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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

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Changing the Game

platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same

The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.

His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.

He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.

A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.

He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.

As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.

Sponsors.

Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.

He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.

“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.

The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”

The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”

Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”

“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”

“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.

His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.

But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.

Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.

“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”

Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.

“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”

You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.

“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.

“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.

“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”

“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”

You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.

There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”

“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”

“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.

“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”

You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”

And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.

***

The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.

The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.

Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.

“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.

When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.

“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.

“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.

“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”

Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”

Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.

The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.

Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”

You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.

“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”

Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.

“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”

You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”

Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”

Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.

“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.

Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”

You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.

“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”

You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.

“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.

Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”

You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.

Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.

"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."

***

It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.

You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.

“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”

Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”

You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.

As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.

Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.

“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.

The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.

“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”

“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.

You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.

“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”

He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”

You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.

The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.

“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”

You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.

Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.

Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”

You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.

Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”

You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”

You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.

You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”

You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.

Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”

Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.

“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”

You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.

But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”

Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”

You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.

Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”

***

The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.

Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.

You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.

“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”

The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.

You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.

You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.

Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.

Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”

“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”

You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.

“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”

You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”

Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”

You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”

“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”

There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.

You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”

The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”

Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”

You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”

The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.

“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”

You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.

“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”

Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.

“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”

You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”

You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”

Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”

You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.

***

The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.

He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”

You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”

Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.

Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”

“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”

Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”

You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”

Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”

You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.

Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”

You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”

“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.

The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.

“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”

You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”

You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”

And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.

As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.

Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.

Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.

The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.

As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”

The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.

Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.

When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”

You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”

Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”

You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.

As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you

***

Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.

To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.

He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.

On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.

Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.

The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.

“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”

Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”

You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”

Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”

You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.

“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”

Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”

Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”

You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”

Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”

Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”

Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.

Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”

Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.

“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.

Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”

You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.

“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”

Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”

Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”

You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.

“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”

You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”

Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”

The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.

By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.

As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”

Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”

You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.

Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."

***

The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.

Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.

You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.

As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.

Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.

You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”

“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”

You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”

Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”

“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.

Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.

You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”

He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?

Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”

Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”

You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.

He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”

You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.

“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”

“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”

As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.

And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.

***

The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.

In your rookie season.

The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.

The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.

“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”

A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.

As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.

But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.

You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.

You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”

He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.

When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.

“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.

He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”

You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.

Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.

Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”

For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.

“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”

You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.

“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”

It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …

Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.

“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.

Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”

The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.

You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”

Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”

You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.

Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”

As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.

Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.

As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.

“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”

He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”

And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.

***

The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.

Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.

He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.

“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.

“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”

A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.

“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”

He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”

You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.

“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.

Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”

His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.

“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”

You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.

“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.

He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”

He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”

There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.

“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.

Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”

He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”

You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.

“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”

The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.

Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.

“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”

He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.

“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”

He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.

The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.

By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.

As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.

After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”

You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”

He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”

You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”

Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”

His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”

***

The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.

He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.

Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”

You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”

Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”

You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”

Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.

“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”

“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.

Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”

As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.

“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”

Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.

You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”

Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”

You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.

Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”

You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”

“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”

You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.

He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.

“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”

With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”

Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.

As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.

He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.

Make them remember your name.

The lights go out, and the race begins.

***

The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.

Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.

You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.

“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”

Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.

“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”

“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”

“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.

The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.

A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”

You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.

“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.

The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.

Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”

He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.

Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”

“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.

You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”

Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.

You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.

“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.

But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.

He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.

“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.

Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”

You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”

“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”

The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.

“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.

The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”

You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”

Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”

You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.

“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”

“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”

***

Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.

“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”

Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.

“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”

Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.

You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”

Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”

The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.

Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.

“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”

Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”

“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”

Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”

“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”

You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”

Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.

But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”

You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”

You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.

As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.

***

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.

Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.

Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.

As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”

“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”

The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”

There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”

Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.

The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.

Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.

The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.

The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.

When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”

For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.

“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”

“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.

As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”

***

The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.

As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.

It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.

He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It’s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.

You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.

“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”

He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.

“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”

You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”

For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.

The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.

“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.

You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”

Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.

“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.

You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”

Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.

“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.

“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.

“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”

He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”

Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”

You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.

As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.

Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”

Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.

This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.

This is his greatest achievement.

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heavenlybodies333 · 1 month ago

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Study Buddy -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You’re going to fail. Again.

You already feel the burn of it in your chest when you drop your pencil for the third time and let your head hit the kitchen table with a dull thud.

“Don’t cry,” Spencer says, sitting across from you with a soft smile. “That’s statistically proven to ruin your retention rate.”

You groan. “I hate statistics.”

“That’s not a healthy mindset.”

“I’ve taken this class three times.”

“And you’ll pass it this time.”

“Why? Because you’re here?”

He raises a brow. “Yes?” You glare at him. He laughs. But he softens almost immediately, reaching out to tap the top of your notebook gently. “Look. You’re not dumb. You just panic when numbers stop behaving like words. You need muscle memory. You need to trust the patterns.”

“You sound like you’re flirting with a math problem.”

He grins, almost proud. “I am.” You groan again, but this time you manage a smile too.

You hate that your dad asked him to help. You hate that it’s the one favor you didn’t have the energy to say no to. Because now Spencer’s here every night, giving you soft praise and patient corrections—looking at you like you’re not a walking disappointment.

Spencer slides your pencil back toward you with two fingers. It bumps your wrist. You stare at it like it’s a weapon. “You’re going to pass,” he says again, voice calm. Certain. “You just need to get out of your own way.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does your therapist also make you flash cards and bring you pastries from that overpriced bakery on 9th?”

