hi! can i request an older! rich CEO! reader x mv3? where reader is very wealthy and buys those supercars for Max and just a full blown fic about reader spoiling Max? thankuuu
Return on Investment - MV3
pairing: max verstappen x older!fem!reader
synopsis: as a powerful, ridiculously wealthy CEO, you are used to operating at the top of the food chain. But your absolute favorite use of your vast corporate empire is spoiling your much-younger boyfriend, Max Verstappen.
wc: 2.8k
The sleek, glass-paneled doors of your Monaco penthouse slid open, letting in the gentle hum of the Mediterranean breeze. You closed your laptop, the glowing screen reflecting the final confirmation of a corporate merger that had taken your board of directors six months to negotiate. As the CEO of a global investment firm, your time was measured in millions, but your favorite way to spend your wealth was entirely focused on the young man whose footsteps were currently echoing down the hallway.
"I'm home," Max called out, his voice carrying the distinct rasp of exhaustion that always followed a grueling double-header race weekend.
You stood up, smoothing down your tailored trousers, and met him in the foyer. Max looked worn out, his Red Bull duffel bag slung over one shoulder, but the moment his icy blue eyes locked onto yours, a familiar, boyish grin spread across his face.
"Rough flight?" you asked, stepping into his arms as he dropped the bag.
"Terrible. I just want to sleep for three days," Max muttered, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. He smelled like expensive cologne, airplane coffee, and lingering adrenaline.
You ran a hand through his tousled blonde hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I can draw a bath for you. Or..." You pulled back just enough to catch his eye, a dangerous, playful smirk playing on your lips. "...we could go down to the garage. I might have picked up a little something for you while you were in Suzuka."
Max groaned playfully, letting his head fall back. "Y/N, no. Please tell me you didn't."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," you replied smoothly, taking his hand and leading him toward the private elevator.
"You did," Max laughed, squeezing your fingers. "Schattie, you promised you were done buying me things this month. The Patek Philippe was already too much."
"I promised no more watches this month," you corrected, scanning your fingerprint to send the elevator down to your private, climate-controlled subterranean garage. "I said nothing about other assets. Besides, the board approved my quarterly bonuses today. Consider this a celebration."
The elevator doors chimed and slid open, revealing the sprawling expanse of polished concrete and high-tech lighting. The garage was already a testament to your indulgence of him, housing everything from his company cars to the vintage Porsche 911 you had sourced for his birthday.
But sitting in the center of the bay, draped in a heavy, black silk cover, was a silhouette that was unmistakably aggressive, wide, and very, very low to the ground.
Max stopped in his tracks. His jaw slackened slightly as he looked from the covered monolith to you. "Y/N. Is that...?"
"Go look," you urged, leaning against the sleek hood of your own daily driver, crossing your arms as you watched him.
Max walked forward with the reverence of a man approaching an altar. He grabbed the corner of the silk tarp and pulled it back in one fluid motion.
The harsh garage lights caught the flawless, exposed matte carbon fiber of a one-of-a-kind Pagani Utopia. It was trimmed in a subtle, custom metallic orange that caught the light along the aero lines—a quiet nod to his heritage. It was an engineering masterpiece, a V12 beast that cost more than most private islands, and it was sitting right in his parking spot.
"You are insane," Max breathed, tracing his fingertips over the sweeping rear wing. He walked around the hypercar in a daze, taking in the quad titanium exhausts and the meticulous leather interior. "You are actually out of your mind."
"It's a track toy," you said casually, walking over to join him. "I know how much you love your sim racing, but I figured you needed something to keep your reflexes sharp in the off-season. Pagani reached out to my office last year about an exclusive allocation. I made a few calls, wired a deposit, and had it built to your exact specifications."
Max turned to you, shaking his head. Despite his status as a multi-time World Champion, there were still moments where the age gap and the sheer magnitude of your established empire caught him completely off guard.
"Y/N, this is..." He gestured vaguely to the multi-million dollar masterpiece. "You can't just buy me a Pagani because you closed a deal."
"Why not?" you challenged softly, stepping into his space. You reached up, resting your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. "I spent my twenties and thirties building a company from the ground up so I wouldn't have to answer to anyone. I have more money than I know what to do with, Max. And out of all my investments, my portfolios, my properties... seeing that look on your face is the only thing that actually gives me a return on my investment."
Max’s protests melted instantly. The overwhelming gratitude in his eyes was replaced by that intense, singular focus he usually reserved for the starting grid. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
"You spoil me," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were a breath away from yours. "It's entirely unnecessary. And dangerous for my ego."
"Your ego is perfectly fine," you whispered back, smiling against his lips as you kissed him. It was slow and deep, a quiet reaffirmation of the power dynamic you both navigated so perfectly. You were the untouchable CEO, the older, fiercely protective force in his life; he was the fiery, relentless champion who surrendered entirely the moment the front door closed.
When he finally pulled back, he looked down at you, then over your shoulder at the exposed carbon fiber of the Pagani.
"So," Max said, a wicked, boyish spark returning to his eyes. "Does this track toy have the keys inside it?"
You laughed, reaching into your blazer pocket and pulling out the heavy, sculpted key, tossing it to him. He caught it effortlessly in one hand.
"Drive fast, champion," you smiled, taking a step back so he could open the butterfly door. "But not too fast. You still owe me dinner to celebrate."
The butterfly door glided upward with a soft hiss of pneumatics, and Max didn't hesitate. He slid into the low-slung driver's seat, his hands immediately wrapping around the leather and carbon-fiber steering wheel. The exhaustion that had weighed on his shoulders upstairs was completely gone, replaced by the electric, buzzing energy of a driver being introduced to a new machine.
"Get in," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave as he looked over at you. The playful boy from the elevator was gone; the World Champion was firmly in the seat.
You walked around the front of the Pagani, admiring the aggressive aerodynamic lines one last time before slipping into the passenger side. The interior was a masterpiece of machined aluminum, analog dials, and supple, custom-stitched leather.
"Buckle up, CEO," Max smirked. He pressed the ignition sequence.
The twin-turbo V12 engine didn't just start; it detonated. The sound violently echoed off the polished concrete of your private garage, a deep, guttural roar that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes and into your chest. Max revved it once, listening to the symphony of the exhaust with a look of pure, unadulterated reverence, before shifting into gear.
You tapped your security fob, and the heavy garage doors rolled open, revealing the twinkling twilight of the Monaco skyline.
Max pulled out onto the streets, and immediately, heads turned. The hypercar was a ghost gliding through the principality. He navigated the tight city streets with effortless precision, his foot feathering the throttle, before breaking out toward the winding, coastal cliffside roads of the Moyenne Corniche.
Once they were clear of the city traffic, Max dropped a gear. The Pagani surged forward with terrifying, neck-snapping violence. You were pressed hard into the bucket seat as the speedometer climbed at an impossible rate. The Mediterranean Sea was a blur of dark blue to your right, the jagged cliffs a streak of grey to your left.
You didn't flinch. You just turned your head to watch him.
This was where Max belonged. His blue eyes were sharp, scanning the apex of every turn, his hands dancing over the wheel with a brutal, calculated grace. He was in total control of a machine that would terrify a lesser man. The sight of him—so focused, so dominant, yet driving the multi-million dollar toy you bought for him on a whim—sent a heavy thrill straight to your core.
