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venomnyx · 5 months ago

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HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!

You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.

You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.

It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.

But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.

Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.

The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.

You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.

Stryker worse.

A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.

He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”

“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”

“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.

You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.

He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.

You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.

“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.

“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”

He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”

What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?

You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”

“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”

“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”

You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.

“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”

Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.

“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”

He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.

“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”

You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.

Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.

Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”

You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.

A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.

“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”

You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”

“Then suit up.”

Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.

Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.

So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.

But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.

You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.

“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.

Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”

The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”

“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”

You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.

When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.

“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”

You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.

You could stay here forever, you think.

Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.

He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.

You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.

“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.

You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.

Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.

All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.

You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.

“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”

As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.

But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.

“You with the mouth? To fix things?”

You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.

“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.

“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”

“Wade.”

He twists towards you comically slow.

“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.

“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”

“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.

“Technically he’s not dead—”

You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”

“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”

He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.

“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”

“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”

You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.

“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”

“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”

“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”

Even yourself?

“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”

You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”

“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”

And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.

“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”

You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Are we good?”

“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”

“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”

The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.

Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.

Him, on the other hand…

“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.

You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”

You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.

You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.

“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”

You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”

“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.

He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”

Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.

“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”

Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.

“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”

You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.

In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.

“Waited long enough for this.”

He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.

“Logan…”

“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”

You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.

Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.

Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.

She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.

“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”

Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”

“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”

She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”

Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.

But you know how that story ends.

You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”

She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”

“You motherf—”

You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.

You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.

Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.

Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.

Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him

You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.

“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.

Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.

But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.

“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”

He grimaces.

“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”

He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”

He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”

“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”

A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.

The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.

“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.

You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.

Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.

You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.

“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.

You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.

“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.

“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”

“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”

“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”

“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you’ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.

“You got no idea, lumberjack.”

You hated killing.

You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.

The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.

You hate killing. Especially this up close.

You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.

You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.

You should have meditated more.

The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.

A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.

“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”

Logan. Of course, it’s him.

“Leave me alone, prick.”

“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”

You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.

“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”

He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.

Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.

“Quit your squirmin’.”

“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.

“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”

Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”

Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.

You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.

“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”

Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”

“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”

“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”

“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.

You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.

At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.

“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”

“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”

“No, no, no— before that.”

You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.

“If… they can fix your world?”

He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.

Your eyes widen.

“What do you mean: if?”

“That’s what Wade said—”

“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”

“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”

He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”

Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?

Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.

“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”

Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.

“You made… an educated fucking wish?”

“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”

“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.

“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”

“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”

He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”

You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

He snorts. “Oh, are you?”

In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.

“That all you got?”

“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”

“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”

His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.

“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”

Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”

The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”

Your eyes widen with recognition.

“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”

Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”

“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”

The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You’re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.

Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.

But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.

The result of a painful reunion.

The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”

You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.

“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.

Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”

Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”

He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”

Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”

“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”

He then turns to address Logan directly.

“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”

He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.

“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.

You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.

As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.

For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.

The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.

“Are you—” she says your name.

You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”

“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.

Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.

“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”

“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”

You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.

After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.

You hadn’t realised you were being followed.

“It’s not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”

He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.

“I gotta leave, baby.”

“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”

“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”

“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.

“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”

“I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.

“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”

You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.

“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”

“Quit hogging the fire then.”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.

A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”

His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”

His hand runs up and down your back.

“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.

“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”

He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”

“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”

“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”

“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”

He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.

You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“But Charles said—”

“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”

He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.

And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.

“’Course, you don’t understand.”

You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.

“Since when did you start smoking?”

You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”

He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.

“Right.”

You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.

“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.

Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.

“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”

“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.

You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.

“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”

His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.

“Although probably just as stupid.”

A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.

“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”

A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”

You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”

He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.

“What, you like it?” He grunts.

You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”

“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.

You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.

Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.

“Did you love him?”

Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?

“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”

He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.

“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.

“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”

You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.

“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”

He hums resignedly.

Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”

He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.

“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”

You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”

You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.

“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”

His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.

“Were you—?”

“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”

Logan takes a moment to catch himself.

“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”

The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”

“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”

“You never liked hurting people.”

“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”

He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.

“You know, your accents thicker.”

He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.

“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.

“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.

He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.

God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.

You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”

“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.

“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”

He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”

“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.

“Nope.”

A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.

It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.

“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.

“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.

“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”

“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”

He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.

“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”

You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.

You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.

His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”

But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.

Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.

You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.

One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.

His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.

“I know,” he whispers.

And you believe that he does.

He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.

It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.

“Wade!”

You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.

You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.

You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.

“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”

He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—

Jesus. Pull yourself together.

You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”

Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.

A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”

Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.

“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”

You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.

“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”

“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.

“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”

You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”

“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.

“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”

Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.

“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.

Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”

That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.

He rubs his jaw. “Right.”

“I’ll… see you around?”

“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.

A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.

You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.

You know, though. Of course, you know.

You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.

The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.

You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.

You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.

The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.

You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.

Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.

You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.

Logan.

When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.

Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.

“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”

“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.

You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”

Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.

Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.

The red string knots.

When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.

“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”

He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.

Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.

You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.

You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”

When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.

You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”

Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.

“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.

He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”

You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”

The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.

He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”

He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.

You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”

He ticks an eyebrow.

You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.

“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.

“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.

He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

You blush. You hadn’t known that.

You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”

Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.

You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”

The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.

He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.

You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.

When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.

“Legs up.”

You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.

He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.

You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?

He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.

Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.

You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”

You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.

He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.

