their background and seeing how they would be if things went differently.

— He actually cries whenever a crying scene is involved, and sometimes he takes a selfie and posts it; that's all the fans need to know that an angsty audio is coming.

— He deviates from the water theme a little when doing cute dates; cute dinner dates, cooking/baking at home, going shopping, doing art together, car rides, lots of mundane and seasonal, cute things. He did a pottery date once and it was so realistic that if you actually went to do pottery while listening to the audio, you could pretend he was actually there.

— Sleep aid by humming. Sometimes he full on sings depending on the character, and the fans love it so much that there's an account dedicated to posting the clips of his singing. He has also done a few chronic pain audios, most of them focused on hand related pains.

— Alternates between being soothed by the listener and soothing the listener, it's concerning how realistic he can get with the audios.

His nsfw content

It takes him creating a very specific oc before he starts doing nsfw audios. The character is a shy, clumsy little thing that gets flustered easily under the listeners attention. It's the character’s first time and it ends up breaking the dam and opening the door for his other oc's.

— It's as varied as his fluffy moments; it can be a romantic moment for established lovers, a one night stand or even crazy sex between two yanderes. He does a lot of things thanks to his many oc's and the scenarios he puts them through.

— Those are, of course, linked to a different app. The tamer ones are more accessible than the ones with hard kinks, it's based on patreon tears.

— Accessible: oral (f & m receiving) hand jobs, fingering, prone bone and a bit of body worship, anal stuff, first times (in general), playing with toys, phone sex and just things that you'd consider vanilla. The aftercare for these is light, even if it might not even seem like it because of how naturally it flows into the scene.

— Paywalled: Monster fucking, light bondage, dom & sub dynamics, degradation, spanking, daddy kink, mommy kink, dub-con and cnc, you name it, he's probably done it. Whenever he does those, he ends them with more thorough aftercare scenes.

Extra things

— The most common ones, the ones that prevail throughout the characters are: praise kink, body worship, being vocal in bed and switchy dynamics.

— Thomas and Rafayel bother each other a lot on social media. Rafayel constantly complains about having Thomas breathing down his neck and Thomas constantly complains about Rafayel in general. Sometimes it looks like they are actually arguing but if you look at their private chats, they're just chilling and having a normal conversation.

— Sometimes he'll stream while drawing, as a teaser for what's to come. You never know what he'll draw, whether it'll be an elaborate drawing or a simple one. He'll chat with the fans then and talk about the characters, he gives so much content about them that the fans can make fanart and fanfics about them. He hypes up their art and offers criticism when they specifically ask for it, even encourages them when they do fanfics. He's made a few commissions here and there just because he felt like giving something back.

— Doesn't really care about showing his face and fans don't really care about it either. Yeah, he looks great and beautiful, but that's the last thing on their minds when he's voice acting and playing a character.

— He does this thing where he talks to Thomas randomly in some audios. It isn't weird because sometimes he has to give him pointers of what sound effects he should add– he's very specific, sometimes he'll even tell Thomas to remind him to look for a specific sound effect that came to mind– but it's different from the usual thing because he'll randomly go like "Thoooomaaaaas, I know you're theeeerreee" (kind of like what markiplier does with his editor where he has a whole skit) Thomas always films those moments and posts them on twitter, there are fan made compilations of them.

— There's also the occasional blooper reel, especially the ones Thomas finds too funny to not post. Rafayel always yells at him for it, saying something along the lines of "You're ruining my reputation!"

Series masterlist.

#somsplaylist #love and deep space #love and deepspace #l&ds #lads #lnds #lads fanfic #lads headcanons #rafayel #rafayel headcanons #love and deep space rafayel #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #l&ds rafayel #lnds rafayel #rafayel fanfic

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greenfiend · 2 days ago

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hi i was reading up on your analysis post on lonnie and how it all leads back to his abuse of will--i think its super likely the way you and the other blogposter from a few years back put it together (forgive me for not having their name on hand), but i was wondering how likely you think it is that the duffer brothers actually go in that direction.

everything adds up, but its hard for me to see them use that storyline even if its so perfect to the plot. the way yall talk about the set pieces esp from season 1 is VERY persuasive, but i dont even think lonnie is in season 5 so how would that even work?

Great question! I think we have been led astray from season 1, with so many other characters and plot lines appearing, that we forget what kick-started everything. A good story’s ending ties into the very beginning, which the writers have said season 5 would do.

Will is patient zero (perhaps number 0 too)… Not chronological within the timeline told to us in the show, but upon viewing the show as an audience, he is the very first victim. This fact cannot be understated. What happened to Will was the first domino that fell, the first nuclear fission reaction that triggered a chain reaction.