You glance at the croissant on the corner of your notebook and shrug. “Not lately.”

He smiles again—God, that gentle, knowing smile—and says, “Try this one. And this time, don’t second guess yourself.”

You look down at the formula he’s written out. You walk through it slowly, out loud like he taught you. Your hands shake less now. You write the answer down and look up, heart thudding. He doesn’t check the paper. He just looks at you and nods. “Correct.”

You light up instantly, so relieved you almost cry again—but for a different reason. “That’s the first one I got right tonight,” you breathe.

“Yep. And it won’t be the last.”

Your chest aches in a different way now. Because he looks so proud. Like he always does. Like he’s the only person who sees you trying and not failing. You want to kiss him. You really, really want to kiss him. “Spencer,” you say, soft. His name lands a little too warm between you. He meets your gaze, cautious now. His voice lowers. “Yeah?”

Your fingers curl around the pencil. “Can we take a break?”

He nods, already reaching for your water. “Yeah, okay. Ten minutes?”You shake your head. “No.” You push your notebook aside. “I mean a real break.”

He freezes, catching the edge in your tone. You stand up slowly and walk around the table. Your fingers trail along the surface until you’re beside him. You sink to your knees between his legs. He looks down at you, breath caught. “Are you—”

“You said I need muscle memory,” you whisper, hands sliding up his thighs. “Let’s build some.”

His eyes flutter shut. “Your dad asked me to help you study.”

“And you are,” you murmur. “You’re very good with your fingers.”

He exhales sharply, head tilting back as your fingers find the button of his pants. “This is wildly irresponsible.”

You blink slowly. “This is what I want.” That’s all it takes. His mouth is on yours before the words have fully settled in the air. He kisses you hard and low, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound, tugging you up off the floor and into his lap like he can’t bear to be apart for a second longer.

Your thighs straddle his. His hands slide up beneath your shirt—warm palms against warmer skin, lifting and learning and memorizing you in real time, breath hitching while he kisses down your neck and slowly works his hand beneath the waistband of your leggings.

“What’s the formula for standard deviation?”

You gasp as his fingers drag through your wetness, teasing. “I—fuck—you’re evil.”

“Answer correctly and I’ll make you come,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. You whimper.

“You said you needed incentives.”

You try to focus. Try to pull the answer from the recesses of your brain while his fingers slide in, curling just right. He moans softly against your ear. “Say it.”

“Square root of the variance,” you pant. “It’s the square root of the variance.”

“Smart girl.” he breathes, kissing the inside of your thigh again like a reward.

“Now,” he whispers, fingers slipping deeper, “what are the 3 formulas for non-Linear regression?”

You whimper. He plays with your slick, watching your face melt. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You know this. Exponential, logarithmic and?”

You moan instead of answering, and he grins, mouth at your jaw. “Wrong. Try again.”

You half-laugh, half-plead. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your tutor,” he says, punctuating it with another slow thrust of his fingers. “And this is positive reinforcement.” Your breathing picks up, but before either of you can take it any further, you hear a noise in the hallway.

You freeze. Spencer pulls back, eyes wide, a slight panic flashing across his face. You both scramble to straighten up, pretending like you weren’t just about to cross a line you never intended to—but both of you wanted to.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Spencer’s voice is low. “We should… talk about this.”

You nod, quickly fixing your hair. “Yeah. Later.”

But the truth is, both of you know it’s only a matter of time before you both cross that line. And when you do, it’s going to be anything but casual.

a/n: Spencer Reid x hotch’s daughter is my Roman Empire

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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iloveaustinelvisandmannymore · 2 months ago

Text

Don't save me.

Pairing: Geum Seongje x reader.

Summary: People told you that he was dangerous. A wild card. Not to be trusted. The redist red flag but didn't they know you're colorblind for him?

Warning: Toxic relationship, Bullying, Violence, Cheating?Arguing, Verbal abuse, Choking, Cream pie, P in v, Dirty talk, Plot with Smut?

You can't recall the last time you felt truly and undeniably happy. It has been so long since you laughed so hard that your stomach ached or smiled so broadly that your cheeks hurt. It's been a while since you experienced that exhilarating feeling of euphoria.

Middle school, you think.

Faint memories of laughter and jokes circulating, untouched lunches, and that once warm sensation. High school. Little you thought how cool and wonderful it would be.

What a load of bullshit.

A pained grunt escaped your clenched teeth as a strong kick to your stomach sent your body crashing against the steel gray lockers. Your head struck hard against the metal, and your body crumpled to the floor.

"Are you going to open that smart-ass mouth again, or should I just keep going?" Ha-yoon's makeup-caked face sneered. You didn't know why you snorted back a chuckle nor why a small, sarcastic smile had crept onto your lips.

"You think this is funny?" she screeched, her hand rearing back.

"Ha-yoon, cut it out," Eun-kyung's angelic voice said as her dark eyes finally glanced up from her manicured nails. She pushed off the wall, and Ha-yoon backed away immediately.

'Just like a loyal puppy. Obeying her Mistress's order'

Eun-Kyung sighed through her nose like she was tired of wasting her time. She squatted down, allowing her silky raven hair, which was pulled into a ponytail, to fall over her shoulder. With her elbows resting against her thighs and her cheek resting on the ball of her fist, she gazed at you with a look of boredom and disinterest.