You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.

You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.

“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.

You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”

“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”

When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.

Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.

“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.

You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.

His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.

There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.

You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.

His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.

You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.

“I can take it.”

The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.

You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.

“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”

“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”

His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”

You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”

He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.

You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.

Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.

You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.

“Did you—”

“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”

You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”

“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”

He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.

You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.

It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.

“Where’s that mouth gone?”

You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”

The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”

You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.

You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.

Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.

“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”

His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”

You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”

divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #james logan howlett #wolverine #x reader #deadpool and wolverine #honda odyssey #logan x reader

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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

Text

Mastermind

Oscar Piastri x Bearman!Reader

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

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

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

Oscar spots you from across the pit lane.

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

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

You’re different.

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar’s chest tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ollie, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You’re still in town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It moves.

He moves with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then-

He sees you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh — Oscar?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. I’ll see you around?”

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

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

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

He knows where you’ll be.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s perfect. Exactly how he imagined.

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

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

You’re finally here, in his arms.

And he’s not going to let you go.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s all he needs.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither can he.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your birth control pills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s already won half the battle.

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

***

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

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

Perfect.

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

This is it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, that future is within reach.

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

It’s all falling into place.

Everything is perfect.

***

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

He’s known this moment was coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and him. And the baby.

Everything is going according to plan.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Oscar won’t let that happen.

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

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

No matter what it takes.

***

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

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

He clears his throat, catching your attention.

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

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

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

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

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Australia?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the way he’s always wanted.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar had made sure of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll make sure of it

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he’s planned it that way.

And Oscar always gets what he wants.

1K notes · View notes

vunblr · 3 months ago

Text

What if...?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk. Slight Angst.

Summary: Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.

Word Count: About 8.4k.

I want to make a revision on this one, I just forget to.

She knew exactly who he was the first time they bumped into each other when she ran toward the stairs of her apartment building, and he suddenly emerged from them, lost in thought. He wasn’t wearing his gloves, and the glint of metal was pretty noticeable when he reached out to grab her elbow to prevent her from falling backward. The touch was brief, since he retired his hand promptly when he was sure she would not fall, his blue eyes revealing something akin to regret.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, in a low voice as he retracted his hand, tucking it into his jacket.

“Oh, don’t be,” she responded, the corners of her lips lifting just slightly as she waved her hand dismissively. “I should’ve been more careful. The elevator’s out, and I was in such a hurry… ugh. We always tell the kids not to run in hallways and stairs because accidents can happen, and here I am-" She cut herself off, realizing she was rambling, and gave an embarrassed smile. “Anyway… hi. I’m Y/n, I just moved in yesterday.” She extended her hand.

He reached out, and his grip was firm but gentle. “James Barnes, but most people call me Bucky.”

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, and as she straightened her nurse uniform, she bit her lip. Handsome. The cute wrinkles that creased the corners of his striking blue eyes, were the kind that hinted at a man who had both smiled and seen more than his fair share of hardship, and it was hard not to notice. His body, the epitome of perfection. She mentally slapped herself for staring. “Well, Bucky, I’m running late for work, so I need to go, but I’ll see you around. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He nodded, watching as she hurried down the stairs, her uniform swaying slightly with her steps. He stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment longer than he should have, replaying the soft smile on her lips.

The days after that encounter passed in a blur of awkward run-ins. Each time, she greeted him with the same soft smile, and each time, Bucky found himself lost in thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

It started with a polite nod, maybe a smile here and there, but soon, their brief encounters turned into casual conversations. Small talk about their days, the weather, even little jokes about the state of their shared building. He found himself looking forward to those moments, however fleeting they were, because it felt so easy to exchange a few words with her, how her laughter always seemed to come just when he needed to hear it. He’d often catch her gaze lingering on him a second too long before she looked away, and it was enough to make him wonder if maybe, she felt the same pull that he did.

-----

One evening, as they both stood waiting for the elevator, she quirked a brow at him. "You know, Bucky, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were following me." She teased.

He blinked, caught off guard, but the playful glint in her eyes made him relax. He let out a small chuckle. "Well… I could say the same about you." She laughed, and once again, the sound made him feel almost normal.

His therapist had been telling him for months that he was isolated, and that he needed to socialize, form connections. She had even suggested dating, but every time he tried, it hadn’t gone well. The interactions felt awkward, forced, and he often found an excuse to leave early, or worse, sometimes he didn’t even bother with an excuse, just walking out of there without a word.

There was something about Y/n that set her apart, mostly the ease with which their conversations flowed. He wasn’t the type to talk much, often keeping things curt and to the point, but she had this way of making the silence between them feel comfortable, never pushing him to share more than he wanted. He didn’t have to try so hard to keep up with standard appearances. But the pull toward her wasn’t just about feeling comfortable, he wanted her.

He caught himself watching her more often than he’d like to admit, she was exactly his type, soft and curvy in all the right places. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to touch her, to run his hands over her body, feel her warmth beneath his fingertips. But every time he got close to asking her out, fear crept in, locking the words in his throat. Fear of rejection, of being too damaged, of her seeing the parts of him he was ashamed of. It always stopped him.

Tonight felt different, though. There was something in her playful approach that made the fear feel less suffocating, less overwhelming. The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped inside, Bucky turned to her, his heart hammering in his chest. He could barely believe he was about to do this.

"Y/n?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.

She glanced at him. "Yeah?"

