#its the saddest truth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

talaok · 1 year ago

Note

hi!! it says in your desc that requests are open but in case thats outdated feel free to ignore!!!!

i know this may be a weird request but can you do something with joel with a reader that has scarring in their pubic area? i have a skin disorder that gives me really bad scars down there and i have Not had great experiences in the past sleeping with people because of it like it is TRAUMATIC atp to show people 😭 mostly hurt/comfort but if it makes sense to throw smut in there feel free i absolutely would not turn it down LMAOOOO

and shout out to people w scarring down there, whether from skin issues, fgm, assault, etc. etc. we up fr 😔✊

Warnings: insecurity, body image issues and smut | oral sex (f receiving)

a/n: its not a weird request at all, ive said this before, i feel incredibly honored whenever you ask me to write such personal stories, so thank you 💖

His hands were beneath your shirt, his calloused fingers caressing your skin with a gentleness that defied his rough exterior, that he only showed a few.

His mouth was on yours, his tongue twisting with your own, letting you taste him as he tasted you.

Your hands were on his face, holding it, stroaking his beard, trailing to his hair, while one of his legs parted your legs, settling between your thighs.

Your back was on the bed, the soft duvet shuffling beneath your movements, beneath your exited shivers and shudders.

It all was perfect, just perfect... until his fingers traveled lower, until they began seeping underneath your shorts.

"wait"

His eyes opened as he leaned away ever so little

"I'm sorry" he said, retracting his hand "I thought you wanted to..."

"I do" you murmured "I just-"

And there it was, the block.

The barrier, the wall you had built brick by brick over the years.

"what?" he asked, his brows knitting together in concern as he moved to your side, propping his elbow on the mattress "What is it?"

"Well I- I don't know if... you want to"

"what?" he huffed a soft laugh, "of course I want you"

"yeah now" you sighed, avoiding his eyes,

"y/n" he called your name, urging you to look at him with two of his fingers beneath your chin "What are you talking about?"

"I just-" you bit your lip, your eyes trembling, taking in the look of him before he knew the truth,

"Whatever it is baby, you can tell me"

And the saddest part was that you wanted to believe him, but a part of you knew, you knew how he was gonna react, you knew how it was really gonna go.

As kind and nice and perfect as he was, you got proven times and times again that there was only one way men would respond.

"I- Well I..."

god, why was it always so hard?

"I have a skin issue" you spat out, forcing yourself to not think about it too much

"ok..." he murmured, his eyes scanning your face in the hopes of finding out where you were going with this

"so I have...scars" you breathed "down there"

You swore you felt your heart drop as the words left your mouth, just to speed back up at full force the moment he spoke, after a brief silence.

"oh" he hummed, his eyes still fogged with confusion "and so I can't like... touch you or-"

"no no, you can-" you sighed, frustrated with yourself "but I understand if you don't... want to." you explained "I've been told before that it's not really... pretty so I totally get it if yo-"

"first of all" he shook his head, getting out of his confusional state at your words "Whoever told you that is a brainless asshole" he stated, looking you straight in the eyes "And second of all" he smiled now "darlin', you're the most beautiful, hottest woman I've ever met, I almost died when I met you" he exaggerated making you stifle a laugh

"no I'm serious." he promised, taking your hand in his "And if you think that that's gonna change because of a few scars, well then sweetheart I'm sorry but you're wrong"

And although your heart was swelling with hope, with a joy it hadn't known for a while now, your brain couldn't still be sure of what was happening

"you're saying that now" you whispered "but you haven't seen it yet"

"darlin', I promise on whatever you want, that I'm sure" A soft smile was still pulling at his lips, and his voice was warm, honest, like honey "That nothing in this world could ever change what I know, and what I know is that you're the most gorgeous woman on the planet,"

"but-"

"no, no but" he shook his head, interrupting you "You are, and the fact that you don't think so is unbelievable" his eyes were shining, glimmering with that sentiment you still hadn't confessed to each other, but that he'd been on the verge of expressing far too many times "I want you to say it. Say -I'm the most beautiful woman on the planet-"

"but I'm n-"

"ah-ah-ah" he shushed you "What did I say about the buts"

"But I'm just saying think about Jennifer Aniston or Sandra Bullock-"

"yeah exactly, they're nothing compared to you"

You couldn't help but snort at that "Oh please, you're just lying now"

"I'm most definitely not" he protested, "have you seen yourself in the mirror darlin'?"

"I have" you rolled your eyes jokingly, your lips still turned upwards into a smile

"you sure? 'cause it doesn't feel like it"

"stop" you begged

"No, I won't stop" he frowned "you're beautiful, I need you to know that." his forehead fell to yours "Whoever made you feel any differently was just an insecure stupid asshole who didn't deserve you, ok?"

And it was at this moment, that you realized just how how much you loved him.

It was as you took his words in, the truth in them, the care behind them, that you realized that he might just be the one.

"ok" you murmured, after some time, for the first time in a long time, actually believing it.

"yeah?"

"yes"

"that's my girl" he grinned, not being able to stop himself before he crashed his lips with yours, kissing you as if his life depended on it.

And with just a kiss, you were back at where you'd stopped, your belly tingling and your body desperately looking for his.

"Joel" you whispered, in between kisses "I-I want to"

His eyes opened, looking a bit taken aback "You sure? I didn't want to put any pressure on you sweetheart, I'm completely ok with just kissing if that's what you want-"

"no" you shook your head "No I want you"

The smile that spread on his face at that was enormous.

he kissed you again, just to start a slow trail of kisses down your neck, making you squirm and whimper underneath him.

He waited for your nod of approval before removing your shirt, and after having reserved time to your (as he put it) "perfect tits", he then moved on to your shorts, now waiting for a vocal permission before doing anything.

"You can take them off" you murmured, watching closely as he did, slowly slipping your shorts and then panties down your legs.

"Jesus Christ sweetheart" he breathed "you're fucking perfect"

And you could only blush and smile shily, not realizing what was happening, until his head was between your thighs, beginning a line of pecks from your navel down toward... well towards down there.

"no y-you don't have to do that"

He didn't seem to hear you, his mouth only traveling lower and lower until it was right there where you needed him the most.

"does it hurt if I touch them?"

"n-no" you stuttered

He licked his lips, his eyes not on yours, but on your pretty cunt

"and if I kiss them?"

"I-I don't know, I don't think s-"

And just like that, he had dived in, fist slowly kissing your skin, paying no mind if it included scars or not, just to start tasting your whole pussy, licking and sucking all he could find like a starved animal.

His grip on your waist was relentless, probably leaving bruises behind, but all you could do was lose yourself in the feeling as you moaned and arched your back from the bed.

he continued his work for a while, prolonging the experience as long as possible, before he decided to bring it home, and started focusing on your clit, sucking and licking your bud desperately.

And in a matter of seconds, you had fallen apart, moaning his name loud enough for his neighbors to hear.

"wow" you breathed, your chest rising and falling way too quickly as made his way back up again "That was... wow" you murmured, ghosting his lips

"I just wanted to prove to you how beautiful you are" he smiled, kissing you softly "All of you"

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ghoulodont · 1 month ago

Text

Growing Threadbare

Dewdrop helps Rain unpack something that’s been on his mind.

Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 1.8k

Lingerie, Gender Identity, egg crack (? sort of)

Read below or on AO3

It’s still morning, just barely, when Rain wakes up. He and Dewdrop were out late yesterday, only making it back to Rain’s dorm room — in name, at least, as they may as well be interchangeable at this point — sometime past midnight, giggling as they bumped into each other in dim lamplight with echoes of alcohol still in their veins.

Dew isn’t here now, though. He can’t be far; despite consistently waking up first, he never leaves him for long unless there’s something else he needs to do — and there’s nothing that needs to be done today. Sunlight streams through the window and casts a layer of warmth over the bed, adding to the pile of blankets already there. Rain pulls them around himself and lets his eyelids slide closed again.

Sure enough, Dew walks through the door just a few minutes later with a steaming cup of coffee. “Morning,” he says. “If I knew you were awake I would have brought you one too.”

Rain gives him his biggest, saddest eyes.

“Say no more.” Dew pivots and heads back the way he came.

He sets his coffee down as he walks past the dresser. He pauses. Like a hawk, keen-eyed and always interested in something novel, he hones in the white-gray plastic shipping pouch there, where it’s been since Rain picked it up from the mail two days ago — he hasn’t worked up the courage to touch it since then.

Rain’s heart leaps to his throat as he scrambles out of bed. “Wait—” he squeaks out, chest tight.

“Is it something secret?” Dew coos with a lighthearted lilt.

Dew is never cruel. He loves to tease but hates to bully, a distinction that lends itself to a highly observant sort of dance in which he’s ready to surrender at any moment. He would stop this line of questioning in its tracks if Rain asked him to.

Rain struggles to find an answer that feels both tolerable and truthful. “Well, it was, sort of…”

Dew starts to tear the plastic, tunneling a little hole with his index fingers and stretching it wider, watching Rain’s face as he does it. Any real sign of hesitation from Rain would stop him — he would put the package down without another word.

Some primal instinct of self-preservation inside Rain’s core is screaming at him to react, to say something, to grab the package and run away, but he just stands and watches as Dew keeps tearing the plastic until the hole in it is wide enough to dump out the contents onto the surface of the dresser. What comes out is something deep blue and lacy.