He caught you staring as he eased on the brakes for a sweeping hairpin turn. A cocky, brilliant smile broke across his face.
"Handles well?" you asked, raising an eyebrow over the roar of the engine.
"It's unbelievable, Y/N," Max laughed, the sound bright and breathless. "The downforce is insane. It grips like a track car, but the power delivery is so smooth."
He upshifted, letting the engine settle into a low, menacing growl as he brought the car to a more reasonable cruising speed along the coastline. Reaching across the center console, Max placed his large, warm hand high on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles against the fabric of your trousers.
"Thank you," he said, his tone softening, the adrenaline making way for absolute adoration. "I mean it. You didn't have to do this."
"I know," you replied smoothly, covering his hand with yours. "But I like taking care of you, Max. You spend ten months out of the year carrying the weight of an entire team, fighting for every tenth of a second, dealing with the media, the pressure... When you come home to me, I want you to have everything you could ever want, without having to fight for it."
Max swallowed hard, his grip on your thigh tightening. No one else spoke to him like that. To the world, he was a ruthless competitor, a machine built for winning. But to you, he was just Max. You were the only person with the power, the resources, and the presence to completely shield him from the world.
"You're going to make me soft, Y/N," he murmured, keeping his eyes on the winding road.
"Never," you chuckled. "But I am going to make you dinner. Take the next exit. I had my assistant buy out the terrace at La Chèvre d'Or for the evening."
Max let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "You bought out a Michelin-starred terrace on a Tuesday?"
"I wanted privacy," you said with a careless shrug, adjusting your watch. "And I had the chef fly in those wagyu cuts you liked from our trip to Tokyo. I figured you'd need the protein after a long race weekend."
Max pulled the Pagani off the highway, navigating the steep incline toward the exclusive cliffside chateau. He pulled up to the valet, who looked absolutely terrified to even approach the hypercar, let alone park it. Max killed the engine, the sudden silence heavy and thick, before turning to face you completely.
He leaned across the console, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He kissed you—hard, demanding, and tasting of pure adrenaline.
"I love you," Max breathed against your mouth, entirely undone by you. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm never letting you go."
"Good," you whispered back, running your thumb over his sharp jawline. "Because I've invested far too much in you to let you walk away now, champion. Now come on. Your dinner is getting cold."
The maître d’ of La Chèvre d'Or didn't even blink at the sight of the hypercar. He simply bowed deeply as you and Max approached the grand entrance, leading you both straight through the quiet, opulent restaurant and out onto the private terrace.
The view was nothing short of spectacular. The Mediterranean Sea stretched out into the dark horizon, glittering with the distant lights of superyachts, while the warm coastal breeze carried the scent of salt and blooming jasmine. The entire terrace, which normally seated dozens of Monaco's elite, was completely empty, save for one perfectly set table near the stone balustrade.
Max let out a low whistle as the maître d’ pulled out your chair, waiting for you to sit before taking his own seat across from you.
"I could get used to this," Max admitted, a relaxed, boyish grin settling onto his features as the sommelier immediately appeared to pour a vintage Krug champagne. "No cameras. No journalists asking me about tire degradation. Just you, me, and a view."
"That was the plan," you smiled, taking a sip of the crisp champagne. "You live your entire life in front of a lens, Max. When you're with me, you get to disappear."
The dinner was flawless. The chef had indeed prepared the A5 wagyu exactly how Max liked it, and you spent the next two hours simply enjoying each other's company. You listened intently as he broke down the technical issues they had faced during free practice in Suzuka, and in return, he listened with genuine interest as you explained the aggressive takeover your firm had just executed in the European tech sector.
It was a strange, perfect harmony. Two alphas dominating completely different worlds, finding absolute peace in the quiet space they carved out together.
By the time the espresso and decadent chocolate desserts were cleared away, the exhaustion of the weekend was finally catching up to Max. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes heavy and his gaze fixed softly on you.
"Tired, champion?" you asked quietly, reaching across the white linen tablecloth to brush your knuckles against his cheek.
Max leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. "A little," he confessed, a rare admission of vulnerability he would never dare show his engineers or his rivals. "But I don't want the night to end."
"It doesn't have to," you murmured, standing up and offering him your hand. "But I think it's time to take your new toy home."
The drive back down the winding coastal roads was much slower. The aggressive edge of the Pagani was tamed, settling into a low, rumbling purr as Max drove with one hand on the carbon-fiber wheel and his other hand firmly intertwined with yours, resting on the center console. The silence between you was comfortable, built on years of deep, unspoken understanding.
When you finally pulled back into the subterranean garage of your penthouse, Max lingered in the driver's seat for a moment after killing the engine. He ran his hand over the steering wheel one last time, a look of quiet disbelief still on his face.
"Y/N," he said softly, turning to look at you in the dim light of the cabin. "Thank you. Not just for the car... but for everything. For being my peace."
You unbuckled your harness and leaned across the console, cupping his face in both of your hands. You kissed him slowly, a deep, grounding kiss that conveyed everything your words couldn't.
"You are the best thing in my life, Max," you whispered against his lips. "I have built an empire so that I can give you the world. Let me."
Max nodded slowly, completely yielding to you. He stepped out of the car, rounding the hood to open your door, his hand resting securely on the small of your back as you walked together to the private elevator.
Minutes later, you were both in the sprawling master bedroom of the penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Monaco harbor, but Max’s attention was solely on you. He shed his designer jacket and shirt, leaving them in a careless pile on the plush rug, before pulling you into his chest.
"Three days," Max murmured, his voice heavy with sleep and affection as he buried his face into your neck, swaying you gently on the spot.
"What about them?" you asked, wrapping your arms around his broad, bare shoulders.
"I told you when I got home I just wanted to sleep for three days," he smiled, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "But I think I want to spend them in bed with you instead. No emails. No board meetings. Just us."
You ran your fingers through his blonde hair, the corners of your eyes crinkling in a smile. "I think the CEO can authorize a few days of personal leave."
Max chuckled, a warm, vibrating sound against your skin, before picking you up effortlessly and carrying you toward the massive king-sized bed. As the lights of Monaco twinkled below, the World Champion finally let his guard down completely, safe and endlessly spoiled in the hands of the one person who ruled his heart.
arvid knows how to handle a racing car. surely, a pair of scissors and your fringe can't be that difficult. right?
genre: fluff, romance, slice of life, pre-relationship.
warnings: a fringe, a pair of scissors, and two idiots who refuse to name what’s happening between them. also... pure fluff.
word count: 857.
a/n: well, apparently i am capable of writing a really short little scene! guys, i honestly don’t even know how this one is. it hasn’t been proofread; it was more of a little confirmation that i’m still capable of writing (operation: oscar piastri is doing things to me). i hope you enjoy it. someone had asked me to write something with arvid, and i loved it. he’s such a sweetheart. THIS IS ABSOLUTELY RANDOM.
“Are you sure you know how to do this?” you ask, looking at Arvid from behind the fringe of hair he’s holding in his hand.
His eyes narrow, staring at that piece of hair as if it were a potential enemy, a high-powered car he needs to overtake with an inferior car, relying solely on the skill he’s acquired throughout all his years on four wheels. Except this doesn’t have four wheels.
It’s your hair.
A fringe.
One that’s going to define your appearance for the next few months.
No pressure.
“Of course I know how to do it,” he says, not a hint of a smile appearing as his concentration intensifies.