"You're fucking pathetic when you run that mouth. It almost seems you like pissing me off." Rage flicked through her irises as she quickly grabbed your hair and slammed your head against the lockers. "Unless cunt!" She yelled and slammed your head again, harder.

Your vision blurred and your ears rang. Black surrounded the edge of your vision before you passed out. Cruel laughter and fading footsteps were the last thing you heard.

When you came too and began to walk to your small apartment, your head ached and throbbed. Despite that, it was manageable if you took some pain medicine.

You were going out with Seongje, your long-time boyfriend, at a new club with some guys from the Union and you won't let a headache and a few stupid bruises stop you from seeing him. Being with him made you feel so alive; with him, you were respected by the gang. You were Seongje's girl. And nobody was foolish enough to mess with you unless they wanted to be beaten to half to death.

Dating him wasn’t always a smooth ride. Arguments were common, and so were screaming matches. Things were thrown, and surfaces were punched, but he never hit you, nor did he aim at you. You understood he wasn’t a good person, yet he loved you in his own flawed way.

The dark club pulsed with music, and you could feel the rhythm with every step you took as Seongje led you, his arm draped casually over your shoulders. Flashing lights danced wildly around the room. Bodies moved, jumping and grinding against each other.

The group chose a round table to sit at, and soon it was cluttered with cigarette ash and empty bottles.

Sang-Ook, Dae-Ho, and Du-Ho were boys who attended the same school as Seongje and played together at Internet cafes. The twins were already drunk, laughing to themselves, and talking to Sang-Ook about which woman he was going to try to fuck and making crude jokes. Normal gross boy talk.

Seongje didn't say much; instead, he stared blankly while listening to the other boys, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You weren't interested in their conversation, so you simply snuggled into his side. You didn't know why he wanted to be there, but you followed him wherever he went unless it was related to gang activities.

Your eyebrows furrowed; the sudden pressure on your bladder was becoming too strong to ignore.

"Seongje," you whispered in his ear. He responded with a low hum of curiosity, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly with the sound. After a moment of hesitation, you shyly admitted that you needed to use the bathroom. Seongje chuckled, pulled out his favorite pack of cigs from his tiger-printed windbreaker, and lifted one to his lips, "Go," he ordered, nodding toward the direction of the bathroom.

"I'll be right back." You quickly got out of the booth. "Better. I don't like waiting." He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled the gray smoke into his lungs.

You sighed in relief as you exited the stall and turned on the sink water. As you washed your hands, you remained unfazed by the sounds of the bathroom door opening and the clicking of two pairs of heels on the tiled floor. The two women giggled among themselves, and you could feel their intense stares directed at the side of your face. While drying your hands, you glanced at the wide mirrors above the sink.

A sickening dread dropped into the pit of your stomach as you caught sight of the familiar coral dye and blue highlights. Ha-yoon and Seo-Yeon.

'How were they here? Did they know you were going to be here? If they were here, doesn't that mean..'

You dared to meet Ha-yoon's gaze in the mirror. A mischievous cruelty sparkled back; she knew something, and if you didn't feel dread before, you certainly did now. Your breath quicked as you rushed out of the woman's bathroom.

You need to grab Seongje and go.

You stopped a few feet from the booth. This had to be a dream, a messed-up nightmare, but the painful shattering of your heart told you this was all happening.

Eun-kyung's honeyed giggles cut through the roaring music. Her black hair flowed over her shoulders like a river, her skimmy pastel dress fit her like a second skin and her soft pink lips curled into a flirty smile that beamed brighter than the lights that painted her and Seongje in rosy red as she idly played with his sliver chain—the chain you got him.

He simply sat there, his arm resting on the top of the booth above Eun-Kyung, his eyes intensely focused on her. His expression was unreadable, and when her beautiful eyes met his, you couldn't bear it any longer. You choked back tears as you pushed and squeezed past the people having the time of their lives.

You sniffed, your legs aching from the many rounds of walking you did in the nearby park for almost an hour. You didn't want to go home immediately; too much of him was there, from the many nights he stayed over.

You wiped the fading tears from your cheeks as you bent slightly to take off your shoes, throwing them down carelessly. Dragging your feet toward the couch, you paused and squinted your eyes. A figure was sitting there, a small red dote appeared from the darkness and the following smoke floated out in the illumination of the kitchen light. You inhale sharply and switch the living room light on.

Seongje stared at the blank TV screen for what felt like several seconds before adjusting his glasses. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, and his eyes fixed on your face. To anyone else, he appeared cool and unbothered, but you knew him better than that.

He was enraged.

"Where were you?" He leaned forward to put out his cigarette. "Why does it matter? You clearly were very busy when I came back from the bathroom." you shot back, your words sharp. He paused at your pointed response before finally extinguishing his cigarette in the wolf-shaped ashtray. "You let her..you let her touch you..and you didn't tell her to back off. Did you enjoy her company that much?" you asked, your voice breaking at the thought of the two of them together.

"You think I'd cheat on you? I may be a lot of things but a fucking cheater Isn't one of them." He spoke in a faux calm tone as he backed you into the hallway and into your bedroom.

"S-Seongje.." You warned.