He swallowed hard, feeling the moment's weight as he stood before her, and almost panicked. This wasn’t something he was used to. He could fight in gruesome battles, survive impossible odds, flip a fucking armored truck with a tug of his arm… but asking someone out? That felt like a whole different battlefield. It was terrifying in a way those other things weren’t.

For a moment, he almost backpedaled. His mind scrambled, desperately searching for something else to say, some way to deflect his intentions and change the subject. But nothing came. He was stuck. He’d already opened his mouth, and there was no way to retreat now without looking like a fool.

Taking a deep breath, he jumped.

“Would you like to grab dinner with me sometime?” The words came out gruffly. For a second, the doubt crept in, making him wonder if he’d just made a mistake.

Her eyes widened in surprise before lighting up, and the smile that spreaded across her face, eased the knot on his stomach.

“Oh, I’d love to. It’d be fun to do something outside the building for a change. We run into each other so much, that I actually thought about asking you to hang out, but you always seemed rushed, like you couldn’t wait to leave. I’m glad that’s not the case.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “You know, we can be neighbors and friends. There’s nothing in the building rules against it.”

Bucky blinked, his heart sinking at the word friends. He forced one of the practiced, uncomfortable smiles his therapist suggested. Friendzoned -a term he’d only recently discovered- wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but he hadn’t spelled it out, either. Of course she thought he was just trying to be friendly, he hadn’t given her a fucking hint of his real intentions. He hadn’t flirted, hadn’t made even the slightest move to swoon her.

The old him would’ve had no trouble conveying his interest. He would’ve been smooth and confident, knowing exactly how to charm her and make his intentions clear. But he wasn’t that guy anymore. He hadn’t done this in decades, and the rules seemed to have shifted in ways he didn’t fully understand. Hell, he had shifted. He sighed.

"Um..." he started, tentatively. "I... just want to be clear," he continued, rubbing the back of his neck, "I meant it... as a date. Not just neighbors or friends grabbing a bite."

For a moment, she didn’t respond, still processing what he had just said. And then, something clicked. Heat crept up her neck as her smile turned more thoughtful. He wanted to spend time with her not because they lived in the same building or happened to bump into each other, but because he was interested.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize… I mean…” she stumbled with her words, “I didn’t know you meant it like that." She has had her fair share of men in her life but being honest with herself, in a million years, she wouldn’t have guessed someone like him would be asking her out. Not Bucky, the quiet, handsome, brooding neighbor with the sharp jawline and the weight of a thousand untold stories in his eyes. For months, she had brushed off the little moments between them as neighborly interactions, and nothing more. It had been easier that way. Safer, maybe. But now, standing here, the truth of his intentions was undeniable.

Her smile softened, "I’m glad you clarified." she finally said. "And yeah, Bucky. I’d like that, a lot."

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d been holding his breath and had just now allowed himself to exhale. A faint smile crept onto his lips, one that actually reached his eyes, softening the hardened edges he usually carried.

"Great," he murmured. "I’ll, uh, figure something out."

They shared one last look before the elevator doors opened, and as they stepped out, his heart was still racing but this time, it wasn’t from fear.

------

The first date had been simple, almost quiet in its ease. He brought her flowers, a small, hesitant gesture that made her eyes light up. They went to a bistro and talked about life, interests, and the kind of things you only share when you feel a certain sense of safety with someone. Bucky never said more than necessary, but she learned to read the way his eyes softened when he listened, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when she said something that caught him off guard. It was easy and comfortable as their previous interactions, and yet, in the back of his mind, there was always the whisper: do you even deserve this?

The second date was at the small café on the corner of their building. There had been more laughter this time, the conversation flowing easily. As they sat across from each other, their knees brushed under the table. It was subtle, almost unintentional. When it happened again, neither of them moved away.

They walked back in a comfortable silence. When they reached her door, she turned to face him and for a moment, the space between them felt heavier, thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

His hand hovered just near her lower back, not quite touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth of his body through the fabric of her dress. For a brief second, she thought he might pull her closer to break that last sliver of space between them, but he didn’t. His hand lingered for just a moment longer before falling away.

Bucky’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and his brows furrowed slightly before looking away, almost as if chastising himself. His old-fashioned upbringing, perhaps, held him back and kept him from making the move she half-expected, the one she wanted.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. His tired eyes lingered on hers just a little too long, as if he were still debating, still fighting the pull to act on the desire he was clearly feeling.

She nodded, trying to ignore the flutter on her chest and to respect his boundaries, even though her hands itched to reach for him, to pull him closer and start what he wouldn’t. “Goodnight, Bucky,” she replied softly, her own voice betraying the emotions swirling beneath the surface.

They stood there for a heartbeat longer, the short distance between their doors now feeling like miles. He gave her a small, almost hesitant smile, then turned toward his own apartment, the silence between them somehow louder now.

By the time the third date approached, Bucky’s nerves were starting to get the better of him. He didn’t want to ruin this. The cocky Sergeant Barnes -the man who hadn’t yet turned into a walking nightmare- would’ve laughed at him. That version of himself had been bold, self-assured, the type of man who could sweep a woman off her feet without a second thought. He’d have taken the lead with ease, knowing exactly how to handle the situation. But that man was long gone, buried beneath the weight of all he had done, all he had become.

Before leaving for the date, he poured himself an imperial pint of asgardian ale. Just enough to give him a buzz, to take the edge off. Standing there, glass in hand, he caught his reflection in the window and sighed. Could she see it? The darkness? The scars left behind from being Hydra’s puppet? And even if she didn’t... how long until she did? You don’t deserve this, the voice whispered again, unrelenting.