Now, when it comes to horror, most elements are based on reality. They are metaphors for aspects of the real world. One major theme within the show that connects with the supernatural is family dynamics. As well as childhood trauma and the mind itself.

We have seen dysfunctional family dynamics within: the Wheelers, the Creels, the Hargroves/Mayfields, the lab, El and Hopper, Vecna’s victims… etc etc.

We have seen a glimpse into the Byers. We know they struggle financially. We know Jonathan is being parentified and Joyce is a struggling single mother. We also know that Lonnie does not care for Will, that he left and that Jonathan despises him. Many people here usually just write the Byers off as being a healthy happy family without Lonnie despite what I had just listed.

We also have never seen Will and Lonnie interact.

This fact, along with the mountains of suspicious evidence tying Lonnie to Will’s disappearance is highly suspicious.

But the biggest clue?

Lonnie is forgotten in season 4.

In a season where El has an entire story/arc around repressed memories at the lab with Papa and Henry. Where we see the harm caused by “Papa” towards both El and Henry. Where we are explicitly told that our brains protect us from past trauma by forgetting. At the same time, Lonnie is forgotten. They even made this fact even more clear when they added the scene with Will and Jonathan where Jonathan tells Will about “Larry the construction worker” (Larry and Lonnie both being nicknames for Lawrence and Lonnie's backyard is literally a construction site).

Is Lonnie in season 5? Remember, we know very little of the filming, they kept most things under wraps! However, the actor who played Lonnie was seen in a behind the scenes image for season 4 (see above). There may have been pre-filmed footage of him. But also, the story isn’t about him. It’s not a revenge story, it’s about healing from trauma. He doesn’t need to make much of an appearance at all… perhaps just in flashbacks.

Some other thoughts leading me to this conclusion:

The writers and cast frequently allude to Will's importance to the story as a whole, and aspects of his trauma and queerness are referenced throughout the show frequently.

El was originally planned to die in season 1. The story is not actually centred around her but she has been taking Will's place up until now. Remember: Will “likes to hide”. The connection and parallels between Will and El are more than just that.

Henry was not originally in the plan for the show. The idea of him was there I believe but there is a reason why he wasn't in the show until later. He is NOT the villain of the show. He is a manifestation of the problem, the trauma.

Lonnie was the first suspect in the case of Will's disappearance and was never actually cleared as a suspect. I do not think he literally kidnapped Will in season 1, but he was the reason Will disappeared.

Demogorgon means “Deep Father”, the Mind Flayer = MF = “mother fucker”, Henry also means father as “Hawkins” means “son of Henry”. The connection to father is clear.

Will’s trauma with his father is majorly connected to his internalized homophobia. His father is the main reason why Will feels like “a mistake”. He needs to heal and accept himself for who he is.

There are major twists to come. Most people don’t theorize outside of the basic good vs evil premise… Vecna vs. Will and/or El and the latter winning. But things are not that simple, there’s likely an entirely different story going on beyond what we are told.

I could go on and on but I’ll leave this for now…

#Lonnie Byers #Will Byers #ask #asks #stranger things #stranger things theory

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unusualindigo · 11 hours ago

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Thank you so much!

I have to admit I have been a bit critical of some characters more than others based on personal experience, moreso Hua Cheng due to the fact from my reading I don't really know much about him and what I do know about what he is to everyone besides Xie Lian and a handful of others, it seems he'd be very unliked in-universe for more reasons than just bigotry.

I really wish MXTX dived more into the fact that as a ghost, Hua Cheng is kind of a problem for the common people. Like, the ghost city does have vendors just selling human cuts iirc, so it would be interesting to see if that would cause blowback, which it should.

For example, part of BingQiu's weakness as a pairing (in my opinion) is after the misunderstanding is cleared up, the world's reaction to the absentee ruling couple feels... weak. In a narratively unsastisfying way.

One thing I wish we got more of for Shen Yuan is dealing with consequences like the brothel sisters who comforted Shen Jiu and were likely cared for in turn, or how he probably isn't as shrewd or strategic as Shen Jiu due to their differing backgrounds and didn't know much of his life outside Binghe's perspective, which could lead to the collapse of things like spy networks or secret sect defenses the Qing Jing Peak Lords wouldn't leave written down for security purposes.

Binghe himself gets very little blowback but that is sofetened somewhat by the System's canonical influence upon the world, though that in itself feels woefully unexplored (I headcanon the System as the actual Original Binghe fed up with a life of unhappiness and ready to do whatever it takes to see some version of himself happy).