"I thought My girl wasn't a dumbass." He ridiculed, a cruel smile stretching on his lips as he backed you more and more towards your bed

"Don't call me dumb! I'm not stupid! You jackass!" you snapped before letting out a surprised noise as you fell onto your bed, trying to escape from him. "Oh no, baby," he cooed mockingly. "I work with incompetent, useless punks. You're stupid if you think I would cheat on you with some one-and-million whore. Don't worry, though. I'll show you who I really belong to." Seongje shrugged off his windbreaker, letting it fall to the floor, and crept onto the bed after kicking off his pants and underwear.

You should be mad, pissed at him, shouldn't feel your treacherous cunt heat up, and gush slick but watching as he took off his shirt and threw it to the side, bare except his glasses and his chain. He was lean, and muscular in ways that counted, and his cock. His dick twitched as if sensing your admiring gaze.

He was above average length, so thick it struggled to stand up completely, and veiny. The glans was a darker shade than the rest of his skin; the slit oozed a pearl of pre-cum. And a trimmed bush around the base of his dick. His member was just as fine as him.

You happily helped him take off your clothes until you were both as naked as the day you were born. Seongje smirked smugly, the bedroom look you gave him made him want to take you right there but the urge to tease you won over. Seongje wrapped his arms around your spread legs and pulled your ass on top of his thighs. His dick slid between your folds, coating himself in your wetness, and the tip rested on your bud; he drew back and snapped forward, giving himself a pussy job.

"Just fuck me!" You cried as he continued to fuck your lips and clitoris. "I don't know. Should I?" He questioned. You cried, frustrated, and bucked your hips to try and fail to trick him inside, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I accused you of cheating. Now fuck my brains out!" You screamed; Seongje simply hummed a 'good enough,' drew back until his cock head caught on your entrance, and he rolled his hips.

You both let a groan as he pushed into your tight, wet, gummy depths. The action alone was close enough to make you cum. His cock, lay heavy on your walls, and his veins brushed against those spots until he bottomed out. You grabbed his hands that gripped your hips and threw your head back, moaning loudly as he pulled out and slammed into you, "Can't believe, you think I'd give up this pussy," He grunted, thrusting harshly, the bed banging against the back wall "this is my fucking pussy. Mine." He growled pushing his hair away from his face before grabbing your neck, his fingers squeezing the side of your throat.

You gasped and moaned as you held his wrist, your eyes rolled back, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-" you blabbed, drooling. Seongje laughed meanly, his eyes shined amused "Look at this. Did I already fucked my girl cockdrunk?" He released your throat and lifted your hips up more, making him reach deeper; the loud clapping of skin, the moans, groans, and cures along the embarrassing squelching of your cunted filled the room. Seongje's glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and his chain smacked against his sweat, glistening chest. Frustrated, he tore the glasses off his face, tossed them beside your head, and leaned down, his body covering yours. His large groped and knead your ass as he kissed you passionately. You wailed into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as you cummed.

Seongje pulled back, grunted as his eyes flutter shut, his hips slamming into your hips, his fast pace because sloppy as his dick twitched. He grunted one more time as his hot cum spilled into your pulsing pussy, painting you white from the inside.

"You were meant to be mine.." Seongje spoke up after you both cleaned up and laid together. Your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat lull you to sleep, "We were meant to be" he whispered into your ear, your eyes finally closing. If this was a dream from your otherwise miserable life you didn't want to wake up.

#weak hero geum seong je #weak hero class two smut #weak hero class two #weak hero kdrama #geum seongje smut #geum seong je x reader #seongje x reader

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chvoswxtch · 1 year ago

Text

let's play

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader x derek morgan x spencer reid

summary: sharing is caring, afterall.

warnings: once again, every single one of them. swearing, spencer whimpering, daddy hotch, derek morgan's blinding charming ass smile, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: the highly requested and anticipated sequel to slumber party has arrived. once again, there is no plot, bc none of you came here for that. you don't have to read part one to understand this installment, but it is highly encouraged. please enjoy this lil valentine's treat from me to you. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

Before Hotch or Derek even had a chance to step foot into Spencer’s hotel room, Spencer had kicked it shut behind himself after ushering you inside. The two men exchanged looks of confusion, glancing between each other and the closed door in front of them. Derek held his bag by the handles over his shoulder in one hand, and when he went to twist the knob on the door, it was locked. He raised his fist to lightly knock against the door.

“Hey Reid-”

“Come back in an hour.”

Derek’s ebony brows instantly pinched together, and he tossed Hotch an incredulous look over his shoulder.

“What’d he just say?”

Hotch’s permanent scowl abruptly returned to his sharp features as he stepped forward, raising his fist to pound harshly against the door.

“Reid, open this door, now.”

“In an hour.”

Derek let out a scoff, dropping his bag onto the floor with a loud thud.

“What happened to sharing, pretty boy?”

“We will, in fifty-nine minutes.”

Spencer’s voice was somewhat muffled through the thickness of the door, and it sounded far away, like he was deeper inside the room. Before either of them could say another word, a loud moan suddenly sounded from inside that clearly belonged to you. Hotch clenched his jaw while Derek stepped forward with an expression of pure irritation.

“Reid, either you open this door, or I’m kicking it down so help me-”

Hotch placed his palm against Derek’s chest and gave a slight shake of his head. Without another word, Hotch reached into his pocket and produced a room key, and in one swipe, a click followed by a flashing green light signaled that the door was unlocked. Hotch twisted the knob and pushed the door open, stepping into the room with Derek hot on his heels.