They both stare at it in silence.

Dew speaks up first. “Is it for you, or…?”

Rain nods. His voice comes out quiet. “For me.”

Dew picks up one piece of folded fabric and holds it up, allowing it to assume its actual shape, that of a sheer bralette with a plunging neckline, two triangular cups, satin straps, and a wide band.

Rain searches for words, something to absolve himself of the churning judgments inside him. “Maybe it’s too… much,” he says.

Dew shakes his head. “I like it.”

Rain looks up at Dew, who tilts his head inquisitively.

He holds the bralette up in front of Rain, lining it up with his chest. “I think it’ll look good on you.”

Rain feels his face heat up, no doubt reddening with an intensity that rivals the blue of the garment in question.

Dew folds it neatly in half. He takes the other item from the package — still folded, but clearly a matching pair of panties, the distinctive arch of the leg opening visible — and offers them both to Rain.

Rain takes the bundle of fabric. He stares at it. His hand holding it feels like it doesn’t belong to him.

“Go on,” Dew says.

It takes a moment for Rain to understand what Dew is suggesting. “Oh.”

Dew raises an eyebrow.

“I’m going to…” Rain gestures toward the ensuite bathroom.

“I’ll be here,” Dew says.

The bathroom door shuts with a clunk, the faithful latching of antique hardware that may be as old as the abbey itself. Rain is alone with his purchase, clutched as a formless blob in one hand. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but really, could it have gone any other way? He was supposed to bring this up himself, to explain his intention. The courage to do so feels impossibly distant. This is the only way forward.

He starts with the panties — they feel like the easier of the two, somehow. He slides off his sweatpants and then his underwear, tossing them aside on the bathroom floor, moving quickly before he loses his nerve. He steps into the panties without allowing himself to think about it and pulls them on, then adjusts the hems here and there until the meager amount of fabric has everything covered comfortably.

He looks at himself in the mirror, brushing his hair away from his face. The new garment is peeking out between his oversized t-shirt and his bare thighs. He lifts the hem of his shirt, observing. The lace waistband arches along his hip bone and dips slightly into a gentle v-shape at the midline of his body. He turns a bit to the side, then forward again.

Without really thinking, he gathers the back of the shirt in a fist behind him, pulling it tight around his abdomen. The sight of this in the mirror, his tapered waist above an exposed stripe of his abdomen, and the lace panties below that, triggers a jolt of something like surprise, or shock, a white-hot bolt of adrenaline. He drops his shirt and brings his hands to his face, covering his mouth like he just said something he shouldn’t have in a silent conversation with himself.

But he can’t stop now. He turns away from the mirror before pulling his shirt over his head and discarding it in the same pile as his other clothes. It feels like letting go of a lifeline — he’s floating away, untethered.

The bralette is simple and elastic, without any clasps or fasteners. Rain pulls it over his head. It’s tight, which, while expected, makes it awkward to maneuver into, and makes him feel as if he’s suddenly forgotten the basics of dressing himself. Eventually, after much arranging, the band is around his chest and the straps are over his shoulders.

Not ready to see himself in the mirror yet, he looks down at on his torso. The bralette appears much more sheer than it did before he put it on, especially on the band, where the lace is hugging his ribcage snug enough to stretch. Even the cup, which is a little loose, fabric draping over itself slightly in the middle, is translucent enough for his nipples to show through, something he doesn’t remember seeing in the product photo online.

He runs his hand over the band, feeling the ridges of the lace, then over one cup, letting the fabric pull taut. He lets the details soak in, the clothing and his body underneath. The imperfections — yes, he sees them that way, but they’re also proof that this is real, without image manipulation or behind-the-scenes magic. What was once just a photo, words on a website, has come to life because he chose for it to. This is the payoff of indecision, fear, and taking a step forward. It’s a surreal joy, like something clicking into place, a key turning in a lock deep within his subconscious.

A gentle knock at the door feels like the loudest sound in the world. Rain freezes in place.

Dew’s voice filters through the gaps around the heavy wood of the door. “You okay?”

“I— yes,” Rain stammers.

“Sorry if I took it too far.”

Rain opens the door a sliver and peeks out. Dew is standing there with a sheepish look on his face, appearing genuinely apologetic about the whole situation.

“Hi,” Dew says, like they weren’t just talking to each other moments ago.

Rain grabs Dew by the arm and pulls him into the bathroom, opening the door just enough that he can get through. He closes the door behind him as soon as he’s inside.

They both stand facing the mirror, eyes connecting through the reflection.

“You look beautiful.”

Rain feels his face heat up even more. “You’re just saying that,” he deflects. Dew is giving him what he imagines he wants to hear, trying to play into what he thinks is just a fantasy — maybe it really is just a fantasy.

“Of course not.” Dew loops a firm hand around his waist and pulls him closer. Their hips bump together, lace against the slippery-smooth fabric of Dew’s track pants.

He circles around in front of him, between him and the sink. Rain can see himself in the mirror still, partially eclipsed by Dew’s smaller form. He looks away, off to the side, locking eyes with a hand towel on the wall. Even then, he can see his own body in his peripheral vision, haunting him like a mirage.

Dew places his hands on Rain’s hips. The heat of his palms sinks in as he drags them upward, slowly, over his ribs, over the band of the bralette, until he holds his chest in two cupped hands. He presses his fingers in, a gentle squeeze of the firm flesh there — more than Rain thought he had, until he saw it gathered this way, felt it, reframed his perception.

“Is this good?” Dew brushes one thumb over his nipple, then the opposite one. Rain suppresses a shiver.

“Yes,” Rain whispers.

“I want to know what you want.” He steps forward, pressing their bodies together. The fabric of his worn t-shirt is soft against Rain’s stomach.

Dew is looking up at him, but Rain can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “I don’t really know what I want.”

Dew hums. He presses a gentle kiss to Rain’s jawline, skin placed in the foreground as his face is tipped away. “Do you like it when I tell you you’re pretty?”

Rain nods. The hot flush in his cheeks spreads down, past the point Dew’s lips touched, oozes into his neck.

“Is there anything else?”

Rain stills. There is, of course, something else, a larger concept. It’s something he’s been telling himself he doesn’t understand yet, but more and more it’s starting to seem like that’s not the real issue. Maybe it’s obvious what he wants, so obvious even Dew can see it. Maybe the bigger problem is that he’s refusing to look.

“When you bought this” — Dew drags his thumbs over Rain’s chest again, pressing the lace into his skin — “is this what you were envisioning?”

Rain’s mouth goes dry. “Well, I…”

“That’s okay. Some other time.”

The relief that washes over Rain’s body is tinged with something else — not quite disappointment, some small sadness in defiance of the way out he was desperately hoping for. He doesn’t have to look yet, but now more than ever he’s sure that he will.

#ghost band fanfic #raindrop #fic i wrote #transfem rain you deserve better but this has been in my wips for way too long and it needs to be done

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simblorbo-bracket · 7 days ago

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Round 1 - Simblr's Saddest, Wettest Meow Meow - Mainline

Saxen (@herecirmsims) VS. Nancy Landgraab (@fallstaticexit)

(polls are presented left -> right unless stated otherwise)

Who's sadder? Who's wetter? Read on for more information, and vote with your heart!

What is a ‘Meow Meow’?

(taken from tumblr user @/torturelabyrinth) “The thing about a true poor little meow meow is they have to be 1) downtrodden 2) morally questionable at best 3) deeply and pathetically miserable”

Saxen

Things Sax does extremely well: fainting and bleeding (separately), fainting and bleeding (combination), rotting in bed, crying or being completely stoic (no in between), causing more problems while trying to fix his previous problems, omitting certain truths (aka lying).

Now, I don't know if he really counts as an SWMM because he's not a classic villain... but in his pursuit of Doing The Right Thing he has made some awful choices. Good intentions, poor outcomes.

I present the evidence beneath the cut:

Some of his crimes:

In an attempt to save his sister, he left his post and facilitated the escape of a world-devouring entity which he was supposed to help contain.

After his sister died he made another attempt to save her, via necromancy, and instead doomed her to an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Until recently, none of her reincarnations were healthy enough to survive infancy.

He befriended the parents of this latest incarnation without filling them in on the backstory, or his motives. After they were killed by his enemy, he took the baby and kept her hidden for 11 years (did she have grandparents, uncles, aunts? Yes, probably. He claims they couldn't have cared for her like he did and technicallyyyy he's right, since her survival required magic, but...)

He broke the arm of one of his 'adopted' adult kids (he has an enchanted cottage which has been a refuge for a lot of people) when said adult tried to prevent him from killing someone else. Yes, technically he did only push Thom and didn't intend for Thom to hit the wall so hard, but...

Long story short but his home world didn't end, it was just knocked out of its timeline for a while. Unfortunately, due to his actions on the day the Grim escaped (attacking portal guards and forcing his way through the rift, just as an unrelated-to-him group stormed the castle), he was a) assumed dead and b) immediately arrested on his return for treason and attempted regicide.

He's a constant menace and cause of stress to his man, the kindest and sweetest soul to ever live. He doesn't mean to be, it's just that his attempts to keep Fen safe often seem to involve risking himself in increasingly creative and fatal ways.