Likewise, I feel like Hua Cheng is... illogical? As in, his power-set is very inconsistent next to the defined ways a lot of ghostly powers work. Bai Wuxiang has a wide array, sure, but his "domain" as you might call it seems rather broad, and He Xuan and Qi Rong's fall in line for what they are said to do.

Hua Cheng's powers, by contrast, kinda feel all over the place with no connecting threads (ironic, given the red string), and it kinda gives me pause while reading as I wonder if he even has a pre-defined set of abilities or if his powers were written by the seat of the pants to fit the needs of the story.

But also, while a good ruler, Hua Cheng is needlessly cruel to particular characters, such as Feng Xin, who had nothing to do with the other gods in the contest as I recall, and left because he was expressly ordered to (Feng Xin and Mu Qing's unbalanced relationship with Xie Lian is also something that needs more exploration, but Feng Xin in particular given he can't cultivate and was a bodyguard from birth for all we know), so Hua Cheng threatening to kill or at least severely weaken him through temple burning feels unwarranted (and also why does Hua Cheng not have any gratitude for Feng Xin breaking his own arm after protecting him from Qi Rong? Feels slightly OOC given his MO).

Ack. Sorry about that rambling!

Anyways, yeah, SVSSS and TGCF feel like they could've used more time to bake and explore certain things or just need a little adjustment to plot and character. Oddly, MDZS, despite being the second book, feels the most complete in a sense?

But in general it is interesting to look at the three in a crossover sense, as it really does highlight the different approaches taken to each narrative.

ShangQiJiu is a vibe.

The beleaguered sect leader and his two venomous serpents whispering in his ear...

#analysis #long post

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beachyserasims · 7 months ago

Text

The Lonely House

On a cold autumns eve in a modern rented house, a small family sits down together after a Harvest meal, bellies full and hearts open to share. They traveled here from different places to meet one another, some from as far as the rocky mountains and beyond. But in the past, they all lived together in their quaint family home, in a small prairie town just outside of the city. They reminisce about times they spent there, each recounting their own isolated experiences. Throughout the conversation, a pattern is clearly seen, and they all begin to agree on one truly disturbing reality… That house was definitely haunted.

This series contains 3 very short stories, a bit of poetry, and graphic art related to The Lonely House.

This series is non-fictional and rated +18 for mature audiences only.

Click for trigger warnings and tags related to this series.

Enter here… if you dare.

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inkolnito · 2 days ago

Text

Paddock Confidential -Chapter 3: Shifting Gears

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x Lira ??? (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Warnings and Notes:

Notes:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

It was hell writing this. I hope everyone enjoys reading it. You've probably guessed Lira's last name, lol.

The relentless rhythm of the Formula 2 season ground on, a demanding metronome setting the pace of Ollie Bearman’s life. Flyaway races blurred into intense European back-to-back rounds; simulator sessions bled into punishing physical training; sponsor commitments jostled for space with engineering debriefs. It was a whirlwind that threatened to consume everything, leaving little oxygen for personal connection, let alone the delicate, complex dance of a relationship shrouded in layers of secrecy. Yet, somehow, amidst the controlled chaos, between the high-octane demands of Ollie’s career and Lira’s fiercely guarded privacy, something genuine, something undeniable, had taken root. And against the odds, it was growing stronger, deeper, weaving itself inextricably into the fabric of their separate, now converging, lives.

Their clandestine meetings continued, becoming anchors in Ollie’s turbulent world. An hour snatched in an anonymous Viennese coffee house, its polished wood reflecting the tense energy Ollie carried from a difficult practice session, soothed by Lira’s quiet presence opposite him. A long, meandering walk through the sprawling, sun-dappled grounds of the Villa Borghese in Rome during a rare weekend off, the tourist crowds fading into background noise as they debated the merits of Caravaggio versus Bernini. A shared portion of ridiculously overpriced frites consumed standing under a drizzly Silverstone sky, miles away from the track, the mundane act feeling strangely intimate. Each encounter was carefully orchestrated, existing in a bubble deliberately created outside the gravitational pull of the paddock, away from curious eyes and potential questions.

Ollie found his priorities subtly shifting. He’d glance at his phone during a tedious sponsor Q&A, seeing a text from Lira – just a photo of a particularly brutalist piece of architecture she’d spotted – and quickly type back,

‘Looks like a Bond villain’s lair. Free later? Can ditch the team dinner.’

The casual sacrifice of a previously non-negotiable team event felt surprisingly easy. It wasn’t just about escaping the pressure cooker anymore; it was about choosing her.