You want to laugh. Your lips press together. Even though, yes, this is something relatively serious, watching Arvid place so much importance on something is incredibly adorable. You watch the way his brow is furrowed, the closeness he always tries to maintain out of respect slowly disappearing as he moves closer to get the best cut possible.
The thing is… you two aren’t dating. Yet. You’re in that strange stage where you keep kissing each other, and only each other, with no interest in kissing anyone else.
“Arvid, I can go to a salon.”
“You can…”
“But do you want to do it?”
“Of course. I’ve done this before. On other people. On my mom.” Arvid says, taking a deep breath. “Do you think my mom is pretty?”
Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than it should before you let out a little laugh.
“Love, I don’t know your mom,” you say, poking him in the stomach.
Arvid takes a step back with a grimace and nods.
“Not yet,” he says quietly, the certainty of it knocking the air out of his lungs. “And don’t poke me like that, I’m holding scissors!”
Your tongue glides over your lower lip and, finally, you close your eyes. Arvid moves in close again, raising the scissors and adjusting his grip on your fringe. You showed him how much you wanted to cut: short, but not too short, it didn’t need to be perfectly even, you wanted… Style. More than precision! Your words, of course, were met with a confused raise of his eyebrow that said, “You’ve got a hell of a lot of style.” That earned him a little kiss on the tip of his nose, making him blush involuntarily, and the scissors ended up in his hand before he could question it.
That was how you ended up there.
“Okay,” he says, and you feel him lift your hair a little higher. “Here goes.”
Now all you had to do was wait.
A second later… Snip. Then… Snip, snip, snip.
Arvid watches the strands of hair fall into your lap and onto the floor with apprehension. It was done.
“Is it done?” you ask, opening only one eye.
He looks at your face, at the hair he’s still gently holding back with his fingers so you can’t see the result, and bites the inside of his cheek.
“Wait,” he says.
Slowly, Arvid slides his fingers down, releasing the now-short strands of your fringe to settle against the skin of your forehead. The cut was accidentally… perfect. Just slightly above your eyebrows, covering enough to keep it from looking like an artificial cut.
With both eyes open now, you stare at his surprised expression.
“Does it look good?!” you ask, standing up.
Arvid doesn’t answer, and you don’t stick around to find out. You run to the nearest bathroom, turn on the light, and immediately look in the mirror.
The sight is instant. You. With the short fringe. The one Arvid cut. Exactly the way you had imagined it. Your eyes widen, and your hands reach for your fringe, touching it as if you don’t quite know how to process the fact that it turned out absolutely perfect.
“Look, I don’t know if… I don’t know if you like it, but… Look…” Arvid starts, nervous, his hands gesturing in front of him as he steps all the way in, stopping behind you. “I honestly think it looks really good. Not because of my work, or the way I hold scissors, but because you’re beautiful and it made you look even…”
He doesn’t even get to finish.
Your arms are wrapping around his neck, your mouth is on his, and suddenly Arvid only knows that this is very, very good, and that he would be more than happy to be silenced by you a million more times. He isn’t thinking straight, and he knows it because when you pull away, he instinctively leans forward, chasing after more.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” you murmur, hiding your face in his neck. “I love it, I’m in love with this haircut and I—”
You don’t finish. You crush your lips against his in another kiss, and Arvid doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even ask what you were about to say.
Besides… he thinks he knows what you were going to say. And if he’s right… so does he.
summary
oscar has known you your entire life. he knows your habits, your fears, your weaknesses, and exactly what to say to make you trust him. after years of quietly pushing everyone else out of your life, he's finally become the only person you have left. now that you're adults and living together, oscar decides it's time for your relationship to become something more.
MDNI
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You used to say that Oscar was the person who knew you best in the world. You said it with a distracted smile, as if it were simply an obvious fact after so many years of practically sharing the same life. You grew up together, went to the same schools, spent entire afternoons locked in your bedroom playing video games, fought over the smallest things, and made up before you could even remember what you had been fighting about. Oscar knew your favorite ice cream flavor, which song you put on when you were sad, and the exact expression that appeared on your face whenever you were about to cry. He knew which words calmed you down, which memories you avoided and, most importantly, he knew exactly how to make you believe anything he said.
To you, that was intimacy. It was simply the natural result of a lifetime spent sharing everything with someone, proof that best friends eventually came to know even the parts of you that you yourself forgot to show. You never stopped to think about how much of that closeness had been built by choice. You never realized that, while you collected memories, Oscar collected information; while you saw affection in every gesture, he learned which gestures worked best; while you believed that knowing him so deeply was what made your friendship special, Oscar knew that knowing you that way meant having access to every fear, every insecurity, and every need that he might one day use to his advantage.
To you, he was the person who understood you best. To Oscar, understanding you had never been simply a way of loving you. It was the quietest way to have control. He had learned early on that he didn't need to raise his voice, threaten you, or force you to do anything. All he had to do was know exactly what to say, when to say it, and, most importantly, what you needed to hear in order to believe that a certain choice had been yours. Perhaps that was the most dangerous part of all: you believed he knew you because he loved you, while Oscar had learned to love you through everything he knew he could control.
Ever since you were a child, there had been little things that seemed so natural that you never stopped to question them. When you were twelve and wanted to go to a girl's birthday party from school, Oscar asked who would be there. When you gave him the names, he made a face and said that girl didn't really like you, that she'd probably only invited you because she needed more people at the party. You believed him. When you wanted to start walking to school by yourself, he told you it was dangerous and that your parents probably wouldn't like it. You gave up. When a new classmate started asking you to hang out after school, Oscar found some reason not to like her. She was fake and selfish. She talked too much and, according to Oscar, she had made a nasty comment about you that he had overheard. You didn't remember hearing anything like that, but you trusted him. "You don't notice these things," he would say with a patient smile, as if he were simply trying to take care of you. "I notice them for you." and you accepted it because, deep down, it even seemed kind of beautiful to have someone willing to protect you from people you couldn't quite see clearly yourself.
As the years passed, the control changed shape. It stopped being about your friends and became about the boys who entered your life. Oscar never directly told you that you shouldn't date someone, he simply asked question after question until the idea started to seem like a bad one all on its own. When you started dating for the first time, he asked how long you'd known the guy, who his friends were, where he usually went out, and whether you really believed he liked you. When you said yes, Oscar simply nodded, saying he hoped you were right. Then came the little comments about the boyfriend, almost always disguised as concern. He took too long to reply to your messages. He liked pictures of other girls. He seemed distracted when you talked. One of Oscar's friends had mentioned that he'd been flirting with someone from his class. Nothing was enough to become an accusation, but everything together was enough to create doubt. When you finally asked your boyfriend if something was going on, he denied everything, and Oscar simply sighed when you told him. "I hope you're right," was all he said, but there was a carefully placed sadness in his voice that made you feel even more insecure.
A few days later, when you ended the relationship, you went back to his apartment with swollen eyes and a throat that hurt from crying so much. Oscar opened the door before you could knock a second time, as if he'd already been waiting for you, and when his arms closed around your body, he didn't need to ask what had happened. "He didn't deserve you," he murmured against your hair, keeping you close as his fingers slowly moved along your back. You sniffled against his chest and asked, almost embarrassed, if he really thought that, and Oscar brushed a strand of hair away from your face before answering with that calmness that always made everything seem simpler. "I'm sure. You liked him, I know, and I never wanted to take that away from you. I just didn't like the way he made you feel." When you asked why he'd never liked him, Oscar tilted his head, as if he were trying to find a gentle way to explain something that, to him, was obvious.