Why should you vote for Sax? Well, I think his endless complex trauma and the fact that almost all his misfortunes happened because he was trying to fix things/help people makes him pretty damn tragic and definitely very damp. He could do with a win. Plus... look at him. 🥲

Nancy Landgraab

What makes Nancy a Sad, Wet Meow Meow? Our famously known townie turned OC is the Queen of Melancholy. She's closeted, she's religiously repressed, she's h*rny, she's rich, she carries the burden of her deceased elder brother, she's the bane of her mother's existence. When she's not internalizing her self loathing, she's gazing longingly into the distance thinking about a life free of her mother's judgement and status that she never wanted in favor of running free through a sunflower field kissing beautiful women. And when she manages to actually show up for her two sons, she's still so emotionally detached that this will very much come up in a therapy session later. Her husband is almost on his knees begging for her to smile but she's still pining after her first love while being married to said husband (who's a second runner up for SWMM tbh).

She's a cheater, she's a liar, she's about to get into some risky, sketchy business, she disappoints her children, she's morally grey, she's a top, she's catholic, she's a cougar, she likes to splurge on dr*gs and strippers, the list goes on. ahhh.

#sswmm m round 1 #active #sswmm

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yes-i-write-fanfiction · 7 months ago

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In the TFP Zombie Apocalypse AU, what would happen if during a rather intense raid or mission involving the dead, one of the kids quietly walks up to the bots privately to show them a fresh bite mark on there arm?

-Optimus feels defeated. He feels like he's failed another innocent soul and this time, someone so young. But for all the despair he's feeling, Optimus promises to stay with the kid until the very end, to keep them company and provide them the comfort they deserve until they... he can't bring himself to finish the sentence. He will express his sadness, his feelings of guilt, but he will stay strong for the child, because he knows that they need him. He tells them about Cybertron, the legends of old, weaving magnificent tales full of wonder and magic. He knows that he's only distracting them (and in certain extent, himself) but he does not want them to spend their last moments afraid. It's only afterwards that Optimus will allow himself to break down, to grieve.

-At first, Ratchet considers amputation of the arm. It's a fresh bite, it might not be too late. If this does not work, he still refuses to give up. He becomes determined, almost obsessed, with finding a cure and saving the kid. He can do it, he just needs to work harder, needs a little more time, more resources- It's only when the symptoms progress to a stage that any potential recovery is impossible that Ratchet breaks down, forced to accept reality. He hates himself, hates how despite all his proclaimed knowledge and skill as a medic, he still can't save them. He apologizes to the kid, tells them how sorry he is that he's so useless. Will stay with them till the end, making sure that they are comfortable and in as little pain as possible, and afterwards he doubles down on his research into a cure.

-For a few seconds, Bumblebee is in denial. This is not funny, stop that, you're not bitten, shut up, you're ok! But he's quickly forced to face the truth when he sees the expression on the kid's face. He races back to base and begs Ratchet to please, do something! Bee knows that there is no cure but he's not ready to accept it, still in denial about what's going on and what's going to happen. When Ratchet tells him that there is no cure, Bumblebee breaks down. He holds the kid close and he wails, begging them for forgiveness for not being able to protect them. Knowing that they only have a short while left before they succumb to the infection, Bee takes the kid out on a ride. It doesn't feel right for them to stay in base, in some sickbed and just waiting to die, so he turns on the radio and plays their favorite music the entire time. He only stops driving and lets them out after its over.

-Bulkhead feels powerless. He's used to problems he can confront and solve with his fists, to powering his way through any situation and using brute force to save the day. There's no fighting his way through this. There's no enemy he can beat that will save the kid. He can't do anything so help them, he's helpless to do anything but watch. Bulkhead talks to the kid, expresses his remorse but dares not yet to grieve, not while they are still alive because grief is for the dead and gone. So he asks them, is there anything they want to do? Maybe shoot one of his guns, blow up a building, or maybe just talk? Whatever they want, he'll do it. Anything so he won't be reminded of just how useless he's feeling. When the time is close, Bulkhead will put them out of their misery. They will die human and with the peace of mind that they won't hurt anyone.

-In a way, Arcee had always suspected that things would turn out this way. The people she care about, those she tries to protect, always seem to die the saddest deaths. Now the kid is just the latest in a long line of people that is probably going to grow even longer. It doesn't make this any easier though, maybe because she expected them to have more time. Arcee makes it clear that she's sad but stays strong and takes the kid to a location with a nice view. If they're lucky, maybe there's a sunset or a clear night sky. She will talk with them, really talk with them, honestly answer every question they have and open herself up in a way she's never done before. And then, she will ask them if they want her to put them out of their misery. If they don't want to, then she will just resume talking. But if they do... she will tell them just how much she'll miss them before ending them with a single shot. Afterwards, Arcee grieves the only way she knows, through violence and revenge, which manifests itself as her going out of her way to kill as many zombies as possible.

#transformers imagine #transformers prime #optimus prime #ratchet #bumblebee #bulkhead #arcee #zombie au #angst

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totothewolff · 8 months ago

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Season of Love (8/?)

+18 | Toto x reader fem!teamprincipal, romance, comedy, and some good drama.

Summary: One night on a pier in Monaco, while admiring the sea under the night skies, you tell Toto: "I came to the conclusion that love is simply not meant for me." That's the answer to a question you have been asking yourself for the longest time. But what if he proved you wrong? Author's note: This is a multichapter Toto Wolff x team principal reader fic set along a season of F1. It's a very immersive story full of drivers, team dynamics, races, mystery, and smut. You just bought the Williams team, but nobody really knows who you truly are.

< Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter >

The Color of Truth is Blue Arc Chapter 8: Safety car needed

Trigger warning: Child trauma, abuse.

Belgium

And to think Toto felt guilty enough about hiding from you his decision to get back with Susie and try to make things work with her, giving himself the hardest time for it while you had been married this whole time!

The two of you are truly made for each other since none of you have morals.

He wants to grab the helmet on the clear glass coffee table inside his remote office before him and smash it against it, but he contains himself.

Instead, he stands up to pour himself a drink that's almost pure alcohol and just a bit of ice, frantically prancing around the room.

This GP is "hometown" for you guys.

Mathew's assistant has zero problems fitting it into his busy schedule, so he can assist in your name.

It's not that you do much for the team, anyway. You are more like a figure to lift the morale and PR the team and its sponsors around.

Mat looks excited to be at the paddock. He loves the attention he is getting. He remained as far from it as possible for obvious reasons, but now it seems like an excellent time to join in the fun.

Mainly because he feels like it, and when he likes something, he has it.

Now that the real boss is in town, people need to get used to his presence and his long list of shenanigans.

Get a grip!

The weekend at Spa starts with the now-usual FIA meeting. On this occasion, everyone is on time.

The group is gathered in the final rows of chairs in another world's saddest meeting room. As always, they are messing around while they wait for the meeting to begin.

—This carpeting looks out of a 70's Vegas casino —Seb mentions, looking around his feet.

—It's giving "cheap motel," —Charles adds.

—It's giving "crime scene" —Samanta joins in.

Toto and Fred enter the room, beverages in hand, gossiping.

Woaff! Lewis notices that Toto looks rough. His hair is messy, and big dark circles are under his eyes. Also, he seems reddish on the cheeks. Is he drinking at work?! Lewis recognizes that kind of blush on him.

—It's giving "once someone died in here" —Checo jokes as he pictures a silhouette drawn with chalk while staring at the floor.

—It's giving "I think I saw this place in Law & Order" —Millie says.

—How many hours of L&O have you seen? —Mick changes the topic, knowing Millie is a fan.

—More than needed —she admits.

—So you weren't joking when you said, "I go and put Law & Order on any device before a race as my race ritual"? —George looks at her, eyes widening and holding a giggle.

Sam interrupts as Millie is about to answer: —Elvis has arrived.

All their heads turn to the door as Matthew swags in.

—Armani ani ani ani —Millie sings Megan The Stallion style. —He looks so stylish in that suit! Hot!

—He is your boss, dude! —Oscar says and looks at her, chin up.

—And married to my wife! Who's also your boss. So more respect, please —Lando adds.

—Does that make you her father? —Sebastian jokes, pointing at the blonde.

—Are you Millie's dad?! —Lewis joins in, acting shocked.

—Dad?! —Millie turns in his chair to face Lando, wide eyes and arms reaching for a hug.

—You all stupid —Sam laughs, enjoying the exchange.

Mathew being the annoying ass he is, goes straight to her and drops in the chair next to Sam, placing his arm around her shoulders. —Amelia, hi! —Mat addresses her with a big-ass smile and stunning blue eyes staring at her.

—AMELIA?!! —everyone but Millie lets out in shock.

—How lovely to see you! —Sam greets him with a "fuck you!" gaze but answers with the sweetest voice.

—Yes, that's her middle name, you didn't know?! —Mat asks the group, pretending to be shocked, knowing she hates that name.

Then, the FIA deputy enters and asks Mathew to join him upfront since they are addressing the whole Lenkov situation and the new safety on paddock protocols with the drivers for the first time.

—Well, now that everything is clear, I will leave the microphone to Mr. De Vos to introduce himself...

—Yes, take off your shirt and tell us —Lando jokes in a low voice, next to Millie, discreetly bumping her and laughing low.

Those fuckers.

Everyone looks bored as Fred goes forever after grabbing the mic to discuss the car skidding due to fluids and oil spills on the pitlane.

—No, you guys. I like this topic! I identify with it since I'm also fluid —Millie adds, all confident and open.