Spencer’s head perked up from between your thighs at the abrupt intrusion, his lips and chin already glistening with your arousal, and a concoction of puzzlement and vexation knit his brows together.

“How-”

Hotch held up his right hand with the key card nestled between his index and middle finger, arching one of his thick brows in a pointed expression.

“You think I don’t have a master key to each of my agent’s rooms for emergency purposes?”

While on his knees in front of the bed with his hands clamped firmly around your soft thighs, Spencer stared at the key in Hotch’s hand as if it had personally wronged him. He hadn’t planned for that. He had planned on having you all to himself for an hour before he had to share.

“Son of a bitch.”

Derek’s mouth instantly parted into an amused tooth bearing grin at Spencer’s outburst of realization, and he chuckled while crossing his arms over his chest, causing his light gray t-shirt to stretch over his firm chest and large biceps.

“Nothing like a pretty girl to slice that genius IQ right in half. Isn’t that right, baby girl?”

Raising up on your elbows on the bed, you glanced over at Derek with a faint smirk as you arched one of your brows in a teasing gesture.

“I don’t know what you’re getting cocky about. He’s the one with the eidetic memory of the female anatomy and what I like.”

“Oh it’s like that, huh? Do I need to remind you who in this room has the most practice with female anatomy? Cause I seem to remember you feeling pretty satisfied on the jet earlier.”

Slipping your hand down into the mess of light brown curls on top of Spencer’s head, you gave his hair a gentle tug to guide his mouth back to where you wanted it, a silent command he happily obliged. Feeling the warmth of Spencer’s wet tongue starting to glide slowly over your clit again, you laid back against the mattress once more and closed your eyes while a soft sigh emitted from your parted lips.

“A little refresher course never hurt anyone. Take a seat, boys. Dr. Reid is giving an oral presentation.”

Whatever argument Hotch or Derek had quickly died on their tongues as they became entranced watching Spencer sensually and slowly eat your pussy from his spot on his knees at the edge of the bed. The four of you had spent the past twelve hours since the jet landed making your rounds at the police station, visiting the scene of the crime, and the medical examiner’s office before Hotch finally decided it was time to check into the hotel. All of you were beyond exhausted, but none of you could stop thinking about what was going to happen the second the four of you were finally alone together.

There had been a buzzing energy surrounding the four of you since you stepped off the jet with the promise of more in the back of everyone’s minds.

As much as their hands were itching to touch you, Hotch and Derek couldn’t tear their eyes away from the enticing show taking place in front of them. The way your body writhed gently against the mattress, the rhythm of your hips rolling back and forth against Spencer’s face like a delicate ocean tide, the soft and hedonistic noises of pleasure that rose in volume and pitch as Spencer devoured you like a man on death row savoring his last meal.

“At least we found a way to shut him up.”

Hotch softly grinned at Derek’s quiet quip while reaching up to loosen the knot on his tie completely, slipping it from around his neck.

“Silver lining. Help her get more comfortable, would you?”

Derek grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it carelessly behind himself. As soon as his belt was unbuckled, he kicked off his shoes and pushed his jeans down to his ankles to step out of them, leaving him in a white pair of briefs that were already bulging from his half hard cock.

“Way ahead of you.”

Taking a few steps over towards the large bed, Derek moved to sit on his knees right behind your head and leaned forward to grab the bottom of your dress that was bunched up around your hips. He pulled it upwards to slip it off of you, leaving you completely exposed. The cool temperature in the room quickly had your nipples rising to stiff peaks, and you shivered when Derek’s large and warm hands began to squeeze your breasts firmly. Letting your eyes flutter open, you stared up into Derek’s deep and warm chocolate brown eyes as he flashed you that charming grin that never failed to make you weak in the knees.

“Reid putting his mouth to good use?”

Sinking your top teeth into your bottom lip, you arched your back slightly off the mattress and moaned in response as Spencer trapped your clit between his soft lips and began to suck fervently. In return, you gave his hair a rough tug which had a moan of his own vibrating against your soaked cunt. The vibrations echoed throughout your trembling thighs, and your stomach felt tight with anticipation for what was coming, and what would follow afterwards.

Derek toyed with your sensitive nipples, alternating between flicking his thumbs over them, rolling them between his thumb and index finger, and pinching gently. He leaned over you, teasingly gliding his tongue in a languid circle around your hardened nub before sucking it into his mouth and biting down gently, causing you to tug harder at Spencer’s unruly roots. The combination of the stimulation from Derek and Spencer was almost too much, and it had you barreling towards euphoria quickly.

Opening your eyes, you were immediately drawn to the sight of Hotch sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, watching intently while a haze of lust darkened his eyes to the deepest shade you had ever seen them. He was still fully dressed in his suit, but he held his tie tightly in his right hand, and a jolt of excitement rushed through your nervous system.

“Who’s that for?”

Hotch lifted his gaze from Spencer’s head between your thighs to meet your eyes, and a wicked smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“Now if I told you, that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

Oh.

Hotch was in the mood to play.

The more comfortable the four of you got with your little arrangement, the more everyone started to see the real version of one another in the bedroom. Out of the three men, Hotch was by far the most dominant, and enjoyed being in complete control, which wasn’t really a surprise to anyone. But the fetishes that lurked beneath the surface did catch you off guard from time to time.