He found himself actively seeking her unique perspective, even on things far removed from racing. Walking through Rome, distracted by thoughts of the upcoming race strategy, he stopped abruptly. "Okay, random question," he said, turning to her. "If you had to redesign this fountain, what would you do differently?" Lira paused, tilted her head, her grey eyes assessing the Bernini masterpiece with unnerving seriousness for a moment before offering a dry, technically precise critique of its water dynamics that was both insightful and unexpectedly hilarious, making him laugh out loud. He was learning her language, the subtle shifts in her guarded expressions. He saw the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes when he ventured a casual question about her childhood travels

'Did you travel much growing up? See anywhere interesting?'

and he immediately backtracked when her gaze frosted over, changing the subject to the merits of different coffee brewing methods, mentally noting the boundary he'd brushed against.

He saw the rare, fleeting softening of her features, the slight relaxation of her usually tense shoulders, when they sat in comfortable silence listening to a melancholic piece by Sibelius she’d put on, a shared moment of quiet appreciation that felt more intimate than any conversation. He learned to anticipate her dry wit; after a clumsy moment spilling coffee in a cafe, she deadpanned, "Impressive. You managed to find the one part of your t-shirt that wasn't already covered in engine oil," her expression utterly serious but a tiny spark of amusement dancing in her eyes. He even began to appreciate her silences, realizing they weren't empty but filled with intense observation – the time she watched him patiently explain the intricacies of tyre degradation to a confused barista, her gaze thoughtful, analytical, making him feel truly seen.

One quiet evening during the off-season, Ollie had invited Arthur and Enzo over to his apartment for pizza and some casual race analysis – ostensibly to review footage but mostly just to hang out. Lira was there, curled up on the sofa with her sketchbook as usual, a silent presence amidst the easy banter. Arthur, controlling the TV remote, rewound footage from the Spa race replay. He paused the screen just as Ollie locked up slightly entering the final Bus Stop chicane, running a fraction wide over the exit kerb.

"Ooh, close one, Bearman,"

Arthur teased, pointing with the remote, his grin sharp. "Cutting it a bit fine there, weren't you? Trying to straight-line the chicane for a better run to the line?" Ollie flushed slightly, about to mutter something about worn tyres from late in the race, but Arthur pressed on, clearly enjoying himself. "Could have easily got a track limits warning for that, maybe even damage. Bit clumsy, mate." Lira, who had been seemingly absorbed in her sketching, looked up briefly. Her gaze flickered to the paused screen, then back to her page.

"Front wing stalled,"

she stated simply, her voice quiet but cutting through the banter. "Lost downforce momentarily from the car ahead's dirty air turbulence just before turn-in. Unsettled the front axle. He corrected." She didn't look up again, pencil resuming its scratching motion.

The room fell silent.

Enzo glanced from Lira to Arthur, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. Arthur stared at Lira, his teasing grin faltering, replaced by confusion. He slowly lowered the remote. "Front wing stalled?" he repeated, sounding unsure. Lira simply shrugged, not looking up from her sketchbook, as if the observation was utterly mundane. Ollie felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest. Her quiet, factual correction, delivered with such nonchalant precision, was more effective than any defensive argument he could have made. It revealed that unnerving depth of observation again, but this time, it felt distinctly protective of him.

Later, when Enzo had left and Ollie was walking Arthur to the door, Arthur paused, lowering his voice. "Seriously, Ollie," he said, his expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "Your friend, Lira… 'Front wing stalled'? How does she even know that? Does she work for an F1 team's aero department or something?" He shook his head. "She's… intense. Doesn't say much, but when she does…" He trailed off, clearly perplexed. "And you're spending a lot of time with her, yeah? Skipping team stuff, always texting… Is this serious? Like, properly serious?" Arthur wasn't just teasing now; there was genuine friendly concern, maybe a hint of friendly warning about distractions. "Because mate,if it is serious, maybe you should, you know… actually define it. Before the season starts and everything goes nuts again." The nudge, though unexpected, resonated with the thoughts already swirling in Ollie's own head.

The mystery of her identity remained unsolved, at least officially. The clues Ollie had gathered over the months – the Finnish connection hinted at by her subtle accent and the 'Ice1Racing' contact glimpsed on her phone, the startlingly deep, almost innate understanding of motorsport’s technical and strategic nuances, the visceral aversion to cameras and media attention, the frustrating vagueness about her family history coupled with specific mentions of Switzerland and Finland – all pointed with increasing, almost overwhelming probability towards the Räikkönen theory.

It felt less like speculation now and more like an unspoken truth hovering just beneath the surface of their interactions.