—Genderfluid? —Seb smiles big at her, eyes sparkling at her gutsy statement.

—I love the gender fluids —Lando jokes, with a cheeky innuendo as usual.

—I wouldn't mind some gender fluids instead of this, mate —Dani adds.

—I would have the gender fluids, please! —Mick jokes, pretending to raise his hand.

—I'm feeling my gender-fluids right now —Millie colorfully adds while looking at Mathew.

—What fluids is he talking about?! —George asks, serious, not recalling watching spots or brushes on the pitlane, unable to hear Fred accurately and utterly unaware of the jokes around.

—The genders —Seb and Millie answer simultaneously before bursting out laughing, watching a perplexed George.

Everyone in the room turns their heads to them.

—Oh shit!

As soon as the doctors inform you that you can leave the hospital, your team moves you to the Manor, where Mathew insists you take a break and rest before putting a foot back on the paddock, much to your complaints.

He lets you know he will handle it while you are gone, and not enough "I'm fine!" on your part makes him change his mind.

Nothing good will come out of this with him there, you know that!

The press is desperate to get an interview out of Mathew, and the photographers already love him, a cloud of lens following him around.

With those looks, impeccable suit, and swag, who wouldn't want to snap his picture?

But his security has him covered.

A new and hot Sky Sports reporter approaches him, and he lets her slide in, with a microphone in hand and a cameraman following her.

Mathew gives her an exclusive interview, instantly switching to his most charming, funny, and sweet persona. He shines under the lens, showing his big, bright smile with gorgeous teeth.

Mat reaches the reporter's ear when the interview finishes and the cameraman lowers the lens. —Tower Suite 1898 The Post, 7:00 p.m., don't be late. I'm fucking you in dark lingerie and ankle-strap black high heels.

She nods, all blushing, knees shaking at his invitation.

Okay, Toto can't resist it anymore. He promised he wouldn't do it, but he can't. It's driving him nuts.

He opens his iPad and smashes the keywords on the Google search bar, typing "Mathew De Vos."

A ton of links and information show up.

"Cambridge Faculty of Law Board Member, Masters in Corporate Law, PhD. in Law, former ONU ambassador, former Interpol Associate"

Toto closes those taps after reading them and moves to the next more frivolous ones.

"#4 on World's Richest Men, #2 Billionaires Under 30, #2 GQ's Stylish CEOs"

In all his status, Mathew appears married, and in most of his interviews, he always mentions his wife, you, which hurts him.

Okay, but what does Matthew do right now? Why buying an F1 team? There's nothing linking him or you to the sport. Could it be just for a hobby?

"Current investor and CEO of Little Heroes Global: Safeguarding Minors Around the Globe."

Okay, there's still no connection. Maybe it was just a good business deal?

Toto keeps reading and then moves to trashier, gossipy sites.

Le Soir

Brussels, 2004.

Tragedy strikes De Vos family as helicopter crash kills parents, leaving 16-year-old son heir.

A devastating helicopter crash in the rolling hills of Belgium has claimed the lives of Victor and Lina De Vos, leaving their 16-year-old son, Mathew, the sole heir to their vast family fortune.

According to eyewitnesses, the De Vos family was on a routine flight from their estate in Wallonia to Brussels when the helicopter suddenly lost control and crashed in a nearby field. The accident occurred at approximately 10:45 a.m., with rescue teams arriving on the scene within minutes.

"It was a scene of utter devastation," said Alfred Van der Meer, a local farmer who witnessed the crash. "I saw the helicopter go down and then... grey clouds."

Victor De Vos, a wealthy businessman and billionaire, was 45 years old at the time of his death. His wife, Lina, was 42.

The couple was known for their philanthropic efforts and various charitable organizations throughout Belgium.

Mathew De Vos, 16 years old at the time of the accident, is now the heir to his father's business empire and the family's Manor. The exact value of the estate is unknown, but insiders close to the family suggest that it could be worth hundreds of millions.

"We are still trying to come to terms with this tragedy," said Michel Droveb, his godfather, a family friend, and business associate. "But we are all relieved that Mathew is safe and will be able to carry on his parents' legacy."

As news of the tragedy spread, tributes poured in from around the world. "The De Vos family was a shining example of generosity and kindness," said King Leopold II of Belgium. "Their loss is a great blow to our nation."

Funeral services are scheduled for next week at the St. Michael's Cathedral in Antwerp.

In the meantime, Mathew De Vos has been taken under the wing of his family's trusted advisors and is expected to continue his parents' business endeavors.

As he begins his journey as one of the world's youngest billionaires, Mathew De Vos has vowed to honor his parents' memory by using his wealth to make a positive impact on the world.

"We will continue to give back to our community and support those in need," he said in a statement. "My parents would want nothing less."

The exact cause of the crash is still under investigation.

Toto finishes reading the old entry on the news site, a bit pale and shocked. That may explain some of Mathew's attitude.

He locks his iPad after indulging himself too much and thinks it's enough. Toto has more important things to do.

As soon as you are allowed to leave the bed, you go visit Mat's mom since you miss her very much. You walk there barefoot, feeling the cold wood and stone floors of the Manor all the way to the next wing.

She is peacefully lying in bed. The massive room is full of bright natural light, and a fresh and stunning bouquet of her favorite flowers is placed on the nightstand next to her, filling the room with a delicious scent.

You want to tell her all about your new life and the people you have met, and as you share everything about Toto with her, you get emotional and overwhelmed.

So when Mathew arrives there after searching for you, he finds you crying while holding her limp hand.

He comes closer and sits at the border of his mother's ICU hospital bed, placing himself between it and the armchair where you are sitting at.

The room remains quiet, just the sounds of the life support pieces of equipment keeping his elderly mom alive, in a coma, but still.

He tenderly kisses her mother's temple before facing you, leaning his body in to wipe the tears sliding down your cheeks.

—Tell me what's hurting you to fix it? —compassion and care fill his eyes.

—This has no fix. Damage is done —you stare down at your hands before adding: —But going out to dinner can help me feel better.

He nods. —I know the place.

Sam joins you for breakfast at the Manor the following morning, where you tell her every detail about the plan, now being able to, and how it went.

—Then Pascal played one for the team again! —she says before grabbing a portion of her pancakes.

—I'm worried about him. I hope he is safe and well. —you express with deep concern, much to Mathew's dislike.

—Oh, he is. He let me know days ago —Mat says in the most nonchalant, neutral voice while picking his fruits.

—What?! Why didn't you tell me?! I've been worrying all these past days! —now you sound exasperated at him.

A "here we go!" face sets on Sam.

—You needed to rest! No further point! —Mat continues, still not caring, as if nothing was wrong.

—Stop telling me what I need! —you raise your voice at him, now you are mad!

He looks up and stares at you with an icy look but doesn't reply; he continues having breakfast as if nothing is happening.

One day, you will lose it with Mathew's controlling and psycho moves.

You regain your composure and add: —This can't keep happening! I need to know the things that involve me right at the moment!

—Understood —it's all he says.

—And what about Lenkov? Any whereabouts? —Sam says, pushing topics, used to witnessing you fight.

You text Seb to let him know you are at the Manor now.

—I'm glad! But where's that?! Do you own a manor? It doesn't sound much like your style! Ah, and thanks for answering back!

—Sorry for the delay in replies! I was resting. Shit! I forgot you don't know about it. Let me ask Mat if you can pop by. He is very particular about who is allowed here.

—No worries! I can ask him myself. I'm watching him right here.

Seb puts his phone inside his red tracksuit pocket, scooters down the pitlane to Mat beside Michael, and chats casually with the men in German before asking him the question.

—Wait, Seb!

Seb doesn't read your text. Seb takes Mathew entirely by surprise.

Mathew allows him to visit you, sensing Vettel is kind and has some guts to reach him.

When you return to the Manor, feeling tipsy after drinking a lot in that sports bar where you watched the race in secret.

Your heart sank every time Toto appeared on screen, looking as handsome as ever but without acting playful in front of the camera.

Sebastian is already in the old drawing room, waiting for you and chatting with Mat in a friendly way, which is rare. Damn, time flew by!

—And there she is! Hello, drunk! —Seb greets you as soon as you enter the room.

Mathew sends you a cold look, which you defiantly ignore.

—Bee guy! —you reach Seb and give him a warm hug. —Podium, heh!

—I know! Third place! Not that bad for this old man?! Tell Millie to leave me to win sometime, one win this season, pretty please! —Seb smiles big at you.

—No way, Jose! I'm sorry for making you wait with this one! —you point to Mat with your thumb.

—Alcohol produces brain damage, and you need cold water and food! I see you two at the dining table.

Mat exits the room, annoyed; he hates alcohol, cigars, drugs, sugar, and everything that's unhealthy for the body.

—Does he always swags all moody like that? —Seb asks, following him with his eyes, raising his eyebrows.

—Oh yeah —you let out a giggle.

You love Vettel.

—And those are your parents, right? —Seb asks, observing the massive regal oil painting of a family of three hanging on the wall by the exquisite wooden crafted stairs before sensing the atmosphere changing.

He got offered a tour of the Manor.

—Yes —Mat answers solemnly, you two standing near Seb while he leans to peek. All alcohol is out of your system by this point.

—Do the eyes follow you around as you walk past? —Vettel jokes in the most Sebastian way possible.

A smile forms on Mathew's lips. —It sometimes shakes too. You know when father disapprovals! —he pats Seb a bit too hard on the back.