------

That night, after dinner, they found themselves in her living room, two untouched coffee cups growing cold on the table beside them. The dim light softened the space around them, creating an intimate cocoon that made their conversation flow effortlessly. Yet, beneath the easy chatter, Bucky’s doubts lingered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that any move forward could shatter the delicate balance between them.

He’d been raised with a sense of propriety, a rhythm to follow when it came to courting. There was a dance to it, an unspoken set of rules about when to advance and when to hold back. The trouble now was figuring out how much to let himself move forward, how far to let this go before the weight of his past dragged him under again.

As their conversation naturally ebbed into silence, he noticed her gaze flicker to his lips, lingering just a bit longer than usual. His pulse quickened. She was giving him a sign, even if she hadn’t meant to. For a brief moment, he hesitated, but the look in her eyes, and the ale still running through his system urged him forward.

He leaned in slightly, their knees brushing, and the warmth of her body drew him closer. His hand hovered near her arm, and she responded getting closer, her lips parting ever so slightly as if inviting him in without saying a word.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between them, as his heart pounded in his chest. The kiss was meant to be soft and chaste, but all restraint flew out the window the second their lips touched.

His hand slipped to the small of her back, pulling her closer, the kiss growing hungrier, more urgent, as if months of longing were unraveling in that single moment. With a gentle, almost teasing flick of his tongue against her lower lip, he urged her to open her mouth. She complied, parting her lips as she allowed him in, and things turned molten. His tongue slid against hers, and the heat between them spiraled when she let out a quiet, breathless moan. The sound sent a jolt of desire pushing him further. His metal hand remained firm on her back, pulling her as close as possible, while the other slipped into her hair. She responded eagerly, gliding her fingers up his chest and tangling in his now messy bun, tugging him closer as if she couldn’t get enough. The kiss was all-consuming, urgent and messy, as months of tension finally broke free. Eventually, they slowly pulled apart, heavy breaths mingling in the charged air between them. His gaze dropped to her lips, now swollen and flushed from their activities, and he felt the undeniable pull to dive back in.

Then he noticed it. His vibranium hand had slid down to her waist and was gripping harder than he intended. Much harder. He swallowed and looked at it, realizing what he did. His hand, still gripping tightly, could had harm her. He sighed, as frustration and self-reproach tugged at him, unable to find a balance between his longing and his fear of hurting her.

She caught the sigh, and her eyes followed his downward gaze until they landed on his hand, still gripping her waist. And then it clicked, she understood. It wasn’t just the pressure of his hand; it was everything behind it. The strength he was constantly aware of, the control he had to maintain, the fear of hurting someone he cared about without meaning to. It wasn’t just about this moment, it was about everything he carried with him.

Instead of pulling away, she did the opposite. She shifted slightly, pressing closer into his hand, her body language reassuring him. With that small gesture, she was telling him she trusted him, she wasn’t fragile, and she wasn’t going to break. He didn’t need to hold back with her.

He exhaled softly, and a question bubbled up, one that had been lingering in his mind for far too long. “Have you ever thought how things would have been if we had met under different circumstances?” His tone was quiet, almost tentative, and the weight of the topic felt heavy in the intimate space between them.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Different how?” she asked, leaning in a little, her eyes searching his.

Bucky took a breath, and his gaze drifted again as if he were caught somewhere between the past and the present. “I mean… if I hadn’t been…” He trailed off for a second, a shadow crossing his expression. “If I didn’t become what I am. If I’d been just… me.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, as though speaking the words out loud might break something fragile between them.

She stayed quiet, giving him the space he needed, her hand resting gently on his arm, a subtle reassurance.

“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted, his eyes were still distant, fixed on a point somewhere beyond her. “If we’d met before all the... before everything.” His lips pressed into a thin line, guilt flickering behind his blue eyes. “Maybe in another time, I could’ve been just a guy. Someone who didn’t have…” He paused, his metal hand still against her back. “Someone that wouldn’t have been so messed up. Someone normal and approachable.”

Her heart clenched at the weight of his words. “Bucky…” she started, but he shook his head slightly as if to wave off her sympathy.

“I don’t know,” he continued, quieter now. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve…” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Without hesitation, she entwined their fingers, squeezing gently. “You do deserve this,” she said firmly, her voice unwavering as she met his gaze. She wasn’t going to let him retreat into the dark place where his self-deprecation lived. “You deserve to be happy, Buck. You’re a good man.” She sighed and shifted beside him, resting her head against the couch as she considered his previous words and then an idea popped up.

“Let’s see… if I had been born before 1920, I’d probably still be a nurse.” Her lips curved into a small smile as she looked at him sideways, eyes gleaming in the dim light. She watched him closely, seeing how he would react, her heart thumping just a little faster as she waited. “I’d have enlisted to work in a field hospital. And… who knows, maybe we could have met there when you were serving.” She let the thought linger in the air, light and playful, hoping it would lift the heaviness that had settled between them.

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, and he tilted his head, with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He shifted closer to her without even realizing, his hand still resting lightly on her waist. “You would’ve been responsible for making sure I was fit for duty,” he mused, his tone was a little lighter now as if the idea of an alternate history didn’t seem so bad. “Keeping an eye on me, seeing my injuries, maybe even patching me up yourself.” He added with a playful edge, allowing himself to immerse in the scenario.