Derek wasn’t too keen on being tied up, unless you talked him into it on rare occasions, so you and Spencer were usually the object of Hotch’s bondage fantasies. You didn’t realize you would enjoy being completely at someone else’s mercy so much, but with Hotch, you found it incredibly erotic. Everything he did was to maximize your pleasure. He may have liked being in control, but out of the three of them, he definitely took the cake for being a giver.

The second Spencer gently grazed his teeth over your sensitive clit, your orgasm unexpectedly crashed over you without warning, and your body seized up while repetitive cries of pleasure tore through your chest. Gripping the sheets so hard in your fists your knuckles turned stark white, you tried to weakly pull away from Spencer’s delectable assault on your overstimulated clit, but Derek held your hips down firmly so that Spencer could continue to ravenously collect every drop you had to offer.

The line between pleasure and pain was beginning to blur, and relief only came when Hotch grabbed Spencer by his hair and tugged his head backwards before pulling him up to his feet. Spencer’s pupils were completely blown open with lust, and his lips were somewhat swollen as they glistened with the burst of gratification he had wrung from you. He was lightly panting trying to catch his own breath.

“That’s enough.”

“But I-”

“You get to fuck her when I say you can. Understood?”

Spencer’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, one of his physical tells that he was aroused and trying to contain himself. He swallowed thickly and nodded his head in silent obedience. The deep and calm tone of Hotch’s voice was laced with a delicate warning, letting all three of you know that there was no room for debate regarding who was in control tonight.

You didn’t call him “Daddy of the BAU” for nothing.

“Yes sir.”

Releasing his grip on Spencer’s hair, Hotch grabbed onto the back of his neck instead and pulled him in to kiss him deeply, swiping his tongue along Spencer’s bottom lip and biting it roughly while humming in appreciation at the taste of you that lingered. A low growl sounded from deep within Hotch’s chest as he let go of Spencer.

“Good boy. Get undressed and switch places with Morgan.”

While Derek and Spencer swapped places, you moved to sit up on wobbly knees, and Hotch stepped forward to capture your jaw in his large hand, his ring and pinky finger resting along your neck against your pulse point to feel the thrum of your pounding heartbeat. His thumb brushed along your bottom lip lightly, and a flash of pure lust eclipsed over his darkened eyes when you wrapped your lips around it and pressed your tongue firmly against the pad of his thumb. He bent down to where your noses were just barely an inch apart.

“Do you think you could handle two of us at once, sweetheart?”

Your eyes instantly lit up at the question. Normally they all took turns with you, or one fucked you while you sucked another off. You had only taken two of them at once twice before, and while it caused a lingering ache for the following days after, it was absolutely worth it. Nodding your head eagerly, Hotch let out a dark chuckle as a crooked grin split across his lips.

“Good girl.”

Tearing his gaze away, Hotch looked at Derek and tossed him the tie that was in his hand, gesturing with his head towards Spencer’s direction.

“I want his hands tied to the bed.”

Derek turned to look down at Spencer with an amused smirk, taking a step closer towards the edge of the bed as he straightened out the tie in his hands.

“You heard ‘em, pretty boy. Lemme see those hands.”

Spencer let out a whine of protest, turning his head to look at Hotch with a pleading expression, but Hotch gave a firm shake of his head while slipping his jacket off of his broad shoulders and down his arms.

“You follow the rules, you get what you want. You act like a brat, you get treated like one. Next time, you open the door when I tell you to. Give Morgan your hands.”

While Derek slipped the fabric around Spencer’s wrists in an intricate labyrinth to bind them together and tied them to the headboard with Hotch’s tie, Hotch took his time unbuttoning his dress shirt. You watched over your shoulder as Derek expertly weaved the tie around Spencer’s wrists with a soft pout on your lips.

“Don’t think I forgot about you.”

Before you had a moment to process the sound of Hotch unbuckling his belt, he grabbed your hips and twisted your body around to face Spencer, and just as quickly pulled your arms behind your back. Grabbing your wrists in one of his large hands, Hotch slipped the leather of his belt around them to secure your wrists together tightly. Your lips parted in surprise while you gazed down at Spencer below you. His arms were raised above his head, wrists crossed one over the other and bound to the headboard by Hotch’s black tie, the pupils of his eyes blown so wide they nearly obscured the hazel ring of his irises.

Your eyes fell to the sight of his hard cock, fully erect and standing proud to attention, the swollen tip a deep shade of rose and glossed over with weeping arousal. You could see the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten as you noticed him very tenuously flexing his hips upwards against nothing in search of friction.

“He looks pretty like this, doesn’t he?”

Hotch whispered lowly in your ear, the warmth of his breath against your delicate skin causing you to shudder in response and arch your back subtly.

“Yes.”

“Tell him.”

Staring down directly into Spencer’s eyes, a soft whimper caught in your throat while a fresh tide of arousal leaked between your thighs.

“You look so pretty like this, Spence.”

Hotch’s rough hands firmly gripped onto your hips as he pressed his bare chest flush against your back. You could feel his hard cock pressing against your lower back, and you instinctively pushed your ass back against him which caused him to dig his blunt nails into your soft flesh.

“Behave.”

Hotch quietly hissed between clenched teeth. Brushing your hair off your bare shoulder, he nuzzled his nose against the column of your neck and took your earlobe between his teeth, biting down roughly before gliding his tongue along the shell of your ear. A quiet shuddering breath slipped past your lips, and you could feel Hotch grin against your neck.