—It's a bit too much, isn't it? —you join in. Shruging your nose, looking at the old painting.

—Yeah —both men agree, letting out in unison.

—You were such a cute kid. What happened?! —Seb teases Mat.

—Life, life happened to me —he answers, more honest than joking, oblivious to Seb, clear to you.

Why is Mat acting open and friendly with him?

—Ta-dah! This is my room! —you invite Seb to hang out in a more private space, taking him to the last spot of the tour.

Mathew had already left to the wing of the Manor that is his. He always hides in there; sometimes, you even forget he exists or that you were supposed to live with him.

—So this is where you grew up? —Seb is curious and naturally funny, so he is already playfully peeking into your drawers, looking at the Polaroids on the wall, and checking the decor. —Oh wow, baby Sam!

He points to a picture where "kid Sam" and a younger Alexi, Mat, and you appear.

—Yeah, that's about when I arrived here, and no, I didn't grow up here —you shake your head several times. —I wish!

Now, Seb is confused. Mat just told him you two lived together "since you were kids." —Then, where?

—Here, take a sit —you invite him to hang on the sofa in front of the big stony fireplace as it lights the huge room. The night is fully set, and the air in the countryside is cold. —Bare along...

This story is not a happy one.

You will never forget that big old mansion in the woods where you grew up. Your oldest memories start there at age four.

You had no idea who your mom was; you had never met her, only your nanny, who cared for you and your baby sister, a cute five-month-old girl, a chubby, healthy baby with pink cheeks.

You loved holding her; she always wrapped her fingers around your thumb and tried to get your long, shiny hair into her mouth, which made you giggle.

You let her play with your teddy bear; she is the only one allowed to grab "bon-bon."

You love wrapping big bowties around its plushie neck, and your papa occasionally gifts you colorful and shiny ribbons.

Every day, you take lessons with a rigorous and cruel governess who teaches you manners and scolds you when you do things wrong, calling you an animal and a brute whenever she loses her patience with you.

You don't like how she treats you, but you don't notice anything wrong with it. It feels ordinary to you.

The following day, your nanny wakes you up early and tells you they have important guests coming over, and you must look pretty to welcome them.

She combs your hair roughly and, in a rush, pulls it into a tight bun as instructed while you are on your feet on top of the makeup chair.

She puts you into a puffy chiffon dress and starts applying you makeup, which you love. You like all those things: hairstyles, dresses, makeup, nails, glitter, and sparks.

When you see yourself in the mirror, you look like a doll that belongs on a shelf as you stick your tongue out and make silly faces at your reflection.

She then takes you downstairs to your favorite room of the large house. The playroom is colorful and has many toys to play with; it's a shame you always play alone.

You go inside and grab a couple of plushies and a plastic tea set when you notice several stern and tall men watching you.

You feel a little bit shy under their stares; among them is a man who looks intensely at you.

He is a tall, silver-haired, muscular man with captivating eyes and a dangerous smirk that could charm the devil himself.

Standing next to him are gunmen and two large menacing dogs guarding him.

Another group of gentlemen join him before they all enter your dad's office, a forbidden ground for you.

After a while, everyone exits the house's entrance door and leaves, but the silver-haired man stays longer.

You have seen him before; he is your daddy's boss.

Sometimes, they have meetings, and whenever he is at the house, they get you all cute-looking and rushed downstairs.

He always asks for you and handles you expensive gifts every visit.

You get distracted by him bringing you cake; all you want is a slice. The merengue looks delicious and smells like vanilla.

Your dad and the man come closer to you. He greets you brusquely, caressing your cheek.

Now that you are near him, you look terrified at the two scary Dobermans monitoring your every move.

—They don't bite unless I command them to —He looks at the muscular animals. —So be a nice girl —he jokes with you.

You reach closer to your dad's leg, trying to hide behind it, but he neither pats nor reassures you.

—Status on her training? —the silver-haired man asks.

—She is about to start it, sir.

—When it gets done, send her to me —he instructs with an authoritarian voice but nonchalant.

He brushes his hand on your hair before he heads out of the big, beautiful wooden entrance door.

As the days go by, you start to spend more and more time studying with your governess.

That cruel woman seems to be under such stress of quickly teaching you many things, so she behaves even more viciously.

Your German, French, and English lessons feel too much for your little brain. No six-year-old should feel this pressure on herself; all you want to do is play.

You get moody and start to cry, not being able to take it more; you are tired!

Suddenly, you feel a painful sting on your cheek; your dad slapped you hard for whining. —Stop crying, behave! —He commands you.

And you do so.

You are in the staff's kitchen, sitting on a high barstool, legs swinging in the air, while the cook prepares the meal.

You ask her to make you a sandwich, but she tells you you are no longer allowed bread or carbs.

That kitchen leads outdoors to the massive gardens by a backdoor; it's a vast property.

Another prominent building sits right across the field, in the distance, behind some bushes and trees.

You are not allowed out, and you are not allowed to go near there.

But you are a curious and strong-willed girl, after all.

You peek through the window and see two little boys and girls walking from room to room inside the other property. You want to go and play with them, as you are always among grown-ups.

The cook follows your gaze and rushes you out of the kitchen and back to the living area.

It's late at night, and you wake up to the sound of your stomach growling.

The house is so quiet, as everyone is sleeping, and it's the perfect moment for you to sneak to get ice cream.

You risk going to the kitchen after your curfew because you feel hungry from the small portions they have given you lately.

For some reason, they have been measuring and weighing you daily.

You navigate the large house's hallways, avoiding making a sound. Your steps softly creak on the wooden floors unnoticed, which is why you are barefoot, which is also not allowed.

You finally make it to the kitchen and, on your tiptoes, take the big bucket of ice cream out of the freezer and to the countertop.

You are short for your age, which makes you look younger and even more adorable. You are such a cute, tiny girl.

You hop on the stool and eat the chocolate ice cream straight from the bucket with a big spoon, licking it; chocolate goes all over your collar and lips.

If the governess saw you doing this, she would lock you in the closet. She had done it before and made you spend an entire night there for disobedience.

You cried hard for your dad. That place was cold and dark, but he never showed up.

You catch movement with the corners of your eyes outside the large window into the garden's bushes, the same window from which you peeked out earlier.

A small shadow moves quickly, and you get a bit scared, but curiosity makes you reach closer to the window's glass, your nose almost touching it. It feels cold, it must be freezing outside.

You catch a small girl hiding in the bushes and dropping to the dirt quickly as she notices you.

The door to the outside is just steps away. What if you go help her? She looks distressed and must be cold!

You know you are not allowed to, yet you go.

You expect the door to be locked, but you open it easily.

You hear a soft beep as you set foot outside on the deck. Then the alarm goes off, and the motion detection lights turn on; they are so strong they blind you.

You watch the little girl run to the forest as fast as she can. You try to go after her when you feel a firm grip pulling you from the hair and throwing you back into the kitchen.

You hit the floor hard, sliding in.

You see a pair of black combat boots about to kick you in the stomach when your dad's voice screams very loud.

—Don't get her scratch! She's valuable! —the man immediately stops mid-kick with a yes, sir.

You watch the other guards drag violently the little girl back inside the other building.

You barely hear her indistinct screams in the distance. As you lose sight of her, you think she is begging for her mother, and then the door gets violently slammed close in front of you and locked down this time.

You don't understand what is happening but remember feeling freaked out that day.

You then recall how scared you used to feel every single day back in those times.

They leave you for two days inside that dark closet with no food and no water as punishment.

The following month, the governess tells you she has finished her job with you but informs you that your training is set to start.

You don't get what she means by "training."

Then, she leaves the study room and returns with a boy about two years older than you.

You quickly get happy to see someone close to your age and not another adult. You have been raised among them.

The boy looks rigid and lost in the eye as he approaches you.

When he is standing before you, he pulls you closer and kisses you on the mouth. You giggle at the sensation. It feels funny!

But you see nothing wrong with this, you like the contact since you have never been held like that.

These lessons last for several weeks. They get weirder and more touch-y each time.

When winter arrives, it starts to snow outside. You are cozy sleeping in bed, hugging your teddy plushie under your warm blanket.

The fireplace creeks and heats the room when you hear heavy footsteps outside your bedroom door before it opens.

A big, bulky guy picks you up from the bed, still wrapped in the blanket, waking you up. He carries you down the hallway, heading with you down the stairs.

There, you see your dad, for the last time, on your way to the SUV with tinted black windows parked right outside the front door.

It turns out that man wasn't your father, nor was this your actual home.

You remember feeling increasingly nervous as the car gets further away from the property. All you think about is Bon-bon and the baby.

You cry.

You are sent to the Serbian ring, where your price is high for obvious reasons. You overhear the man who takes you there sound delighted at how high your bid went.

You don't understand a thing.

Two days later, they fly you to a high-end hotel bungalow in Bali, where an older man expects you.

They make him read some papers with terms and things he is suggested not to do to you since this type of man doesn't like the phrase "not allowed to," and he agrees.

The chaperone then closes the room door behind you, leaving you alone with him.

You don't know what to do next, so you watch him remove his tie and shoes as he points you to the bed.

As an obedient and collected girl, you get in there.

This man paid in advance for an entire year of your services and exclusivity, which is an enormous amount of money.

They make you meet with him always in different countries and locations until he gets bored of your body and moves to the next younger new girl.