"Because I know you. I knew this was going to happen." You stayed silent, your eyes still full of tears, and he continued before you could ask anything else. "I see the way people look at you. They like what they can get from you, but they don't know what to do when they realize you need more than that."
Your brow furrowed as you tried to understand. "What do you mean?" Oscar ran his thumb over your damp cheek, wiping away a tear that was slowly trailing down.
"Like someone who thinks they can have you for a while and then simply walk away." He held your gaze for a few seconds before adding, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, "I would never do that to you."
That was exactly what made you believe him. Because Oscar was there, he always had been. While that boy had walked away, while other friends came and went, while everyone you believed would stay found some reason to leave, Oscar remained sitting in front of you, holding your face between his hands as if you were the most precious thing he knew. You never realized that he'd spent years making sure it would be exactly this way.
The second boyfriend was different, or at least it seemed that way at first. Oscar made a point of meeting him, talked to him, laughed at his jokes, and even invited him to play games a few times, enough for you to believe that, finally, he'd accepted that he didn't need to be suspicious of every person who entered your life. But when the relationship started getting serious, Oscar began showing up more and more. First, they were simple messages, asking if you'd made it home. Then came the questions about where you were, who you were with, and when you planned to come back. If you took too long to reply, you'd find a message saying that he was just worried about you. If you replied that you were busy with your boyfriend, Oscar never complained. He would only say that he understood, even though he missed you. And that sentence, precisely because it seemed so small, would end up staying in your head for the rest of the night.
"You've been disappearing lately," he'd say when you finally met up, a nearly sad smile on his face as he absentmindedly turned the glass between his fingers. You would immediately apologize, explaining that you'd spent the afternoon with your boyfriend, and Oscar would simply nod, saying that he knew. When you asked if he was angry, he'd shake his head, assuring you that he wasn't, but there would be something in his eyes that made you insist.
"You are." Oscar would let out a sigh and look away for a moment before meeting your gaze again.
"I'm not angry, I just miss you," he'd say, and then you'd feel guilty for misinterpreting him. It was always like that. He never needed to say he was jealous or ask you to choose; all he had to do was look hurt and you'd do the rest yourself.
When you complained that he was being unfair to your boyfriend, Oscar never argued. He simply looked genuinely confused, as if the accusation didn't even make sense. "Did I say anything against him?" he'd ask, his brows slightly furrowed. When you reminded him of the things he'd said, he'd shake his head and smile patiently. "You're putting words in my mouth. All i said was that i miss you." And suddenly, the certainty you'd had just a few minutes earlier would begin to disappear.
Maybe he really hadn't done anything. Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you were being unfair to the only person who had always been there for you. Oscar never told you that you were wrong in an aggressive way. He simply asked questions until you started doubting what you felt yourself. When you finally apologized, he accepted it easily, running his fingers through your hair and telling you that you didn't need to worry.
"I just want you to be happy." and you believed him, of course you did. Because that sentence seemed impossible to question when it came from him.
It was on one of those nights, after yet another argument about someone Oscar claimed not to like, that you finally decided to call him controlling. You were sitting side by side on the couch, and he seemed completely calm as you spoke, gesturing more and more as you tried to explain that he couldn't keep giving his opinions about every person who entered your life. Oscar listened to everything without interrupting.
He waited until you were finished, tilted his head, and then asked, almost curiously, "Do you think i control you?"
You crossed your arms, still irritated, and said that sometimes it felt exactly like that. He let out a small laugh, not mockingly, but in that calm way that always made you feel like maybe you were taking things too seriously. "You trust people too much," he said after a few seconds, his eyes still fixed on yours. You shrugged and said maybe, and Oscar continued, "you let anyone in." you immediately denied it, but he only smiled. "You do."
You ended up laughing at his insistence, shaking your head as you told him he was too controlling. Oscar raised an eyebrow. "With you?" the question came so calmly that you almost forgot what you'd been arguing about.
"Especially," you replied, and he smiled as if he'd just received confirmation of something he'd already expected.
"Because I care." It was a simple explanation. Almost perfect. You smiled too, because, deep down, you knew he cared. "I know."
Oscar watched your face for a few seconds before continuing, his expression becoming a little more serious as his fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of his own shirt. "You never notice when someone wants something from you." You frowned, asking what he meant, and he answered without rushing, "you think everyone has good intentions." You tried to argue that not everyone was like that, but Oscar only tilted his head. "Almost everyone." The answer made you thoughtful, and he used the silence to gently touch your chin, making you look back at him. "That's why you have me."
You let out a small laugh, trying to ease the intensity of the conversation. "You talk like I'm incapable of taking care of myself." Oscar immediately shook his head. "That's not it." You asked him what it was, then, and he took a few seconds before answering. "I just know you better."
You smiled, still trying to understand where he was going with this. "And that gives you the right to decide for me?" This time, Oscar didn't answer immediately. He simply kept looking at you until the smile on your face faded on its own. When he finally spoke, his voice was so calm that you almost felt guilty for asking the question.
"I've never decided anything for you. You always chose." You lowered your eyes, remembering all the times you'd asked for his opinion, and suddenly, it seemed to make sense. "Yeah..." Oscar slowly ran his thumb over your hand before adding, "I just help you see."
It was the oldest and perhaps most effective lie between you. Because deep down, Oscar truly believed that he was. He didn't want to share his best friend with anyone; he didn't want to see you falling in love with another man, waiting for someone else's messages or smiling at someone who wasn't him. He didn't want someone else knowing how you liked your coffee, how you cried in secret after an argument or how you clung to your pillow when you were afraid. He didn't want someone else taking the place he'd spent years building for himself.
There was a part of him that knew this wasn't friendship and that his need to control who was allowed into your life wasn't protective, but he didn't care. To Oscar, love and possession had become intertwined for so long that he could no longer tell the difference between the two. You were his in the only way he knew how to possess you, and you didn't know that yet, but you would. Oscar was patient; he always had been, and when the time came, you would believe that you had chosen to stay of your own accord.
When you reached adulthood, your relationship no longer resembled a friendship to anyone observing from the outside. Perhaps that was because there was hardly anyone left to observe. Over the years, Oscar had shrunk the world around the two of you with frightening patience, removing one person at a time until you finally realized that there was no one left to compare him to. Your old friends had drifted away after arguments that you could barely remember starting. Some had said that Oscar was far too controlling, that it wasn't normal for him to decide when you could go out, who you could talk to and how long you could stay away from home. You had been offended at the time. Oscar had never said you couldn't have friends; he'd simply pointed out that one of them had lied, another had spoken badly about you behind your back and another had seemed far too interested in your life. When you tried to defend them, he'd ask why you were choosing to believe people you'd known for only a few years instead of believing him, the person who had been by your side since childhood. The questions always ended the same way: you apologized. Oscar accepted, and one more person disappeared from your life.