Yet, Ollie held fast to the conscious decision he’d made: he wouldn't push. He wouldn't pry. He wouldn't lay verbal traps or try to trick her into revealing the name he felt almost certain she carried.

The temptation was there, sometimes strong, especially after she dropped another startlingly insightful comment about car setup or race strategy.

But he resisted.

He valued the fragile, tentative trust they were building far more than he craved the satisfaction of confirming his suspicions. He wanted Lira – the complex, intriguing, challenging girl who somehow managed to ground his high-flying ambitions, the one who saw past the cheerful racing driver persona to the sometimes anxious, sometimes goofy young man beneath. If, or when, she decided to share that final, defining piece of her identity, it had to be her choice, offered freely, not extracted through pressure or deduction. Until then, he would wait. He would respect the invisible boundary she maintained. He would protect the quiet space they were carving out for themselves, this bubble of relative normalcy amidst the extraordinary pressures of his world and the hidden complexities of hers.

This newfound sense of contentment, this quiet anchor in his increasingly public life, didn't go entirely unnoticed by the sharp, competitive eyes within the F2 paddock. Drivers, especially those Ollie spent more time with off-track or during shared training sessions, began to pick up on the subtle shifts in his demeanour.

During a brutally intense winter training camp high in the Austrian Alps, designed to push their physical and mental limits before the new season, the teasing picked up again. "Alright, Bearman, fess up," Arthur Leclerc demanded one frosty dawn, jogging backwards effortlessly to face Ollie on a steep, icy mountain trail, his breath barely misting. "Last year, you were pure grind, obsessing over splits 24/7. This year? Bro, you're literally stopping to smell the roses... or, like, look at the mountains." He gestured dramatically towards the snow-dusted peaks. "Don't tell me Lira's turned you into some kind of nature boy? Or is she just living rent-free in that head of yours?" Arthur's grin was pure mischief.

Ollie just grinned back, pulling his beanie lower. "Nah, man, just soaking in the vibes. Good for the mental game, innit? Gotta stay zen."

"Right," Arthur shot back, unconvinced. "'Zen', or just totally simping? How else d'you explain suddenly being Mr. Art Critic? Saw your Insta story from that gallery – 'deeply moved by the chiaroscuro'. Since when do you even know what chiaroscuro is? Bet Lira told you to say that." He smirked. "Face it, mate, you're down bad."

Dennis Hauger, catching up and panting, chimed in, "Seriously though, Ollie, you're way less stressed this winter. Still putting in the work, obviously, but you're actually… chill. It's kinda weird, but good weird. Must be a girl, eh? Finally got yourself a missus?"

Arthur snorted, glancing back at Dennis. "Oh, he's got one, Dennis, don't worry about that. The mysterious Lira. The one who knows weirdly specific things about front wings stalling." He shot Ollie a pointed look. "Though getting her to actually talk is harder than getting pole at Monaco in the wet. And figuring out her whole deal? Forget about it." He turned his teasing gaze back to Ollie. "Still haven't cracked the code on that one, have you, Bearman?"

Ollie laughed, shaking his head, trying to look nonchalant even as his cheeks burned. "Just focusing on balance, lads. Holistic approach and all that. And Lira's cool, okay? Now, less roasting me, more cardio, my legs are killing me." He deliberately picked up the pace, forcing them all to focus on not slipping on the ice rather than his relationship status or Lira's enigmatic nature. But the comments stuck. They knew something was up, even if they didn't get Lira. And yeah, maybe Arthur wasn't wrong about the 'down bad' part. It made him feel both slightly called out and ridiculously happy.

Lira, navigating her own internal landscape, seemed to be undergoing her own subtle shifts. While the walls around her personal history remained firmly in place, her engagement with Ollie’s world deepened, moving beyond just being a silent observer during their snatched meetings. She started showing a quiet, almost hesitant, yet intensely focused interest in the minutiae of his profession, the details that consumed his waking hours.

One evening, Ollie was hunched over his laptop in his functional but soulless UK rental apartment, deep-diving into simulator data for the upcoming pre-season tests in Bahrain. Hours had passed; empty coffee cups littered the small table beside him. Lira sat curled on the other end of the sofa, her own dense-looking novel lying open but seemingly forgotten in her lap. She’d been quiet for a long time, apparently reading, but Ollie had caught her glancing over at his complex telemetry graphs several times.

"That delta trace comparing your optimal lap to Pourchaire’s through Sector 2 still looks messy around Turn 10," she commented quietly, breaking a long, comfortable silence. Her voice was soft, but her observation cut through his fatigue-fogged brain. "Still struggling with locking the inside front under braking on entry?"