After that, they return you to the market, and you visit the ring again, this time in Turkey.

You were supposed to live in several security houses when you weren't traveling around the globe to meet your owners, which never happened to you.

They rotate them constantly, and cameras and microphones are everywhere, so the other girls and boys cannot interact.

It doesn't matter much anyway.

With time, you learn that the more money you make them, the better things go for you.

Soon, you discover you are one of the privileged ones since Lenkov, the silver-haired man from childhood, is infatuated with you and asks for you whenever he wants you.

He is a scum.

—If you weren't so good for my business, I do have you living here with me full time like one of my dolls —the fit older man tells you while inhaling coke from the tits of a busty teenager.

While another underage girl like you sits in his lap wearing a tiny bikini, five of them are in there fighting for his attention and petting him all around at his open-floor mansion by the sea in Punta Cana, where he currently lives. You are the youngest one in there.

Lenkov has many places and doesn't stay in one longer, and the girls he likes for his sick enjoyment only get to follow him all around.

It's a better type of prison to be at; you get to learn, and it's way better than getting bid off in the rings.

At least with him, you know what to expect.

Lenkov hosts one of his infamous parties as a goodbye to Punta Cana, which is full of powerful and corrupt guests.

Drugs, alcohol, and a bunch of underage girls and boys are there at their disposition and for everyone's enjoyment, all if they pay, of course!

Bricks of money and bags full of rolls are on several surfaces.

After your previous owner passed away in a very sketchy way, you are pretty sure he got himself poisoned.

Lenkov ordered that they broght you so he can enjoy your body during the weekend and for your attendance at the party since a couple of Arab princes and some Serbian moguls will be there, and he wants you to work your way with them.

A very stoic, tall, and older man in an expensive suit sits, legs crossed, in the expensive armchair next to Lenkov.

He looks you up from afar, his eyes traveling every inch of your skin.

You know how to read a room by this point in your life. So you get closer and slowly twirl for him.

—She —he turns to tell the silver-haired man, looking at you, and Lenkov nods, allowing it.

There he was, your new owner.

God, you hated that word. You weren't a thing to be own; you were a person, even if they didn't treat you like one.

When your chaperone opens the door to a massive suite in Dubai, you are surprised to be greeted by a tall, gorgeous, muscular man with piercing blue eyes, dark, wavy hair, and great skin.

He is big and athletic. You would find him extremely attractive if he wasn't this sick person.

After being with many 50-plus-year-olds, a 33-year-old feels young enough for you. Even if he is not, you are only 14 by this point.

Well, you have been told you are.

Since you don't own a passport or credentials, you don't know exactly who you are, how old you are, where you come from, or anything about yourself.

He agrees to the terms presented to him, and then, as usual, you are left alone with him.

Either they go all over you immediately, asking you to take your clothes off in an instant or foreplay a bit before demanding you to go straight to the bed.

But none of the listed happens this time.

He returns to his laptop, where he seems busy working. Of course, he didn't forget about you. He was totally ignoring you.

It's always tricky with these guys! They are often arrogant, violent, controlling, or power-obsessed and challenging to read or act around.

But, unfortunately for you, you have enough experience dealing with all those types.

So you take off your dress, revealing your tiniest lingerie, and against your will, as usual, approach him, showing off your body.

You get into his lap, placing yourself on his crotch.

You don't want problems, and you know what happens to girls who get a "bad review" to say it like that.

He stops reading what's on his screen, getting distracted by you, then turns to grab his jacket and offers it to you. —No need for any of that —he tells you.

And you put his coat on.

It looks so big on you, covering your whole body. You move to sit on the sofa near him.

Dead silence.

He couldn't care less about you.

—Sir, I'm all okay? Is there a way I can pleasure you? If I'm doing something wrong, please let me make it up to you —you freak out as you notice the time of your session is running out; you don't want trouble.

—I didn't hire you —he says, still typing and looking busy. That takes you off guard. He looks straight at you with those fierce blue eyes, frowning.

—Pardon?

—My sick father gave you to me as a "forgive me" present —he lets out with disdain. —I don't get how he is okay with this stuff. I'm not too fond of paid girls or STDS. I'm not into the young ones.

—I'm very clean, I get tested all the ti-

—So, how does this shit work? —he interrupts you, not caring about what you are saying. —I read on paper that a titanium package was paid. Even the name sounds absurd!

You look at him collected, avoiding saying a dumb thing, being extremely careful with each word.

—It means I'm exclusive to your enjoyment, and you have me ten sessions before acquiring the package again if I please you, that I promise I-

—I see —he again interrupts your rehearsed speech.

You hear soft knocks in code on the door. It means Fran, your chaperone, of course you know that isn't his real name, is waiting for you.

You get your dress back on, and he walks you to the door.

Before reaching it, he suddenly pushes you into a rough and intense kiss, messing your hair and fucking your lipstick, biting open your lip, and, in a powerful movement, tearing your dress a little bit, taking you by surprise.

Fran opens the door at your lack of response and quickly apologizes, witnessing some of the action. —I didn't mean to interrupt, sir.

—No worries, I'm done with her —he says deadpan, pushing you out with a big slap in the ass.

This goes on for the subsequent sessions.

He doesn't touch you more than what is required to pretend you two did the thing. He is clever at keeping appearances.

—So, as long as I have you under my power, I can take my time to have our "sessions," right?

—Yes, sir, but not that much.

—Good, that gains us little time.

He asks you one night while looking out of the panoramic windows, sipping his coñac.

Damn, he is muscular and hot.

—Feel free to use the suite amenities. You are not allowed out of the room, correct?

—Oh no, I'm not —you confirm quickly, not wanting to get in serious trouble. Guards parol you, so there's no way you could get out even if you tried.

He renews his package with you without touching or disrespecting you in any way.

Every time you meet him, you expect him to ask you to return the favor. Your life experiences have made you wary and distrustful.

But he doesn't.

—Yes?! —he looks your way. You have been staring at him for five minutes. He is not the most tender-speaking person.

—I'm sorry, I wasn't, I-

—It's alright, you can talk.

—No worries, you seem busy.

—Go straight to the point or remain shut up —he dislikes wasting time.

—Why are you doing this? —you venture to ask. —I'm not trying to sound ungrateful. I'm more than thankful to you, sir.

—Don't call me sir; it makes me feel dirty —he drops himself on the sofa beside you, giving himself time off from work, stretching. —I get what you are going through. I'm in a prison of my own, too.

You remain quiet a little bit, pensive to open your mouth, knowing you can trust no bitch, but this feels different. So you trust your gut. —What do you mean?

—My father got my family, me included... —he stands to pour himself another glass of coñac and offers you one. You aren't allowed to drink unless they offer you, so you accept it. —...dragged into his illicit business, sadly, we have no way out now.

—I think I met him once from afar. No disrespect, but he seems harsh.

—You can disrespect him all you want. I hate my father; he is a scumbag, he got my brother locked up and murdered in jail, and my mother is also dead, thanks to him. So now it's just us.

Silence.

—Are you in any danger? —you ask, honestly concerned.

—Worried about your situation?

—No si- shit! —you quickly correct yourself. —Sorry, what do I call you?

—Pascal, that's my real name, by the way. As you can see, I don't care much, and yes! I'm always in danger, not imminent, but still, it's a dangerous game I'm playing.

—You are kind to me, that's why I asked. I don't know my real name, so I have no name you can call me.

—I can think of a couple of ones —he makes an innuendo, and by your shocked expression, he quickly adds. —I'm joking! I'm kidding!

You laugh for the first time in God knows how long.

Knocks come on the door.

That goes on until Lenkov becomes possessive of you and warns him that this is the last time Pascal is allowed to acquire your package, and he won't steal you away from him.

—I'm not planning to do so, Lenkov, it's just that pussy is so good, and I don't know how to quit it —he lies.

Lenkov smiles at him with an "I get it" expression before asking him for an obscene amount of money.

Pascal agrees to it, but only if he is allowed to have you for more time, for an entire year.

—A million, and it's a deal.

—But if she stays with me in London...

—She will be not allowed out of the apartment, I will place snipers, and if you try to trick me, I will slight her throat in front of you and then yours. A million and a half, and it's done.

Pascal pays for it.

He welcomes you to your new home with a glass of champagne.

—To the birthday girl.

—What?!

—Today is your birthday. According to your birth certificate, here, it's your gift.

—Is this real?! —tears fill your eyes. He nods, and then Pascal looks taken aback when you give him the warmest hug he has ever received.

He doesn't know what to do until he relaxes and hugs you back.

—I could sleep with you right now! —you say, and you quickly add by the shocked expression he gives you. —I'm joking! I'm kidding. Ah! I'm one year older than I thought! But how did you get this?!

—I have something to confess to you, and it's the reason why I moved you here with me —he sounds serious and looks stern; he hesitates before continuing.

You start thinking about the worst possible outcome. Here comes the part that goes bad for you.

—A few months ago, I made contact with Interpol.

—Oh, please, I'm, look, I, I rather not —you mumble and start to panic, fearing for your life.

—I see. I may die after this —Pascal lets out.

—You what?! —you panic.

—It doesn't matter. Yeah, it's better you stay out of it.

—If it threatens your life, then I'm in! —you sound so assured that he looks shocked.

—Why would you...? —he starts asking.