The men had been even easier. Oscar never needed to forbid anything directly. All he had to do was meet each of them, smile, talk for a few minutes, and then wait until the two of you were alone. "Do you really like him?" he'd ask, as if he were genuinely interested. When you said yes, he would simply nod. Then came the details. The guy seemed possessive. He didn't like one of your friends. He'd looked at a waitress for too long. He'd made a joke that Oscar considered disrespectful. Maybe he was hiding something, maybe he wasn't. Oscar never needed to be certain. All he had to do was plant the doubt. And when you ended things, usually in tears, he was the one waiting to hold you. Over time, you began to understand that relationships were exhausting. People were complicated. Friendships took effort. Everyone eventually disappointed you. Oscar didn't. Oscar was still there. Always there. He was the only fixed point in a life he himself had carefully emptied of everything else.
Now you were adults, and you lived together.
The move into the apartment had been presented as a practical solution. You worked nearby, Oscar was already looking for a bigger place, and splitting the expenses seemed logical. That was how he explained it. That was how you explained it to everyone else. What no one noticed was that, after a few months, Oscar had started taking care of practically everything. He organized the bills, did the grocery shopping, knew exactly how much money was in your bank account, remembered your appointments, scheduled them when you forgot, and had your coffee ready every morning.
If you mentioned that you needed something, it would be waiting at home before you'd even had time to buy it. If you said you were tired, he decided what you'd have for dinner. If you mentioned wanting to go out, he asked who you were going with, where you were going, and what time you'd be back. It never felt like an order, it was always care. "let me do it." "you're tired." "I'll take care of it." "you don't need to worry." And you, accustomed since childhood to letting Oscar take care of things, accepted.
The bedrooms were separate, at least officially. Yours was at the end of the hallway, decorated with little things you'd chosen over the years, while his remained more organized, almost impersonal. Oscar never insisted that you sleep in the same room. He didn't need to. The separation made everything easier to justify. When someone asked, you were just best friends who lived together. When you said that you were comfortable with it, Oscar smiled. He liked that word. Comfortable. Because it meant you no longer missed anyone. You didn't need anyone.
If you woke up frightened in the middle of the night, you looked for his door. If you had a bad day, you ended up sitting on the couch beside him. If you received an unpleasant message, he was the first person you showed it to. If you needed to make an important decision, you asked him for his opinion. This dependence had stopped looking like dependence a long time ago, now it was simply routine.
There was one routine Oscar valued more than all the others, one of those little traditions that, to you, had naturally emerged over the years, but that he had protected with an almost obsessive devotion. Every friday was movie night. It didn't matter if you'd had a terrible week, if you were too tired to choose something, or if you'd received an invitation to go out. Friday belonged to the two of you. Oscar picked the movie, you picked the snacks, and after dinner, the two of you settled onto the living room couch while the night slowly disappeared beyond the windows.
Sometimes you watched something genuinely good, although that was rare. Most of the time, they were forgettable movies, stories you'd talk about for a few days and never remember again. Oscar didn't really care what was playing on the television. What mattered was having you there beside him, for a few hours when no one called, no one sent messages, and no one showed up to claim your attention. He especially liked the way you eventually forgot your phone on the table, as if the entire world could wait while you were on that couch. To you, it was simply a comfortable tradition between best friends who lived together. To Oscar, it was one of the few nights of the week when he knew with absolute certainty that you belonged only to him.
That friday, the rain had started shortly before eight and continued tapping against the windows with a lazy persistence. You appeared in the living room after your shower wearing a short silk pajama set, the light fabric sliding over your legs as you walked barefoot through the apartment, and settled into your usual spot, pulling the blanket over your lap before even asking which movie he'd picked. Oscar was already waiting, he was wearing gray sweatpants and a simple t-shirt, sitting on the other side of the couch with a bowl of popcorn resting between you.
He'd left your favorite chocolate on the table, placed a bottle of water within easy reach, and even set the remote in the exact spot where he knew you'd look for it first. They were small details, almost ridiculous in how insignificant they seemed, but Oscar liked them. He liked knowing your habits better than anyone else. He liked it even more knowing that you rarely noticed when he anticipated your needs. To you, it was simply care. To him, it was another way of proving to himself that no one could occupy the place he'd built beside you.
"You really picked this movie?" you asked, looking at the screen with a skeptical expression as you grabbed a handful of popcorn and settled more deeply into the couch.
Oscar looked at the television for a few seconds before turning his eyes back to you, a subtle smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "You said you wanted something light."
You made a face, pulling the blanket a little higher, "this doesn't look light." He let out a low laugh and reached over to grab a piece of popcorn. "You haven't even started watching." You laughed, shaking your head, "you always say that."
Oscar raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely amused by the accusation. "Because you always complain beforehand." You lightly nudged his arm with yours. "Because you always pick weird movies." He didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at you for a few seconds before smiling.
"Even so, every friday you sit right here." You were silent for a moment, and then your smile appeared almost automatically. "Because i like our fridays." Oscar didn't answer right away. He simply kept looking at you, letting those words linger between you for a few seconds. Our fridays. Not just any night, not simply a movie. Ours.
There was something deeply satisfying about that small choice of words, though you hadn't noticed the weight they carried for him. Oscar liked belonging to your memories. He liked occupying the spaces you associated with safety, comfort, and routine. And he liked it even more knowing that, after all these years, you'd stopped imagining a life that didn't include him.
"Me too," he finally replied, turning his eyes back to the television as if the conversation had ended there.
The movie continued for a few more minutes, accompanied by the quiet comments you made whenever one of the characters made a particularly stupid decision. Oscar replied every now and then, more interested in your voice than in the story, and you ended up laughing whenever he made some dry comment about the script. At some point, without realizing it, you moved a little closer until your shoulder was resting against his arm. Oscar didn't move. He never had to. He'd learned that when he didn't try to pull you closer, you were usually the one who sought out the proximity on your own. It was one of the things he liked most about you. The spontaneity. The way your body seemed to recognize his presence before your mind even thought about it. He remained still, letting you find the most comfortable position, while his eyes absentmindedly followed the television and his attention remained entirely focused on you.
It was halfway through the movie when the atmosphere changed. The music grew quieter, the cinematography took on warmer tones, and the protagonists began moving closer to each other in a way that made it fairly obvious what was about to happen next. You kept watching for a few seconds before realizing, and then a nervous little laugh escaped your lips. Your eyes immediately left the television and found the bowl of popcorn, even though you didn't even seem hungry when you reached for a few pieces. Oscar noticed immediately. He didn't look at the screen, his gaze remained on you, following the blush beginning to appear on your cheeks, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the blanket, and the small, embarrassed smile you were trying to hide. A slow smile appeared on his lips. After all those years, it was still easy. So easy it was almost cruel.
"Do you always get like this whenever a scene like this comes on?" he asked, his voice low and filled with quiet amusement. You hid half your face behind the pillow before answering, trying to pretend you couldn't hear your own heartbeat speeding up.
"I don't." Oscar smiled, "you do." You shook your head, still hiding behind the fabric. "I don't..."
He tilted his head slightly, watching the redness in your face as if confirming an old hypothesis. "You're all red." You huffed softly and finally lowered the pillow, giving him a look that was supposed to seem indignant but ended up looking merely embarrassed. "Stop." Oscar didn't look away, "why?" You pressed your lips together, not knowing how to answer. "Because it's embarrassing."
He let a few seconds pass before asking, with the same irritatingly patient calmness, "what's embarrassing?" You shrugged. "The scene." Oscar glanced quickly at the television and then looked back at you. "It's just a movie." You nodded, "I know."
"Then why are you nervous?" this time, you didn't answer. You simply looked away again, and Oscar waited. There was no need to insist. He knew you well enough to know that silence would do the work for him.