Ollie looked up, surprised she’d been paying such close attention, let alone deciphering the complex squiggles on the screen. "Yeah, a bit," he admitted, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's a nightmare. Trying different brake migration settings, adjusting the bias, but it's tricky to get the rotation I need without overdoing it and killing the tyre."

Lira uncurled herself and slid closer along the sofa, peering intently at the intricate graphs displaying speed, throttle, brake pressure, and steering angle. "Maybe," she began , her voice low, almost conspiratorial, tracing a specific curve on the screen with a slender, black-painted fingernail, "instead of focusing only on brake migration and bias, look at adjusting the engine braking map just for that specific corner entry phase. Just a fraction more support from the rear axle on initial turn-in might stabilize the front axle enough to prevent that initial lock-up, without compromising your mid-corner speed or exit traction."

He stared at the screen, re-evaluating the data through the lens of her suggestion, then looked back at her, momentarily speechless. Engine braking maps. It was a sophisticated, nuanced setup parameter, something usually debated endlessly between driver and race engineer, fine-tuned over multiple sessions, not casually suggested by a girlfriend who claimed to find motorsport 'occasionally interesting'. Her insight was, as usual, startlingly astute, technically sound, and offered a completely different angle on a problem he and Marco had been wrestling with for days in the sim.

"That's… actually a brilliant point," Ollie admitted slowly, already mentally running through the potential implications, feeling a renewed spark of analytical energy. "We’ve been so focused on the brakes themselves… hadn't really considered tackling it from the engine side for that specific micro-phase. Thanks, Li. That’s really helpful."

She just shrugged, that familiar, almost reflexive gesture of downplaying her own insight, her gaze flicking away from the screen as if slightly embarrassed by her own knowledge. "Just a thought," she murmured, retreating back to her end of the sofa and picking up her book again, effectively closing the topic. But Ollie didn't forget. He made a mental note – highlighted, underlined, starred – to discuss the engine braking map strategy with Marco first thing in the morning. And the silent question echoed again:

How does she know these things?

He pushed it down. Patience. Respect the boundary.

Their quiet nights in became the bedrock of their relationship during the off-season lull. Lira would sometimes stay for several days, then disappear again for a week or two, her movements dictated by her own mysterious internal schedule. But when she was there, Ollie’s sterile rental apartment transformed.

It felt less like a temporary base and more like a shared sanctuary. He learned her rhythms, her preferences. She hated clutter, arranging his scattered belongings with quiet precision when she thought he wasn't looking. She loved moody lighting, preferring lamps over the harsh overhead fixtures. She drank her coffee black, strong, and usually brewed in the Aeropress she now kept in his kitchen cupboard. She had a surprising, almost guilty weakness for terrible reality TV dating shows, which she watched with a detached, anthropological fascination, offering scathing, sotto voce commentary that made Ollie howl with laughter.

He discovered the simple, profound joy of just being with her, sharing the same space without the need for constant conversation or entertainment. Cooking together became a regular feature – or rather, Lira cooking simple, delicious, often surprisingly healthy meals while Ollie provided questionable chopping skills, enthusiastic tasting services, and a running commentary that usually earned him an eye-roll or a dry retort. Reading side-by-side on the sofa in comfortable silence, the only sound the turning of pages and the ticking of the clock. Debating the merits of obscure Finnish metal bands versus classic British rock late into the night, fueled by tea and biscuits.

The physical intimacy between them deepened naturally, evolving from tentative touches and shy kisses into something more confident, more profound.

Holding her hand while walking down the street no longer felt like a calculated risk assessment based on potential onlookers; it felt like the most natural thing in the world, a simple affirmation of connection. He loved the way she fit against him when they curled up on the sofa, the surprising strength in her slender arms when she hugged him fiercely after a particularly frustrating simulator session, the cool, smooth touch of her skin against his, the way her usually cool grey eyes darkened to a stormy charcoal just before she kissed him, a silent signal that momentarily stripped away all her reserve.

One crisp autumn afternoon, they found themselves walking along the Thames embankment in London. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the city's perpetual dampness. They’d spent the morning wandering through the Tate Modern, Lira utterly absorbed and intense in front of certain canvases, Ollie doing his best to appreciate the abstract shapes and colours while mostly just enjoying the unguarded fascination on her face. Now, strolling hand-in-hand amidst the afternoon bustle of tourists and commuters heading home, a rare sense of relaxed, uncomplicated normalcy enveloped them. The low afternoon sun glinted weakly off the murky, grey-brown water of the river.

Suddenly, Ollie stopped, pulling her gently to a halt beside him, turning to face her. Lira looked up at him, a questioning surprise flickering in her eyes. The noise of the city seemed to fade into a dull roar around them.