You jump in. —Risk my life for yours? Anyday! You are the only good thing that has ever happened to me —Pascal looks at you with an expression you cannot read.

—This guy I got in contact with has been pursuing Lenkov for some time and plotting his downfall.

—This guy?! Wasn't the Interpol?!

—Well, yes, he used to work for them...

—Oh god, how are you sure he is not setting you up and wh- —you panic again.

He calms you down and quickly explains. —He is the most annoying guy ever, but it's legit. He started his own organization and has the best of the best working for him, and that's why he moved the Lenkov case with him and left Interpol to work it on his own; it's personal to him.

—Have you met with him?

—Just on the phone, many, many times.

—I don't like this.

—I promise you he is legit and has resources. He was the one who got me your birth certificate. All he is asking from us in return is to act as a witness in case all goes well and we get Lenkov on trial.

—And what's in this for you? I'm sorry for judging you, but my life has taught me some lessons. You aren't in this just because you want my freedom, right?

—To whistleblow my father and expose his business with Lenkov, and make them both rot in prison.

—You are going to get us murdered!

Pascal starts worrying about you bailing out, judging your fear and panic.

He is getting ready to start working you out when you suddenly calm down.

—But what do I have to lose? This is no life, and if I can help to protect you, other girls, and boys and gain my freedom along the way, I will.

Lenkov sends people to check on you two occasionally without previous notice, trying to catch in any weird move and have an excuse to move you back with him.

It comes to his attention that according to the people he sends there, they never seem to interrupt you in sexual activities, enraging him.

You are cozy on the couch watching TV when Pascal's deep voice grabs your attention.

—Listen, whenever someone from my "dad's business," aka my job, comes here, or we aren't alone, no matter if it's the help service, I need you to play along and pretend we are in a sexual relationship. We need to keep appearances and have the word spread.

—Why? —you start feeling concerned. —Did something happen?

—Don't stress about it —he dismisses it. —Just so you know.

—Y/N, you are right. You are not being paranoid —you have been feeling observed by people looking from the building across for some days now. —Probably Lenkov moved some people to one of the apartments in front. They are watching us now.

Pascal pretends to enjoy a drink while looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the skyscraper in front of yours.

—Moving out is no option for us —you add, feeling nauseous. Months have passed since you started living peacefully with Pascal at this place you now call home.

—We need to engage more, then —he sounds grim.

—If we close the curtains but keep the lights on, maybe we could dry hump for them. Silhouettes may work.

—Have the men you have been with ever cared enough to close the curtains?

—No. I get it. It's going to look staged. They won't go away till they make sure.

He lets an exasperated sigh and smashes his glass on the floor.

You instinctively jump. —Listen, I have done it before, we could... —you go all red.

—No.

After several days of noticing him consumed by the situation's stress, you cross the distance between you and gift him your first kiss.

Obviously, it's not your first physical kiss, but the first one that feels real.

You kiss him all the way to the bedroom.

Where Pascal makes love to you in a missionary position, all flesh in full display and bodies moving in rhythm for them to witness.

After you cowgirl him, he takes you in doggy style till you cum from pleasure for the first time ever while moaning his name.

You completely forget that you were doing it for the men watching you at a distance, secretly shooting photos without you noticing before they have them printed and delivered to Lenkov.

There is a slight shift after that night.

The interactions between you two become more tender; there are more accidental touches and sweet looks, along with some cuddling, but nothing sexual ever happens again after the Lenkov people leave you alone.

Not even a kiss.

Three months later, as you grow impatient every day since you know your year agreement is near its end, Pascal informs you that this guy wants to implement the plan.

Next week, a massive raid on the Lenkov rabbit holes, properties, and security homes will occur. People are going to get arrested and youngsters rescued. You are on the list.

The difference with you is that you will immediately be moved to Belgium to the Little Heroes Global headquarters to testify and for them to prepare you for court.

It's a Wednesday morning, the first time you talk to this guy on the phone.

He sounds young, but his tone is too solemn. He informs you that Pascal was the critical piece he needed to deploy his long, elaborate plan; he and his team have spent years trying to get Lenkov.

Now that you have all the knowledge and information he needs to take him down, it is all good to go.

It's the first of many calls you two exchange, and you eventually become incredibly familiar with his voice.

The day that "Operation Lina" arrives, you are so nervous.

Everything is going according to the plan.

But then, as a lot of commotion happens outside your apartment door, Pascal bolts to his feet and places you behind his body, protecting you.

A SWAT team bursts in, knocking the door down. Pascal looks at you, confused at the violence, but you see him smile for the first time in all the time you have met him.

—That's the sound of your freedom —he addresses you, briefly resting his temple on yours. You want so desperately to kiss his lips.

Then the SWAT team moves quick on their feet, guns up to approach you, or that you think so.

Unexpectedly, they pinned Pascal in a violent move against the floor. He hits his head hard in the process.

—What are you doing!? —you start screaming and kicking as they push you out of the way. You go insane as they keep dragging him away from you. —LEAVE HIM YOU FUCKERS! You are hurting him! This wasn't part of the plan!

They yank him down the apartment entrance hallway, and you fight your way to follow along, demanding to know where they are taking him, screaming and kicking.

—PASCAL! —You are desperately calling for him at the top of your lungs.

When you feel a hand softly rub you on your shoulder, you turn around, expecting the worst, to see Lenkov standing there, so you violently remove the hand from you and, with all your force, push the guy against the hallway wall.

—Easy! Easy! —that familiar voice tells you. —He is going to be okay, I will make sure —a kid slightly older than you is standing before you, his beautiful blue eyes are set on you.

—Are you!? —you let out in barely a whisper. You can't believe your eyes; he can't be that young!

—Yes —he starts fixing himself. —You are strong. Mathew De Vos —he offers you his hand.

—Why the fuck are you betraying him like that?! —you start immediately fighting with him, which, funny enough, becomes a habit for you two.

—I'm not! Listen, in one of the raids inside of one of Lenkov's drawers at his office desk, there were photos of you and Pascal, you know, explicitly engaging in some illegal acts.

—But that's not! He didn't ra-! I consent to it, AND it was just because Lenvok people were watching us ove-

—I believe you. I'm not happy to lose one of my biggest witnesses, but it's still a crime. Due to cooperation, we can offer him a good deal, so Pascal will be alright, I promise you.

—How do I know I can trust you?!

—I'm here, as I promised I will. Let's go. The quicker we get this done, the faster you will win back your freedom!

Days later, Mat informs you he moved his influences to get a particular trial for Pascal and that he ended up with just domestic arrest in Budapest, ankle monitor and all.

But that you won't be able to see him, probably ever again. You are only allowed to talk to him on the phone.

Lenkov corrupts his way out of the situation. To both your fury, you have never seen a man so furious as Mathew that day; you almost felt like running away from him as soon as possible, but this unexpected outcome forces you into a witness protection program.

Mathew offers you a place to stay until things get sorted out, a stay that will last for years to come.

—The obvious aside, duh, why did Mathew want to take Lenkov down? —Seb asks, his voice husky.

It's cold and late at night, around 5 a.m., and by this point of the story, you are already wrapped around Seb's arms, sharing the soft blanket on the couch as he plays nervously with your golden bracelet.

Seb has remained empathic and supportive, listening to your life story.

—Mat got scarred by that same man. Victor, Mat's father, was just solidifying "Heroes Global" after building it to protect minors, legally advise victims and their families, and help intelligence agencies dismantle traffic rings when he was the first person to discover the real business behind Lenkov's legal facades—you explain. Seb's eyebrows go to the roof, and his eyes look sad.

—As Mat was dealing with becoming an orphan, his team found out the helicopter crash that killed his parents, well, his dad mostly, wasn't an accident. Mathew's mom has been in a coma for years with no hope of recovering, but she is still with us, thank God.

—Are you a believer?

—Yes. God sent Mat to me. He means the world to me, Seb. He really does, even with all that implies. It's the only family I have. Even in our worst moments, I have never not loved him. He gave me a chance and a better life than I had ever imagined.

—It's good to know —Mat's voice takes you both by surprise, making you un-cuddle and turn to him. He walks inside the room before standing before you, hands inside his soft pajama bottoms, shirtless.

—Where did those abs come from, ancient Greece? —Seb can't help but peek as he jokes. He looks good.

As soon as I found out Lenkov did it and what he really was, I took the basis of Heroes Global and founded Little Heroes Global, working with Interpol. Did you know, Sebastian Vettel, that this girl right here is the foundation's vice president? he asks in the voice of a quiz host while pointing at you.

—I begged Mat to let me stay and work with them as soon as I was freed, I wanted to help others, but I was an illegal here in Belgium, with no papers and in need of a citizen permit and a passport.

—Also under age —Matt adds. So, I wasn't able to marry her to fix all of that thing at once, but as soon as we could, we did, I stayed true to my word of taking care of her.

—It wasn't a romantic or traditional wedding —you explain.

—Just transactional, sign here, sign this, sign there —Mat adds.

—Do you ever?

—Yes —you both answer at the same time.

Dead silence.

—But you two need to go to bed, to sleep, I mean. On another occasion, Y/N may tell you all about us; I prefer my version, though. Feel free to stay over Vettel. Just respect my roof —he winks before leaving, implying to be discreet with sex if there is to be.