She grinned, shaking her head, eyes twinkling as she imagined the scene. “Oh, from what I heard about you, I doubt you would have visited the hospital very often, Sarge,” she teased, nudging his knee with hers playfully, a grin tugging at her lips.

Bucky chuckled, as his thumb began tracing slow, soothing circles on her back, a gesture she was growing fond of. “Probably not,” he agreed, leaning in slightly, his voice dipping into something softer. “But I would’ve noticed you from afar. Even if I had no reason to be there, you would’ve stood out.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the back of his hand, a smile playing on her lips as she waited for his answer.

Bucky glanced down at their intertwined hands, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against her softer ones. He looked back up at her. “Because you’re beautiful,” he said simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Beautiful, me? Pfft!” She laughed softly, with a playful spark in her eyes. “But... now that I think about it, pin-up girls were a thing when you were serving, weren’t they?”

Bucky leaned back into the couch, pulling her with him, wrapping his arm firmer around her waist, a slow grin forming at her words. “Yeah, well, nurses were definitely included in the ‘interesting’ category too,” he teased. His eyes flicked down, tracing the curves of her body as his hand tightened slightly around her waist, making her feel self-conscious. “Especially ones with curves like yours.”

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Bucky continued, his voice lower now, a bit more serious. “You’d have been popular among the guys in camp, you know. They’d have been lining up, falling over themselves to get your attention.” He paused, his gaze flicking back to hers. “But trust me, I would’ve noticed you first. And I wouldn’t have let anyone else have a shot.”

Her cheeks heated as she tucked her legs beneath her, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, so you would’ve asked me out?” she teased.

Bucky turned slightly toward her, the hand resting on her arm sliding down slowly, his fingers brushing her skin in soft, teasing strokes. “Oh, I wouldn’t have just asked,” he said with a smirk. “I’d have made sure you had no reason to say no.”

She felt her heart quicken at the subtle heat in his voice, the playful edge giving way to something more intense. Her breath hitched slightly, and she bit her lip as she gazed up at him. “Is that so?” she murmured, her voice soft, a bit more serious now. “And how would you have done that?” She leaned in a little, her shoulder brushing against his, her warmth radiating into the small space between them. “How was the game back then? Brought flowers? Invited me to dance?”

“Both, probably,” he murmured, resting his hand on her thigh, grazing the fabric of her dress with his thumb in slow, deliberate motions. “Flowers, because they’re classic... and dancing, because it’s intimate.”

“Well,” she whispered, leaning her head toward him, lips just inches from his ear, “I guess I would’ve let you court me, Sarge. Tell me about a date with you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on her thigh, the pressure just enough to make her heart race. His stubbled cheek brushed against hers as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Saturday night,” he whispered, his lips barely grazing the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine, “dinner at the Officers’ Club, followed by a slow dance... and then back to my quarters for a proper goodnight kiss.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening as the warmth of his breath and the weight of his words settled between them. She could feel the tension thickening in the air, her voice trembling slightly as she teased, “Only a kiss?”

Bucky smirked against her skin, hovering his lips near her ear. “Maybe more than just a kiss,” he rasped, low and full of promise, “but only if you wanted it too.”

She arched an eyebrow, curving her lips into a teasing smile. “Hmm, I dunno, Sergeant Barnes... things were done more properly back then, right? No sex before marriage, and all that stuff?”

He let out a low chuckle, his hand already inching higher up her thigh. “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, his voice taking on a teasing edge. “I would've waited until our wedding night…” His hand slid beneath the fabric of her dress, fingers grazing the soft skin of her thigh. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have thought about it. Every. Single. Day.” He leaned in again as he whispered. “How you’d look... how you’d feel... imagining all the ways I’d finally get to touch you.” His breath was warm against her skin, the words heavy with tension.

“Is that so?” she murmured, her fingers sliding up his chest, gripping his collar just enough to keep him close. “You think you could’ve waited?”

His hand tightened again on her thigh. “I would’ve tried... but I don’t think you would’ve made it easy.” Bucky’s playful tone faded into something more serious, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Would you have let me… let me have you like that?”

She swallowed, gripping his shirt tighter as she looked up into his eyes, feeling the pull of him in a way that left her defenseless. “I-” her voice faltered, but she managed to find her words. “Yeah, Bucky... I would’ve.”

Bucky’s metal hand, firm but tender, climbed from her waist tracing a slow, deliberate path up her spine. He then reached for the little buttons at the neckline of her dress, being both careful and bold as he unfastened them, one by one. Each undone button revealed more of her skin to his darkened gaze, and the way he looked at her made her feel exposed in a way that went beyond the physical. “I would’ve taken care of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing her collarbone. “Made sure no one else got close to you.”

Her body leaned instinctively toward him, craving the closeness as her free hand ran up his arm, tracing the firm muscles beneath his shirt. “No one else would’ve mattered,” she whispered.

With a swift, deliberate motion, the hand on her neckline slid down and snaked behind her, grasping her ass and pulling her fully into his lap. She gasped as her hips pressed against his, feeling exactly how much he wanted her. “Every night,” he growled, his voice rough with need, “I would’ve made sure you were mine.” His eyes were ablaze with raw desire as his grip tightened, holding her firmly against him.

Her pulse raced, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them and his mouth crashed into hers in a searing kiss. His other hand slid higher up her thigh, teasing the edge of her underwear, fingers brushing the soft skin. A soft moan escaped her lips, muffled by the kiss, and when he broke it, his lips found the curve of her neck.

“So only one kiss, huh?” she chuckled in a breathed tone, and her voice trembled with anticipation as her hips instinctively rocked against him.