"What?" she asked, her voice soft.

He looked down at her, really looked at her. At the way the damp London wind teased strands of her dark, silky hair across her pale cheek. At the intelligence and quiet, watchful strength that resided deep within her cool grey eyes. At the faint hint of a smile that often played around her lips when she was observing the world, or him. His heart did a stupid sort of flip-flop thing it did sometimes when she looked at him like that. Okay, deep breath. Arthur’s words echoed –

figure out what it actually is.

This weird, undefined thing they had… it wasn't enough anymore. He just… liked her. A lot. More than a lot. And all the secrecy stuff, the questions he wasn't asking, it suddenly felt less important than just… this.

Them.

"Lira," he began, his voice maybe a bit higher than usual, definitely less steady than he’d hoped. He cleared his throat. "Look, this… us… hanging out… it's, like, really good. Really important to me."

Smooth, Bearman, real smooth.

She watched him, her expression shifting from surprise to serious attention, waiting. Her hand felt small and cool in his, and he squeezed it slightly, mostly to stop his own from shaking.

"It just feels… I dunno, more than just messing about, yeah?" he continued, fumbling for the words. "It feels… right. Like, properly right. Being with you." He risked a glance at her face; she was still watching him intently. Okay, keep going. "And look, I know things are… tricky. You know? With your privacy stuff, and my job being mental sometimes. And I swear, I'll never push you on anything you don't wanna talk about. Your space, your secrets, whatever… that's cool. Seriously." He took another breath, feeling his cheeks heat up despite the autumn chill. "But… I just need to say… I think I'm, like, properly falling for you, Lira." The words tumbled out in a rush, feeling huge and terrifyingly exposed.

"And, uh, I guess what I'm trying to ask, probably really badly, is… do you maybe want to be, like… my girlfriend? Properly? Officially?"

He winced internally.

Lira stared up at him, her eyes wide, searching his face intently, scanning his expression as if looking for any hint of insincerity, any ulterior motive. He could almost see the internal conflict playing out behind her gaze – the inherent risk, the potential complications, warring with the undeniable connection they shared. The weight of her secrets, the lifelong habit of caution, seemed to hang heavy between them for a long, heart-stopping moment. Ollie held his breath, his own heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird, suddenly terrified she might pull her hands away, retreat behind her carefully constructed walls, say it was too much, too risky.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a transformation occurred. The apprehension in her eyes didn't vanish entirely, but it softened, overlaid by a dawning, luminous warmth he had never seen directed fully at him before. A slow, tentative, genuine smile spread across her face, reaching her eyes, making them sparkle like distant stars appearing in a twilight sky. It was breathtaking, utterly disarming.

"Yes, Ollie Bearman,"

she said, her voice soft but clear, filled with an emotion that resonated deep within him, making his own eyes prickle unexpectedly. "Yes. I will."

He let out a shaky breath he hadn't realised he was holding, a wide, foolish grin splitting his face. Relief washed over him, so potent it made him feel lightheaded. He pulled her closer, right there on the busy embankment, oblivious to the world rushing past them, and kissed her – a kiss filled not with tentative exploration, but with the profound certainty of arrival. It tasted of relief, joy, and the quiet, unshakeable rightness of the moment. It wasn't just an agreement to a label; it felt like a commitment, a promise whispered against the backdrop of the indifferent city. Whatever complications lay ahead, whatever secrets remained unspoken for now, they were officially, irrevocably, in it together.

Later that night, curled up on the sofa in Ollie’s apartment while he slept soundly in the next room, Lira traced the rim of her cooling mug of tea, the rain drumming a soft tattoo against the windowpane.

Girlfriend.

The word felt strange on her internal tongue, heavy with a significance she hadn't anticipated.

Ollie Bearman’s girlfriend.

Saying yes hadn't been a calculated decision; it had been an impulse, a surrender to the quiet insistence of her own heart, overriding years of ingrained caution. Ollie’s earnestness, the open vulnerability in his eyes when he’d asked, the palpable relief that had flooded his face when she’d accepted – it had disarmed her completely. He hadn't demanded answers about her past, hadn't leveraged his growing suspicions. He had simply offered his heart, openly and without reservation, asking only for hers in return, accepting the complexities that came with her.

And the truth was, she had fallen for him just as completely. For his relentless optimism that somehow never felt naive, for his genuine kindness that extended beyond mere politeness, for his easy laugh, for the way he respected her silences and her boundaries without making her feel like an alien. He didn’t try to fix her or change her; he simply made space for her, accepted her, shadows and all. With him, she felt… lighter. Less burdened by the constant vigilance her life usually demanded. Almost normal.