“Now, listen closely. I want you to ride Spencer while I fuck you from behind, and I want you to open that pretty mouth nice and wide to take Derek’s cock. Understood?”

Derek reached out to cradle your jaw in his large hand, gently tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb as he leaned in and pressed a teasing kiss right beneath your ear, whispering in a sultry voice.

“Think you can handle that, baby girl?”

“She can handle it. She’s a good girl.”

Despite being bound to the bed, Spencer’s voice had a rough and somewhat dominant cadence to it as he spoke matter of factly. All three men shared a knowing look between each other before Hotch smacked his palm against your ass, drawing your attention back to the present with a soft gasp tearing from your lips, reminding you that he expected an answer. Swallowing thickly, you nodded eagerly in a breathless voice.

“Yes.”

Derek arched one of his onyx brows as he slipped his hand down from your jaw down to your throat, giving it a faint squeeze.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes sir.”

Derek’s lips parted into a dazzling proud grin. He slipped his hand down between your thighs, his index and middle finger experimentally slipping inside your soaked cunt while his thumb teasingly brushed over your sensitive clit. A sharp moan tore from your chest while you clamped your thighs around Derek’s hand, and his dark brown eyes flickered over your shoulder to give Hotch a slight nod of his head.

“Oh she’s more than ready.”

A whimper escaped your lips when Derek retracted his hand and lifted his fingers to his lips to lick them clean. Hotch lifted you up slightly to move you forward, causing you to straddle Spencer’s hips. Both of you let out a piercing whine as the head of his throbbing cock brushed against your pulsing clit, and as a deep chuckle rumbled in Hotch’s chest, you felt it vibrating against your back.

“Good. Then let’s play.”

Reaching down between you and Spencer, Derek wrapped his hands around the base of Spencer’s hard cock, which had Spencer hissing softly and lightly shifting his hips upwards. As Hotch gripped onto your hips and guided you forward, Derek assisted in aligning your body to help you slowly sink down on Spencer’s cock. Spencer had been watching earnestly, but as soon as your welcoming heat enveloped him completely and he bottomed out inside of you, his head fell back against the pillows as he let out a strangled moan, his jaw going slack and his eyes screwed shut.

“Oh f-fuck…”

Spencer was by far the most vocal out of the three of them, and it always filled you with a rush of excitement being able to tear such alluring noises from his pretty mouth.

Giving you only a few seconds to adjust, Hotch placed his palm between your shoulder blades and pushed you forwards, causing you to lean over Spencer completely while Derek moved your hair away from your face. The only reason you hadn’t fallen over was because Hotch had a tight hold on the belt that was bound around your wrists, keeping you suspended in the exact position he wanted you in. Spitting into his palm, Hotch used his saliva as a lubricant to coat the length of his cock as he positioned himself behind you, lifting your hips slightly to make you arch your back and align your ass further up into the air.

“Take a deep breath for me, baby.”

Sucking in a sharp inhale, you dug your nails deeply into the skin of your palms in anticipation. Hotch reached around your body to strum his index and middle finger in quick circles over your clit, ripping a surprised moan from deep within your chest. Thanks to the orgasm Spencer had given you, your body was more relaxed, and your pussy was still slick with your release which made it easier for Hotch to join Spencer inside you. When you felt the blunt head of Hotch’s cock nudging against Spencer’s and slowly stretching you out inch by divine inch, your jaw became fully unhinged and your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head.

“Ohmygod-”

The voice that echoed from your throat didn’t even sound like it belonged to you. It was depleted of oxygen and came out in such a rush that your own ears had trouble unscrambling the words. The sound of Hotch letting out a guttural moan behind you sounded like thunder booming right in your ears. The serrated sting between your thighs was impossible to ignore as your spongy walls were stretched to accommodate them both, but the discomfort paled in comparison to the succulent fullness that you felt. Hotch continued to stimulate jolts of pleasure by strumming your clit with his index and middle fingers, trying to help your body to relax and adjust to the new and overwhelming intrusion.

“Shh…there you go. Just breathe, baby girl.”

Derek was lovingly stroking his fingers through your hair while reminding you to perform such a basic subconscious action. As you struggled to suck in deep breaths, Spencer was impatiently thrusting his hips upwards in a slow rhythm, his biceps flexing while he tugged at the restraints on his wrist. Hotch gripped onto your hips tightly to keep you from falling on top of Spencer, his blunt nails leaving crescent shaped indentations on your soft hips. Once he felt the tension evaporate and your muscles loosening, he started to flex his hips forward to match Spencer’s delicate rhythm.

The composition of their conduction had your body swaying to the idle tempo they had silently established. Spencer and Hotch held you securely between their thighs, gliding back and forth over your delicate strings, coaxing legato notes of pleasure from your lips.

Once Derek could see that you were completely relaxed and ready for more, he moved in closer and brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, a silent signal you instantly obeyed by parting your lips eagerly. A deep sigh of appreciation sounded from Derek’s chest when he slowly slipped his cock past your lips, and he gently traced his thumb along your cheekbone while you moaned at the feeling of his velvet weight caressing your tongue.

This was the first time you had ever taken all three of them at once like this, and it was almost entirely too overwhelming. Every single one of your senses was overstimulated.