Bucky inhaled deeply against her skin, trailing hot kisses down toward her chest. “Well, I would've kissed you every chance I got but believe me, that wouldn’t have been enough...” His words were thick with promise, his breath hot against her skin. He pressed his erection harder against her, slipping his hand between them, and tracing her slick heat over her underwear with his fingers. The breathless gasp that escaped her was all the encouragement he needed. “… that wouldn’t have been fucking enough.” he whispered against her skin, his voice low and filled with hunger, as his fingers moved with purpose, leaving no doubt about what he wanted.

She bit her lip, her voice soft but laced with playful intent as she fed into the fantasy they were weaving. “Well, if we had ourselves a little house with a white fence, I’d have waited for you to come home every day in a frilly apron,” her eyes locked onto his, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she added, “with nothing underneath.”

The image she painted made Bucky’s breath hitch, and his grip tightened around her ass. His eyes nearly rolled back, with his imagination spiraling into wild possibilities. “Damn.” His voice was laced with lust. “If I could’ve had you waiting for me like that,” he murmured, his hand gripping her tighter, fingers digging into her skin as his restraint began to falter “I’d have come home early every damn day just to take advantage of you.” His lips brushed the swell of her breasts, the heat between them spiraling as his imagination ran wild, and he pulled her impossibly closer while teasing over her soaked panties.

Her gaze flicked from his lips back to his darkened eyes. “Oh yeah?” she challenged, her voice a sultry whisper. “Right there on the kitchen table?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, the raw desire in his eyes nearly swallowing her whole. “Hell yes, right there on the kitchen table,” he growled, his vibranium hand gripping her ass harder, possessively. “I’d bend you over it, flip up that little apron, and bury myself inside you until you screamed my name for the whole damn neighborhood to hear.” He confessed without a hint of remorse or shame.

Her body reacted instantly, hips pressing hard against the teasing hand hovering over her clothed pussy. A soft whimper escaped her, almost desperate. His hand answered her need by slipping her panties aside, slowly sinking his fingers into her pussy, stretching her with deliberate, agonizing precision.

She let out a shaky breath, her playful tone faltering as her body betrayed her. “How kinky,” she managed to tease, biting her lip as she met his gaze, her voice barely steady under the growing pressure inside her.

Bucky inhaled sharply, savoring the way she responded, his hand moving with more purpose now. “Kinky enough to have you blushing for days,” he growled, his teeth grazing up to her jawline before dragging his lips slowly up to brush against hers. His fingers kept sliding deeper inside her with slow, deliberate strokes. “And when the milkman came the next morning…” The hand on her ass squeezed the supple skin harder, pulling her even close against him, while the other continued its relentless torment between her legs. “...you’d be so sore from the night before, you wouldn’t even be able to stand straight. Couldn’t look anyone in the eye without blushing, remembering just how loud you screamed.”

She moaned at his statement, totally immersed in the fantasy. “That sounds… so good, Buck.” She managed to say, her voice trembling with want. She bit her lip again, locking eyes with him and starting to ground herself shamelessly against his fingers, the pressure building quickly inside her. “But... would you only fuck me at the kitchen table when coming back? What about… other creative places? Like the back porch, under the shade of the bindweed?...”

Bucky's eyes closed as her suggestion sparked a flood of heated thoughts. “Hell, yes," he growled, his voice thick with desire. He pushed his fingers deeper inside her, and his thumb circled her swollen clit, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. “I’d lift that sexy little apron right up, spread your legs wide open, and fuck you right there under the bindweeds," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, each word laced with promise. "And you'd moan my name, scream it, while everyone else thinks we’re just having a quiet afternoon tea."

The combination of his filthy words and the relentless pressure of his fingers sent her body trembling with anticipation, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "Bucky…" she moaned softly, her hands tightening their grip on him, desperate for everything he was giving her. Her hips bucked uncontrollably against his hand, her breath hitching as his fingers curled inside her, hitting just the right spot and sending waves of pleasure radiating through her body. The pleasure built inside her, tightening, coiling until every nerve in her body felt alive.

He felt the signals and growled, moving faster now, each stroke deliberate and calculated as his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming out in ragged bursts. “I’d had make sure no one could ever touch you the way I did,” he muttered, his voice low and possessive. "Every inch of you, mine." He punctuated the last words with hard, rhythmic rubs at one side of her clit and that was all she needed for the climax to hit her, a wave of intense pleasure crashing through her. Her moans turned into soft cries as she buried her face on his neck, her body trembling violently as his hand continued to work her through it, prolonging her ecstasy.

When her body came down from her high, Bucky slowly withdrew his fingers. Panting, she looked at his gaze and saw the raw, unbridled desire burning in his blue eyes. Without hesitation, she leaned in, her lips finding his stubbled jaw, trailing soft, hungry kisses down his neck, nipping and sucking against his skin while her hand wandered lower and lower on his abdomen, finally unbuttoning his pants with deliberate slowness, venturing inside his underwear.

The moment her fingers brushed against his cock, he tensed and groaned. “W-wait,” he rasped, his voice thick with need and restraint. His hand held hers firmly, keeping her from going further.

Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, her lips still hovering near his neck. “Why?” she murmured, “I want to make you feel good too. You deserve it, Bucky,” she whispered, her words full of tenderness and desire.