She thought back to those summer race weekends, the stolen hours in quiet cafes and hidden bookshops. Each meeting had felt like walking a tightrope. Part of her thrilled at Ollie’s easy company, the way he chattered about his day, his family, his dog, filling the spaces she deliberately kept empty. She found herself looking forward to his texts, analysing his emoji usage with ridiculous intensity, anticipating the warmth in his brown eyes when he smiled. But another part, the part conditioned by a lifetime of guarded privacy, remained hyper-alert. Every casual question Ollie asked about her family felt like a probe near a sensitive nerve. Every time she let slip a piece of knowledge – about Seb visiting, about track conditions, about the Zandvoort banking – a jolt of panic followed. Had she said too much? Did he notice? The glimpse he might have caught of her phone screen at Zandvoort had sent ice water through her veins, forcing a hasty retreat into silence. It was exhausting, this constant duality – wanting to open up to him, wanting to share the ridiculous, unbelievable truth of her life, yet terrified of the consequences, terrified of shattering the fragile normalcy they had built, terrified of becoming just... ‘Kimi Räikkönen’s daughter’ in his eyes, instead of just Lira.

Yet, despite the fear, despite the near-misses, she kept agreeing to meet him. Because the connection felt too real to ignore. Because the way he looked at her, with genuine curiosity and growing affection, felt different from the intrusive stares she’d dodged her whole life. Because, somewhere between a rainy Spa bookshop and a windswept Dutch beach, she realised she was falling for the relentlessly cheerful, surprisingly thoughtful, talented young driver who seemed utterly determined not to let her disappear completely.

Her phone vibrated silently on the cushion beside her, the screen illuminating the dim room. A familiar name flashed briefly.

'Ice1Racing'

Isi.

Her father.

She picked it up, a familiar mix of affection and slight tension coiling in her stomach.

"Hei," she answered softly.

"Hei, Lira-kulta." The voice was low, instantly recognizable, carrying the unique Räikkönen blend of laconic delivery and underlying warmth only his family truly heard.

"Everything okay?" she asked, keeping her voice down.

"Joo. Fine. Minttu baked too much pulla again. Wants to send you some." Mundane family logistics. Safe territory.

"Tell her thanks, but I'm okay," Lira murmured. "How's Robin?"

"Good. Fast on the go-kart. Maybe too fast." A hint of paternal pride mixed with concern.

They lapsed into their usual comfortable silence, Lira knowing he was likely assessing her mood from the pauses, the inflections.

"You sound… different," Kimi stated finally. Not quite a question, more an observation.

Lira’s heart skipped a beat. "Different how?"

"Less… spiky," he offered after a moment's thought. It was probably the closest he'd ever come to saying she sounded happy.

"Things are okay, Isi," she said carefully. "Good, actually."

Another pause. Then, "The boy. Ollie. Still seeing him?" Casual, almost offhand, but the question landed with precision.

"Yes," Lira confirmed, keeping her voice even. "I'm still seeing him." She didn't elaborate. Didn't mention the new label, the deepening commitment. Not yet. It felt too new, too fragile to share, even with him.

"Hmph." A non-committal grunt that could mean anything. "He is… a good boy?" The concern was there, subtle but undeniable.

"Yes, Dad," Lira said softly, a genuine warmth flooding her. "He's a very good boy."

"Okay. Good." He seemed satisfied with that, not pushing further. "Racing starts again soon. Be careful." A vague warning, applicable to many things.

"I will," she promised.

"Okay. Minttu says hello. Sleep well."

"Hyvää yötä, Isi."

The call ended. Lira stared into the darkness, her father's minimalist blessing echoing in her ears. He hadn't pushed, hadn't interrogated. He trusted her. But the call was a reminder. The quiet safety of the off-season bubble wouldn't last forever. Soon, Ollie would be back in the car, back under the relentless glare of the paddock microscope. And she, his girlfriend, would be there, navigating the shadows, guarding a truth that felt heavier now, precisely because it was shared, yet still unspoken to the world. The thought sent a familiar cold prickle down her spine – the phantom sensation of unseen lenses, the potential for sudden, chaotic exposure like the blinding flashes in Monaco.

She looked towards the closed bedroom door, towards the sleeping figure who held her heart, her anchor in the storm. A tangle of affection, anxiety, and a fragile hope warred within her. How long could this fragile normalcy last once the season began? Could they really face what was coming together?

Could she face it again, even with him beside her?

The uncertainty felt vast, cold, a familiar chill seeping into the warm darkness of the apartment.

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