Sebastian goes all red. To be continued... < Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter >

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herecirmsims · 2 months ago

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Saxen for @simblorbo-bracket 's Saddest Wettest Meow Meow Bracket

You're probably most familiar with Sax as the Sim who's often used in my pose previews, but he does in fact have a whole life as the saddest and wettest little meow meow in my modern fantasy story over on IG. In fact I was first introduced to the SWMM concept because @nefaricussims referred to him as such in a comment. 😆

He's an original creation, based on a character in a novel I started writing 15 years ago and never had the guts to finish. In the Sims story version, he's a vampire mage.

Now, I don't know if he really counts as an SWMM because he's not a classic villain... but in his pursuit of Doing The Right Thing he has made some awful choices. Good intentions, poor outcomes.

I present the evidence beneath the cut:

Some of his crimes:

In an attempt to save his sister, he left his post and facilitated the escape of a world-devouring entity which he was supposed to help contain.

#sswmm #my sims #my dumb story

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denimbex1986 · 10 months ago

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We are lucky to be alive in the age of Andrew Scott, an actor of extraordinary breadth, skill and sensitivity, who can terrify as Jim Moriarty in Sherlock, make us fall in love (inappropriately) as the hot priest in Fleabag and cry in All of Us Strangers. He can also astonish, last year playing eight parts in a stage adaptation of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. He recently became the first actor to win the UK Critics’ Circle awards for best actor on stage and screen in the same year. And his latest project, Ripley, is a beautiful and chilling adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel The Talented Mr Ripley, with Scott playing the lead, dominating all eight one-hour episodes. It’s been a wild, crowning year for the 47-year-old Irish actor. But in March his mother, Nora, died of a sudden illness; she is who Scott has credited as being his foremost creative inspiration. His grief is fresh and intense and for the first half of the interview it seems to swim just beneath the surface of our conversation.

“We go through so many different types of emotional weather all the time,” he says. “And even on the saddest day of your life you might be hungry or have a laugh. Life just continues.” We are in a meeting room in his management company’s offices, talking about his ability, in his work, to modulate between emotions, to go from happy to sad, confused to scared, all within a matter of seconds. How does he do it? Scott laughs. “I would say that I have quite a scrutable face — is scrutable a word? — which is good or bad depending on what you are trying to achieve. But my job is to be as truthful as possible in the way that we are, and I don’t think that human beings are just one thing at any particular time. It is rare that we have one pure emotion.”

It’s an approach that is particularly appropriate for the playing of Tom Ripley, an acquisitive chameleon who inveigles his way into the lives of others (in this case Johnny Flynn, as the careless and wealthy Dickie Greenleaf, and his on-off girlfriend Marge, played by Dakota Fanning). “Ripley is witty, he is very talented. That’s gripping, to watch talent. I can’t call him evil — it is very easy to call people who do terrible things evil monsters, but they are not monsters, they are humans who do terrible things. Part of what she [Highsmith] is talking about is that if you dismiss a certain faction of society it has repercussions, and Ripley is someone who is completely unseen, he lives literally among the rats, and then there are these people who are gorgeous and not particularly talented and have the world at their feet but are not able to see the beauty that he can see.”

The show was written and directed by Steven Zaillian, the screenwriter of Schindler’s List. It’s set in Sixties New York and Italy, and filmed entirely in black-and-white, its chiaroscuro aesthetic evoking films of the Sixties — particularly those of Federico Fellini — while also offering an alternative to Anthony Minghella’s saturated late-Nineties iteration that starred Matt Damon and Jude Law. This has a darker flavour. “I found it challenging,” Scott says, “in the sense that he’s a solitary figure and ideologically we are very different. So you have to remove your judgment and try to find something that is vulnerable.”

It was a tough shoot, taking a year and filmed during lockdown. Scott was exhausted at the end of it and had intended to take a three-month break, but delays meant that he went straight from Ripley into All of Us Strangers. “Even though I was genuinely exhausted, it was energising because I was back in London, I was getting the Tube to work, there was sunshine,” he says. “I found it incredibly heartful, that film, there were so many different versions of love … I feel that all stories are love stories.”

All of Us Strangers, directed by Andrew Haigh, is about a screenwriter examining memories of his parents who died when he was 12. In it Scott’s character, Adam, returns to his family home, where his parents are still alive and as they were back in the Eighties. Adam is able to walk into the memory and to come out to his parents, finding the words that were unavailable to him as a boy. Some of it was filmed in Haigh’s childhood home, and there was a strong biographical element for him and his lead. Homosexuality was illegal in the Republic of Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16. He did not come out to his parents until he was in his early twenties. I ask if he was working with his own childhood experiences in the film. “Of course, so in a sense it was painful, to a degree, but it was cathartic because you are doing it with people that you absolutely love and trust. I felt that it was going to be of use to people and I was right, it has been. The reaction to the movie has been genuinely extraordinary — it makes people feel and see things, and that isn’t an easy thing to achieve.”

The film is also a tender and erotic love story between Scott’s character and Harry, played by the Irish actor Paul Mescal. The two found a real-life kinship that made them a delight to watch on screen and off it, as a double act on the awards circuit. “I adore Paul, he’s so, so … continues to be …” Scott pauses. “Obviously it’s been a tough time recently and he just continues to be a wonderful friend. It’s everything. The more I work in the industry, I realise, you make some stuff that people love and you make some stuff that people don’t like, and all really that you are left with is the relationships that you make. I love him dearly.”

Scott and Mescal were also both notable on the red carpet for being extraordinarily well dressed. Scott loves fashion and has a big, well-organised wardrobe that he admits is in need of a cull. “I don’t like having too much stuff. I really believe that everything we have is borrowed — our stuff, our houses, we are borrowing it for a time. So I am trying to think of people who are the same size as me so I can give some of it away, and that’s a great thing to be able to do.” One of his favourite labels is Simone Rocha. “I love a bit of Simone Rocha. What a kind, glorious person she is. I just went to her show.” Fashion, he says, is in his DNA. “My mother was an art teacher, she was obsessed with all sorts of design. She loved jewellery and jewellery design. Anything that is visual, tactile, painting, drawing, is a big passion of mine, so I have tremendous respect for the creativity of designers.”

Today Scott is wearing Louis Vuitton trousers and a cropped Prada jacket, dressed up because he is collecting his Critics’ Circle award for best stage actor for Vanya. I ask how it feels to have won the double, a historic achievement. “Ah …” he says, looking at the table, going silent, having just been so voluble. “I’m sorry …” His voice cracks a little. “It’s bittersweet.”

At the ceremony Scott dedicated the award to his mother, saying of her “she was the source of practically every joyful thing in my life”. Is it difficult for him to carry on working in the circumstances, I wonder. “Well, you know, you have to — life goes on, you manage it day by day. It’s very recent, but I certainly can say that so much of it is surprising and unique, and there is so much that I will be able to speak about at some point.”

He is looking forward, he says, once promotion for Ripley is over, to taking some time off, going on holiday, going back to Ireland for a bit. He has homes in London and Dublin. To relax he walks his dog, a Boston terrier, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie “like a 12-year-old, skulking around the city” or goes to art galleries on the South Bank — he was considering a career as an artist until he was 17 and got a part in the Irish film Korea. He goes to the gym every day, “not, you know, to get …” he says, flexing his biceps. “More that it’s good for the head.” He is social, likes friends, likes a party. When I ask if he gave up drinking while doing Vanya, which required him to be on stage, alone, every night for almost two hours, he looks horrified. “Oh God, no! Easy tiger! Jesus … Although I didn’t drink much, I did have to look after myself. But we had a room downstairs in the theatre, a little buzzy bar, because otherwise I wouldn’t see anybody, so I was delighted to have people come down.”

Scott was formerly in a relationship with the screenwriter and playwright Stephen Beresford and is currently single, although this is not the sort of thing he likes to talk about. He is protective of his privacy, not wanting to reveal where he lives in London, or indeed the name of his dog — but he swerves such questions with a gentle good humour.

He is famous on set for being friendly and welcoming, for looking after other people. “The product is very important, but most of my time is spent in the process, so I want that to be as pleasant and kind as possible. I feel like it is possible to do that, that it is an honourable goal.” He is comfortable around people, with an easy charm — no one I have interviewed before has said my name so many times. And although when we talk he sometimes seems reflective or so very sad, there are also moments when he is exuberant, silly, putting on accents. “I feel like, as a person, I am quite near my emotions. I cry easily and I laugh easily, and there is nothing more pleasurable to me than laughing.”

Scott was raised a Catholic and is no longer practising, but says his view about religion is “ever changing — I definitely have a faith in things that cannot be proved”. When he was younger and felt overwhelmed, just before or after an audition, he would go to the Quaker Meeting House in central London and sit in silence, something that made its way into the second series of Fleabag, in which Scott’s priest takes Waller-Bridge’s character to that same meeting house. “It’s just around here,” he says, standing up, looking out of the window at Charing Cross Road. “When Phoebe and I first talked, we met at the Soho Theatre. We talked about love and religion, we walked all around here. And I said, ‘This is a place I go,’ so we called in and there was no one there, so we sat in there and we talked. It was a really magical day.”

Scott says he sees all the different characters that he has played as versions of himself. “It’s like, ‘What would this version of me look like?’ rather than, ‘Oh, I’m going to be somebody else.’ You filter it through you, and you discover more about yourself. I think that is a very lucky thing to be able to do, to find out more about yourself in the short time that we are here.”

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