Bucky let out a low, shaky breath with a hint of frustration. He knew he had to come clean. “I want it too, trust me,” he muttered, strained. “But it’s been so long... too long. If you touch me now…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, the unspoken words hanging in the air. “Let me lead,” he whispered. He leaned in to kiss her, deep and slow, pouring all the pent-up desire into the kiss.

She sighed softly, pulling back just enough to reach for the hem of her dress, slipping it over her head in one fluid motion. The fabric lifted away from her body, leaving her sitting in only her bra and panties as the dress was tossed to the side of the couch.

Bucky’s gaze darkened as he took her in, his hands instinctively roaming over her bare skin. But then he groaned again softly, almost painfully, pausing as his grip tightened around her waist. “What happened to let me lead?” he rasped; his voice was thick with restraint.

Her breath hitched at his words, and she parted her lips to respond with a half-hearted apology, but before she could, his hands were already sliding down her body, reclaiming control. His fingers traced her bra straps, slipping them off her shoulders with excruciating slowness. “I need to do it my way,” he murmured, his voice was a low growl as he leaned in, brushing her ear with his lips. “If you don’t behave... this ends before we even begin.”

The meaning of his earlier words hit her then. He wasn’t just leading to take his time with her; he was fighting to keep from losing control, from coming right there in his pants. Her teasing grin faltered, replaced with a softer expression. “Oh,” she whispered with understanding. “I didn’t realize…” Her fingers gently grazed his cheek, guilt creeping into her tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.”

Bucky tensed slightly at her touch, inwardly cursing himself for letting his vulnerability slip. His masculine pride stung. Great job, Barnes. Way to cool the mood. He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers in an attempt to brush off the tension. “It’s alright,” he muttered, but the strain in his voice betrayed him. His fingers dug into her hips just a little, steadying himself. “I just... got worked up faster than I expected.” He exhaled shakily, trying to ease the tension. Then he started to move.

As his fingers worked at the clasp of her bra, his touch slow and deliberate, and he broke the silence with a low murmur, his voice thick with desire, yet laced with a hint of vulnerability. “You know… I liked you from the moment we bumped into each other on the stairs,” he confessed, meeting her gaze. “I still remember the way you looked at me, even after I knocked you off balance and grabbed your arm. No gloves, metal hand out in the open… but you didn’t flinch.”

When her bra fell away, his gaze dropped to her exposed breasts, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. His flesh hand cupped her gently, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a slow, teasing motion.

“I loved how your uniform looked on you then,” he continued, his tone growing huskier as his metal hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer. “I still do. Every time I see you in it, it makes it hard to focus on anything else.”

His thumb continued its slow teasing, but then his expression shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. His voice dropped, a hint of regret slipping into his words. “I wish I’d asked you out sooner. The old me… he would've handled this better. Would’ve known exactly how to...”

She cut him off before he could finish, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. “Stop,” she said firmly, her tone was soft but unwavering. “The moment of ‘what if’ has passed. I don't want the man you used to be, Bucky.” Her lips brushed against his jaw, her breath hot against his skin. “I want you. Not someone I never knew.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them fixing his gaze on hers. She wasn’t looking for the version of him with the effortless charm and swagger. She never did. She wanted him, baggage, scars, and everything else.

A slow, shaky breath escaped him, tightening his grip on her as a flicker of vulnerability passed through his eyes. “You don’t know how much that means,” he muttered, brushing his lips against her jaw, then down to her neck. His movements were soft at first, but as her hands gripped his shoulders, urging him on, the hesitation melted away.

His mouth found hers again, kissing her hard, moving his hands with more confidence again. “I’ve wanted this... you,” he rasped, his breath hot against her skin. “For so damn long.” She responded with a moan, her body arching into him as he took full control.

He groaned, unable to hold back any longer as the tension between them reached its peak. He gently shifted her off his lap, laying her down on the couch, his hands lingering on her hips for a moment before he stood. His breath was heavy, and though his chest tightened with familiar insecurities, especially about his arm, he pushed forward.

His fingers moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. As the fabric fell to the floor, his eyes darted to her face, half-expecting some flicker of hesitation or doubt. Instead, her gaze roamed over him, dark with desire as her eyes took in the hard lines of his chest. “Damn... you’re perfect.” Her voice came out breathly and soft. Swallowing hard, Bucky quickly slid his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, kicking them aside. Now fully bare before her, he stood there, chest rising and falling as her gaze lingered on him. He could see her eyes focused on his size, her lips parted as she let out a soft, breathless sound. The way she looked at him -no hesitation, only hunger- made his insecurities, the doubts about his scars, his arm, everything, to retract to a far corner of his mind.

Without a word, he climbed on top of her, positioning himself between her legs. His hands trailed down her sides, gripping her hips firmly as he pulled her closer. Slowly, he guided his cock to her slick entrance, teasing her folds as he coated his shaft with her wetness. A low, rumbling groan escaped his lips as he playfully rubbed the tip of his cock against her clit, the pressure sending jolts of pleasure through her body.

She reacted instantly, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she writhed beneath him. “Bucky…” she moaned softly, tilting up her hips toward him, aching for more.

He moved slowly, sliding inside her inch by inch, and paused as soon as he was fully sheathed, giving her a moment to adjust. Her body clenched tightly around him, a gasp escaping her lips as her nails dug into his shoulders. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, the sensation of him filling her was completely overwhelming. The tight heat of her body had him teetering on the edge, but he held back, determined to give her time.

He pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again, slowly and deliberately, testing her response. Her breath hitched, and her thighs trembled around his hips with each thrust. She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut as she struggled to find her breath.