A few seconds later, your voice came out small. "I don't know." His smile almost disappeared, replaced by a more attentive expression. "You do."
You finally looked up. There was something different in Oscar's eyes now. It wasn't exactly curiosity. He seemed too attentive, too focused, as if that small change in your behavior had awakened something he'd been waiting for a long time.
"You never get like this when you're with me," he murmured, moving his face a little closer. You let out another nervous little laugh. "Because you're you." Oscar held your gaze for a few seconds, absorbing the answer as if it were far more important than it should have been. "That explains quite a lot."
You laughed again, but the sound died when he raised his hand and gently brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen across your face. His fingers lingered against your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. There was nothing aggressive about the gesture. It was precisely that softness that kept you from noticing how closely he was watching every reaction you gave him.
"Do you trust me?"
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and you blinked a few times before answering. "Of course." Oscar continued looking at you. "Really?" You nodded, "really."
He let his thumb slowly glide along your cheek. "More than other people?" A small smile appeared on your lips. "You know i do."
He knew. Of course he knew.
He knew because he'd spent years building that answer. He knew because almost everyone who could have occupied that place had disappeared one by one, and he had always remained. He knew because you'd learned to consult Oscar before trusting someone, because you'd learned to look at him whenever something felt wrong, because your own routine had trained you to seek his approval before making important decisions. But hearing you say it was still different.
There was something almost too intimate about hearing you give him that trust without hesitation. Perhaps because you were adults now. You weren't teenagers anymore, sharing secrets at school. You were old enough to choose anyone, to build a life completely separate from his, to meet someone and decide that you wanted to spend every night beside that person. You could do any of those things. And yet, you were there. In his apartment, on his couch, on the friday night that, without even realizing it, you'd learned to think of as belonging to the two of you.
Oscar ran his thumb over your cheek once more before asking, in a low voice, "can i kiss you?"
You remained still for a moment, surprised by the question. Not because you were afraid of him. You never had been. Oscar had made sure of that. The question simply seemed unexpected after so many years in which that boundary had never been crossed. You took a deep breath and nodded.
"You can."
He didn't move immediately. He waited another second, watching your face as if he wanted to make sure you'd truly chosen this. Then he leaned in slowly, closing the distance between you until your lips met in a soft, careful kiss. There was no rush. Oscar knew you far too well to rush. He knew that any sudden movement could turn curiosity into nervousness, so he let the first kiss be simple, almost familiar, as if it were simply another thing the two of you could add to that long list of shared intimacies. When he pulled away, you slowly opened your eyes, breathing a little faster, and a shy little laugh escaped your lips.
"See?" he murmured, still far too close for you to look anywhere else. You frowned slightly, "what?" Oscar smiled. "Nothing scary happened." You shook your head, trying to hide the smile beginning to appear. "You talk like i was scared."
He tilted his head, "you were." "I wasn't." "You were."
You let out a small laugh, "wasn't." Oscar held your gaze for a few more seconds before answering, almost in a whisper, "then prove it."
You stared at him. Oscar didn't move or insist. He didn't ask again. He simply stood there, letting the silence stretch until you closed the distance between you. The second kiss came more naturally, it was still slow and careful, but different from the first. When you pulled away, you stayed close to him, your eyes lowered and a small smile hidden at the corner of your mouth, trying to understand why it felt so strange yet so right. Oscar ran his fingers through your hair, brushing a few strands away from your face.
"If anything makes you uncomfortable, you tell me." You nodded immediately and he smiled. "Promise?"
"Promise."
His thumb returned to caress your cheek, and then he added, almost casually, "good girl." Your heart quickened at the praise, and you looked away, too embarrassed to answer. Oscar noticed. Of course he did, he always noticed, and there wasn't a reaction of yours that could escape him after all those years.
"You trust me, right?" He asked again, even though he already knew the answer. You didn't hesitate. "More than anyone." an almost imperceptible gleam passed through his eyes before his smile returned.
"I know."
The answer came out low, almost satisfied, and Oscar remained looking at you for a few seconds before moving closer again. This time, he didn't ask. He simply touched your face once more and found your lips in a deeper kiss, lingering as if he were discovering something he'd imagined for far too long. You took a few seconds to match his rhythm, still surprised by the sudden intensity, but soon your fingers found his shirt and gripped the fabric between your hands. Oscar noticed the gesture immediately. He noticed everything. The way you held your breath when you were nervous, the way your fingers searched for something to hold when you didn't know what to do, and even the slight tilt of your head when you wanted him to come closer. He knew every one of those reactions before you even knew what they meant.
The kiss grew longer, more insistent, until Oscar finally pulled away a few inches, leaving only enough space between you to breathe. For a brief moment, a thin string of saliva still connected your lips before breaking, and you immediately looked away, feeling your face grow warm. Oscar, on the other hand, didn't seem the slightest bit embarrassed. His eyes remained fixed on your mouth as a slow smile appeared on his lips, as if that small reaction had been exactly what he'd wanted to provoke. His thumb slowly brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away the damp mark left there before moving up to your cheek.
"Are you okay?" He asked, with an almost unsettling calmness. You nodded immediately, still trying to catch your breath.
"Yeah."
Oscar continued watching your face, far too attentive for someone who had just asked out of simple concern. "Are you sure?" You let out a nervous little laugh and finally met his eyes. "I am."
His smile grew just slightly. "Then come here." And before you could think too much about what was happening, his fingers found yours again, gently pulling you closer while that same calm gaze remained fixed on your face. He pulled away from the kiss for only a few seconds, letting his eyes travel over your face before murmuring.
"You're shaking." You immediately tried to deny it, but he smiled. "You are." His hand remained resting on your waist, his thumb making small, absentminded movements over the fabric of your pajamas. "Is it nervousness?" You shrugged, "maybe."
Oscar tilted his head. "Do you want me to stop?"
The question sounded genuine enough that you took a deep breath before answering. "No." He held your gaze for a moment and then smiled. "Okay."
This time, the kiss was slower, longer, and Oscar seemed determined to make you forget completely that there was anything different about that night. To him, this wasn't a sudden change, wasn't a boundary being crossed, but simply the next step in everything he'd built between you over so many years. His hand continued sliding along your arm, following it to your back over the light fabric of your pajamas, while his other hand remained beside your body, keeping him close without ever seeming as though he was holding you there.
He knew that trust because he'd spent years cultivating it. He knew the way you relaxed when you heard his voice, how you reached for his hands when you got nervous, and how you always ended up moving closer whenever he shortened the distance between you. All of it had been built long before that night, brick by brick, until you could no longer distinguish where your own desire ended and where what Oscar had taught you to want began. When you moved closer once again, seeking his lips before he even asked, an almost imperceptible smile appeared against your mouth.
"See?" he murmured, his fingers slowly caressing your waist. "You're the one pulling me closer, my love." You let out a shy little laugh, not realizing the weight of those words, and Oscar took the opportunity to kiss your forehead before looking into your eyes again.
"I'm not making you do anything," he added, with that low, patient voice that always made you believe him. "You're the one asking for it."
And perhaps that was exactly what made everything so easy for him. You really were moving closer, really were seeking his kisses, really were letting him go further, but you didn't realize that Oscar had spent years preparing the path so that, when that moment finally came, any step you took could be used as proof that it had been your choice from the beginning. He didn't need to pressure you. He didn't need to order you. All he had to do was smile, wait, and then give the decision back to you.