“Fuck, Bucky,” she whispered breathlessly, her voice barely audible but heavy with surprise and awe. “You’re… big. I’ve never... God!”

Her words sparked something deep within him, the mixture of vulnerability and pleasure igniting a fire he could barely contain. A low growl rumbled in his throat as his control began to slip. His hands moved to the back of her thighs, gripping them firmly just beneath her knees, then in one swift motion, he lifted her legs, spreading her wider as he started to thrust deeper, hitting spots that made her eyes fly open, a strangled moan escaping her lips. “Bucky… oh my God,” she gasped, her voice trembling as she struggled to take all of him.

Encouraged by her reaction, Bucky picked up the pace, his thrusts growing harder and faster, losing himself in the haze of lust that overtook him. He pulled her thighs higher, spreading her wider, driving into her with relentless force. Each thrust was deeper and rougher, and her moans quickly turned into desperate, breathless cries of pleasure.

The sound of her moans, the way she cried out his name, only fueled him further. “You like that?” he growled, his voice low and ragged as he thrust into her again, deeper, harder. Her slick heat gripped him tighter with every movement, making his pulse race. “Look at me, Doll. You like it rough?”

Her body arched beneath him, her hands scrambling for something to hold onto as the intensity of his thrusts tore through her. “Yes! Bucky… fuck! Don’t stop,” she moaned, her voice breaking as he kept his relentless, punishing pace.

“Oh, I won’t stop,” he growled, pulling out of her with a slick sound, only to flip her over onto her stomach in one swift motion. His hands gripped her hips roughly, pulling her ass up and positioning her on all fours before she had time to catch her breath.

Before she could process the shift, Bucky slammed back into her, filling her completely. She gasped, her fingers clutching at the couch cushions as he drove into her from behind, his pace unrelenting. “Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, his flesh hand sliding up her back before grabbing a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back slightly as his hips pistoned against her, thrusting deep and hard.

She let out a scream of pleasure as he pounded into her. “Yes! Oh God, yes,” she cried, her voice hoarse, her body helpless under his rough control.

Bucky grunted with each powerful thrust, his grip on her hair tightening, his metal hand digging into her hip, guiding her back onto him. The angle allowed him to go even deeper, kissing her cervix with every push of his hips. Her moans only spurred him on, the rhythm of their bodies frantic and primal, skin slapping against skin.

He released her hair and grabbed both her hips, yanking her back onto his cock with force, losing himself in the haze of lust. “Come for me,” he growled, his hand coming down on her ass with a sharp smack, making her gasp.

Before she could recover, his hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. He circled it with firm, deliberate pressure, his voice rough as he leaned over her, thrusting deeper still. “I want you to come all over me, Doll.” The moment his fingers found her swollen nub, her body responded, hips bucking involuntarily as her breath hitched. The pressure building inside her hit its peak, and with a loud, desperate moan, she shattered beneath him, her body trembling violently as she came hard.

The feel of her tight, wet heat spasming around him was too much for Bucky to handle. He let out a guttural moan, his hips slamming into her as his own release took hold. “Fuck,” he growled, his voice ragged as his body tensed, and he came hard, spilling thick, hot spurts inside her. His hips jerked involuntarily with each wave of pleasure, the intensity of his orgasm hitting him harder than he’d expected. He gasped, his forehead falling to her back as he rode out the aftershocks, his cock pulsing inside her, still surrounded by the tight, wet heat of her body.

The sound of their heavy breathing filled the room, the intensity of their release left them trembling, bodies slick with sweat. Bucky stayed inside her for a moment longer, his fingers lazily circling her clit, drawing out her pleasure as her body continued to spasm beneath him. But as the haze of bliss began to fade, his mind started to catch up with his body, and a flicker of doubt crept in. Had he been… too much?

Slowly, he withdrew from her, and the cool air was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies. His hand slid up to her shoulder, gentle, almost tentative. “Are you okay?” His tone was low and uncertain.

She turned her head slightly, pressing her cheek into the cushion as her hooded eyes found his. “I’m better than okay,” she murmured. “That was... perfect, Buck.”

He exhaled, feeling the tension in his body ease a little, but his mind refused to quiet. What if she was trying to play it cool after being on the receiving end of nearly 80 years of pent-up frustration?

Sensing his unease, she shifted, sitting up on the couch. Her hands cradled his face, gently brushing her thumbs against his skin. He looked almost miserable for someone who had, minutes ago, been nothing short of a god of intercourse.

“You didn’t hurt me, Bucky,” she said. “I meant it when I said it was perfect. Stop overthinking. It was the best I’ve ever had.” Her cheeks heated as she realized the weight of her words, but she didn’t back down. “I mean it,” she added, her voice softening as her gaze dropped for a moment. “It really was the best I’ve ever had.”

The tension in his body slowly began to melt away as he absorbed her words. His breathing steadied, and the storm of doubts in his mind started to quiet. He looked down, feeling a pang of guilt for letting his insecurities creep in precisely in that moment. Running a hand through his messy hair, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I just... I get in my head sometimes.”

She gave him a gentle smile, brushing her fingers on his scruffy cheek again. “You didn’t ruin anything, Bucky, not even close. If anything, the only thing you’ll have to atone for... is setting the bar pretty high.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. He exhaled deeply, feeling the weight on his chest finally lift. Without saying anything, he reached up, gently cupping her cheek, brushing softly over her skin in a silent gesture of gratitude.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of understanding, unspoken promises, and the certainty that, somehow, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

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