"If you want me to stop, I'll stop," he murmured, caressing your face with his thumb. "But it doesn't look like you want me to stop." You shook your head, still embarrassed, and Oscar smiled. "I knew it."
Because, deep down, he'd always known. He'd built the trust, the dependence, and that small sense of security precisely so that, when you finally wanted something from him, you would never think to ask yourself why you wanted it. You would simply believe you'd chosen it on your own.
His body followed yours with deliberate weight, pressing you against the cushions as his lips claimed yours again, more insistent this time, his tongue exploring the warmth of your mouth while one hand slid beneath the hem of your silk top. The fabric whispered against his palm as he smoothed it, his fingers brushing the soft curve of your breast before fully cupping it, his thumb circling the nipple hardening beneath the thin fabric until your breath caught in a soft moan. Your thighs opened instinctively beneath him, the silk of your shorts riding up to reveal the delicate lace of your panties, and Oscar's free hand traced the line of your hip, possessive and unhurried, moving down to press against the heat emanating from your center without yet breaking through the barrier.
He knew exactly where this was going, his cock already throbbing against the soft cotton of his sweatpants, thick and insistent, aching to bury itself in the tight, untouched heat of her vagina, which he'd spent years guiding toward this moment, but he needed more first, needed to watch her come undone beneath his touch.
"You're so fucking gorgeous like this," he murmured against your neck, his voice rough with the hunger he'd kept restrained for so long, his fingers pressing more firmly between your thighs, making slow circles over the damp silk, feeling the subtle pulse of your clitoris through the layers as your hips moved upward in a shy response.
The forgotten moans from the movie blended with your own quiet sighs, your cheeks flushed crimson, your body arching against his as the weight of his control settled over you like a velvet chain, your trust in him blossoming even as doubt flickered at the edges of your mind. Oscar's large hands slid over your back, pulling you closer until you were pinned beneath him on the couch, his body hovering over yours with deliberate weight. The rough fabric of his hoodie brushed against the delicate silk of your pajamas, the contrast deliciously intense as he began moving his hips in slow, deep motions, pressing himself against your center through the layers of fabric.
"Just a little humping, okay?" he murmured against your neck, his teeth grazing your soft skin. "I swear that's all, princess. I just wanna make my babygirl feel good."
You moaned, your fingers burying themselves in his hair as your body instinctively arched to follow his movement, the growing dampness between your thighs soaking through the silk and cotton of your panties, leaving a warm, dark stain he could feel even through his sweatpants. He picked up the pace, the damp fabric creating the perfect friction, every firm movement of his hips bringing you closer to climax, your moans growing louder, more desperate.
"Oscar, please..." you begged, your legs trembling.
"Shhh, i know," he whispered, his hands finding the waistband of your shorts. "Let's take these off, okay? It'll be better."
With practiced ease, he slipped the shorts down your legs and tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but lace panties that were already nearly transparent from how wet they were, and took the opportunity to remove his sweatpants and underwear. He settled you back into place, aligning his hard, throbbing cock against the damp spot.
"See? We're still just humping, sweetheart," he lied, his voice sweet as poisoned honey.
He began moving again, the fabric of your panties rubbing sensually against your entrance, every movement carefully calculated to slide a little farther, press a little deeper. You were so lost in the sensation, so intoxicated by desire, that you didn't notice when the tip of his cock slipped inside you, with only your panties separating him from your unprotected pussy. The movement of his hips was hypnotic, a constant back-and-forth that kept the head of his cock firmly nestled inside you, the damp fabric of your panties forming a thin, abrasive barrier that made every tiny shift feel significant.
"Do you feel it? It's just the fabric, sweetheart," he murmured, lying to you, his warm breath against your temple while his hands held your hips with a firmness that contrasted with the sweetness of his voice. "It's just humping, you're still completely covered."
You swallowed hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and a long, trembling moan escaped your lips when he applied deeper pressure, making the wet fabric fold and give, allowing him to sink another imperceptible millimeter deeper. Confusion and pleasure fought within you, and then you began moving too, a small rotation of your hips that made your eyes close and your mouth fall open in a ragged breath.
"That's it, my princess, just like that," he encouraged, his own face a mask of lustful concentration as he watched every reaction, every tremor, every drop of sweat running down your neck. When he finally slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties and slowly pulled them down, you remained still for a second, the cool air of the room meeting your warm, exposed skin.
"Oscar... we're just humping, right?" you whispered, your eyes wide and vulnerable. He held your gaze without blinking, and the smile that appeared on his lips was one of absolute calm.
"Of course we are, my love. I promise."
He repositioned you, your now completely naked body pressed against his, and then aligned himself again. This time, without the barrier of fabric, the sensation was raw electricity. He began the same grinding motion, his body rubbing against yours, but his tip was perfectly positioned at your entrance, sliding against your swollen, wet folds with every forward movement.
"Please..." you whimpered, your head falling back, no longer knowing what you were asking for.
He picked up the pace, the wet, filthy sound filling the space between you, and then, in a particularly deep roll of his hips, your resistance gave way. His cock slid inside, a smooth and inexorable invasion that brought instant tears to your eyes and drew a muffled groan of triumph from his lips. He stopped immediately, still inside you.
"My god, love... that wasn't what i meant to do," he said, his voice filled with false distress, his dark eyes studying your face as he remained perfectly still, allowing you to feel every inch of his presence. Your inner walls contracted in an involuntary spasm, a warm, pulsing squeeze that made the muscles in his thigh tremble. "I'm sorry, I'll pull out, okay?" He offered, his voice a deceptive whisper.
But instead of withdrawing, his hips moved forward in a small, torturous thrust, burying himself a little deeper. A muffled cry escaped your mouth, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, and you bit down hard on your lower lip, your body arching to take him completely. He was big, thick, and you had no idea how all of that could be inside you, filling you so completely. The silence that followed the small movement was heavy, filled only by the ragged sound of your breathing and the intense throbbing where your bodies were connected. He remained like that, buried in that warm, tight space, watching the tears now rolling freely down your cheeks.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice still gentle, but there was an unmistakable spark of perverse curiosity in it.
You shook your head, unable to form words, the shock of the new sensation quickly being swallowed by a wave of pleasure so deep it left you dizzy. His hands slid from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you even closer against him in a gesture that was both possessive and comforting.
"You're so warm inside," he murmured, as if speaking to himself, his lips finding the salty skin of your neck.
Then, with a calculated patience that was the very essence of manipulation, he began to move. It wasn't a thrust, but a slow, almost agonizing withdrawal, until only his most sensitive tip remained inside you. Then you moaned, a complaint of loss, and your hips twisted to follow him.
"Shhh, slowly," he ordered softly, before sliding inside you again, a little deeper this time.
Every thrust was a study in controlled torture, a physical lie in which he dictated the terms of the 'accident'. The initial resistance had given way, and your body, betraying your confused mind, began to find a rhythm, rising to meet him each time he sank into you. The wet, filthy sound of your union filled the room, louder than any moan from the television. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locked onto yours, drinking in every flicker of ecstasy and confusion.
"You like it, don't you?" he whispered, no longer a question but a statement. "Even though it's an accident... your little body is squeezing me so fucking good."
And you couldn't deny it, only closing your eyes and digging your fingers into his back, your nails marking the cotton of his shirt, while he finally abandoned the pretense and settled into a firm, steady rhythm, filling you completely each time. His rhythm became methodical and deep, every thrust a silent affirmation of the lie he'd planted. You were completely submerged now, loud, continuous moans escaping your throat without shame, your body a taut arch of pure sensation. He watched, fascinated, the sweat running from his chin and falling into the valley between your breasts as they moved with every motion.
"You're taking me whole, princess," he growled, his voice losing some of its artificial sweetness, revealing the raw hunger underneath. His hands moved down to grasp the backs of your thighs, bending you further, opening you wider, changing the angle until you cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and he felt the tightness inside you become almost unbearable.
"Oscar, i don't think i can handle all of this." He slowed his hips again, turning the movements into slow, deep circles that rubbed against something inside you and made your eyes roll back.
"It's just this, remember?" he whispered, his mouth close to your ear, the thick irony now completely discarded. "Just humping. You asked for more, so you're getting more."
You couldn't answer, you could only feel, every nerve in your body set ablaze by this possession you had never known you wanted. He began moving faster, the sound of his thighs striking against your skin echoing through the room, his own breaths becoming ragged, uncontrolled grunts. The orgasm hit you without warning, a breathtaking wave that made you scream Oscar's name, your body trembling violently as your inner contractions wrapped around him in sweet agony. He kept you there, trapped in the whirlwind, his own movements becoming erratic and desperate, until with a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and stopped, his body trembling in release as he emptied himself inside you in hot, endless spurts.
He remained still for a long moment, his heavy breathing brushing against your sweaty neck. Slowly, he pulled out, and the cool air of the room immediately met the warm wetness he had left behind. His dark, intense eyes fixed on the place where your bodies had separated, watching with a lustful fascination as your mixed fluids began to trickle from you, a thick white strand tracing a path along the inner skin of your thigh.
A low sound, almost a growl, escaped his throat. "Look at that," he murmured, his voice rough and possessive. "Look what you did, princess. You got so crazy over this that now you're all marked up."
Before you could process the words, Oscar's thick fingers closed around your hips and he pulled you back with sudden force, aligning himself and pushing inside in one fluid, decisive movement. The surprised cry that escaped your mouth was muffled by the deep groan that came from him as he buried himself in that warmth again, now even wetter and more intimate with the evidence of his pleasure mixed in.
"You asked for it, didn't you?" he whispered, his lips pressed against your ear as he began moving again, slowly and deliberately, claiming every inch. "You begged for more. So now you take it. Take it like a good girl."
The rhythm he established now was relentless, a raw assertion of dominance. There was no longer any pretense of an accident, only the brute force of his hips striking against yours, the wet, filthy sound of your bodies joining filling the air. Every thrust seemed deeper, as if he were trying to seal his mark even further inside you. Your moans became broken and breathless, and you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, your already overstimulated body responding with involuntary spasms to every new invasion. He watched you lose control, a satisfied, wicked smile touching his lips as he brought you to the edge again, proving to himself that you really could endure everything he gave you.
His hips didn't slow, only adapted, turning into a series of long, deep thrusts that kept you suspended in a constant state of near-climax. The release still warm inside you served as a cruel lubricant, allowing him to slide with obscene ease, every movement a physical reminder of the possession he'd claimed.
"You're all open for me now," he growled, his voice rough against your skin. "All stretched out and full. That's what you wanted, right? To feel all of this."
His hands gripped your hips so tightly that they were sure to leave bruises, guiding you to meet each of his thrusts, teaching your body the rhythm he demanded. You couldn't form coherent words, only broken sounds, moans, and whispers of 'Oscar' that seemed to fuel his fury. Oscar changed positions, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap, your spine arching as you sank onto him, taking him even deeper in the new position.
"This is better, you being in control," he lied, his hands firm around your waist, dictating every rise and fall. "Show me how much you can take."
Your eyes were glazed over, filled with tears of ecstasy and exhaustion, as you moved over him, your body quickly learning to seek its own pleasure even within that torturous game. He watched, hypnotized, the movement of your breasts, the contraction of your abdominal muscles, the expression of complete abandon on your face.
The second time he brought you to climax was more of a surrender than an explosion, a long, deep tremor that left you collapsing against his chest, your insides pulsing in endless waves around him. He held you there, his own movements becoming short and urgent, until, with a hoarse groan, he held you in place and came again, this time more deeply, as if he were trying to impregnate you with the very essence of his lie. He remained inside you for a while, his breathing gradually slowing, one hand coming up to brush the sweat-dampened hair away from your face.
Your breathing was still ragged, an uneven, wet rhythm against his chest. He didn't move for a long time, simply feeling you trembling in his arms, your essence slowly trickling between you. With a sigh that feigned exhaustion, he finally pulled out, the wet sound making you shudder. Unhurriedly, he got up from the couch, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before returning with a warm, damp washcloth. He knelt in front of you, where you were still lying there, exhausted and exposed. With a gentleness that brutally contrasted with the force of minutes before, he began cleaning your face, running the soft cloth over your swollen eyelids and tear-streaked cheeks.
"You looked beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice a hypnotic whisper. "All undone because of what we did. You asked for so much, remember? You were begging." His hand moved through your tangled hair in a gesture that seemed genuine. He cleaned your thighs with the same meticulous care, gathering the physical evidence of his possession. "It was a lot, I know. But you took it so well, my princess. Like a good girl. You always know exactly what you want from me, even when you're too shy to ask."
He wrapped you in the blanket that had been draped over the arm of the couch, bundling you up as though you were something precious and fragile. He pulled you onto his lap, sitting down and gently rocking you.
"No one will ever make you feel like this, only me," he whispered against the top of your head, his fingers tracing patterns along your back through the fabric. "You're my best friend. I'm the only one who understands you, the only one who knows how to take care of you afterward. You belong to me like this now, you know?" He kissed your forehead, a sweet, poisonous gesture. "And you loved every second of it. You don't have to be ashamed with me. I'll always be here to give you what you really want." He held you closer, his embrace a tight knot of twisted affection, planting the seed that this confusion, this use, was actually the purest proof of love and understanding you'd ever find
Synopsis:: Lando doesn’t tell reader that he’s live with Keegan and she walks in the background of the live and Lando gets a bit too touchy for other people’s eyes.
Pairing:: Lando x fem!reader
“LAN” the woman shouted as she walked across the boat trying to find her boyfriend. As She walked across the deck and made her way to the kitchen where she heard the most ruckus. She was met with the sight of Keegan and lando apparently cosplaying as bartenders. She should’ve knew that something was up when Keegan kept talking to a phone and reading off of it. But no, she is never that lucky when lando is involved, like ever. “Hi pretty girl” Lando said as he walked across the deck to pull her into his arms. “Why’d you get out of bed so early this morning?” She asked him as she gets on her tippy toes to reach his lips for a kiss. Just as the kiss connects she hears Keegan call Lando back over to finish helping him mix cocktails.
WHEN Lando is helping Keegan mix cocktails he held a pina colada out to the woman and said “try this baby” Completely forgetting that he was infact on live. When she reached for the drink he pulled her into the him and also synonymously pulling her into the cameras view. As she was drinking the cocktail Lando made her she began to feel landos hands around her midriff. And his chin resting on her shoulder. “Baby you’re live” she spoke as she began to feel landos hands drift lower and lower. “I know that” he responded as he began answering the chats messages.
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