Despite the three of them wearing starkly unique colognes, it was impossible to discern which smell belonged to who. Each of their scents perfectly mixed in with your own, creating one indistinguishable fragrance that enveloped you entirely and left you feeling intoxicated and light headed. Your skin was overheated already from the intensity of the moment, but also from the warmth that radiated naturally from each one of them; Hotch’s chest flush against your back, Derek’s palms caressing your cheeks, and Spencer’s thighs lightly smacking against your own.

Even though your heart was pounding in your ears to the point of being deafening, you could hear the heavenly noises escaping each of them. Spencer was whimpering beneath you, begging for you to ride him harder. Derek was panting breathlessly above you, whispering softly how good you felt. Hotch was letting out deep growls and grunts as he moved behind you, demanding lowly in your ear that you take everything he was giving you.

The salty tang of Derek’s leaking arousal coated your tongue, but you could also still taste the roasted blonde espresso from Spencer’s lips and the fresh wintergreen mint that lingered on Hotch’s tongue. The pleasure was getting to be too much, and you couldn’t hardly keep your eyes open. You weren’t even on the brink of another orgasm yet, but there was already a firework show happening behind your eyelids.

Something about this moment was so incredibly perfect, like this was where you all belonged.

Together.

This wasn’t just about sex. It never had been. A piece of you had always belonged to each of them, and vice versa, ever since that first night in Vegas. There was just something about the four of you together that couldn’t be explained, but you all felt it every time you were with each other like this.

A single reaction from one of you set off a chain reaction for the rest of you. Hotch started to snap his hips in more powerful and precise thrusts, causing you to grind down harder on Spencer’s cock, and the vibrations of you moaning around Derek’s cock caused his own rhythm to become sloppy and falter when he began to fuck your face.

The air in the hotel room was thick with heat and sweat like a sauna, and a cacophony of intermingled moans and grunts of satisfaction grew louder and louder the closer you all got to reaching a peak as grand as Everest. The second one of you jumped off the top to free fall, the rest of you would follow.

Spencer was the first to break. He was so far gone he couldn’t even get a warning out, but the second he released inside of you with a loud shout of your name, his spasming hips caused his pubic bone to bump against your clit repeatedly just right to set off your own orgasm. Hotch was fucking you relentlessly from behind as he chased his own high, and the contraction of your walls combined with the flood of yours and Spencer’s release made him double over as he grunted loudly, resting his forehead against your middle back while pumping his seed deeper and deeper within you. Derek was the last to fall apart. He let his head fall back while closing his eyes, his beautiful features twisted up in pure ecstasy as he let out a sensual moan while spilling down your throat.

The four of you were stuck together in a sweaty pile on the bed and no one wanted to move. Derek slowly slipped his softened cock from your lips so you could gasp for air, and he gently ran his fingers through your hair to help you calm down. Hotch did his best to carefully pull out, but the sudden movement had you crying out and tensing up. Hotch peppered gentle kisses along your shoulder blades, shushing you quietly while removing the leather restraint of his belt from your wrists and massaging them gently. Without him holding you up by your hips, you collapsed face first into Spencer’s chest.

When Derek freed Spencer’s wrists from the headboard, Spencer immediately wrapped his arms securely around your trembling frame and cradled your head against his chest. He didn’t dare move, letting himself soften inside of you as he held you there, pressing his lips to your forehead in a soft kiss and delicately carding his fingers through your hair.

Each one of you were panting hard, trying to regain your bearings from such an intense experience, but they had catapulted you so far up into the clouds, you weren’t sure you could ever make it down. It felt as if you had stuck your finger into an outlet, sending an intense shock throughout your entire body, the lingering electricity still crackling with the faintest jolts of motion. Their voices were distant and muffled, like your head was underwater, and you couldn’t focus on anything except the blackness that pulled over the entire horizon behind your eyelids.

Moments later, something cold and wet was pressed against the back of your neck, causing a shiver to spread throughout your body. When your eyes lazily fluttered open, you were met with the dim light of the hotel room, and as you slowly lifted your head, Spencer began to come into focus in front of you. He was laying back against the pillows watching you, holding a washcloth soaked in cold water against the back of your neck while still slipping his fingers through your hair with his other hand. He gently wiped the washcloth over both of your heated cheeks and flashed you a dopey grin.

“Welcome back to Earth, pretty girl.”

A faint blush tinted your cheeks as you looked at him with a tired smile, humming softly while nuzzling into the warmth of his body as you hugged him. “Hi.”

Hearing the sweet and sleepy mumble from your lips, Spencer leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Hotch and Morgan went to grab us some dinner. They’ll be back in a bit. How are you feeling?”

“Sticky.”

Spencer erupted in laughter at the adorable pout on your lips, nodding as he brushed a strand of your hair out of your face.

“There were a lot of bodily fluids being exchanged.”

“Okay, it sounds gross when you say it like that.”

“Is ‘you did have three guys come inside you at once’ better?”

Scrunching up your nose, you weakly lifted your hand to press your index finger against Spencer’s soft lips with a quiet laugh.

“Please shut up.”

Spencer chuckled as he pressed a soft kiss to your finger, tossing the wet washcloth onto the nightstand by the bed.

“Fine. How about a shower?”

“Too much standing.”

“A bath?”

Pretending to think it over, you eventually let out a soft exhale while gazing into Spencer’s hazel eyes with a teasing grin.

“Spencer Reid, you’re a genius.”

The edge of Spencer’s lips tugged upwards into a playful smirk, and he rolled his eyes at your lame joke. He moved to sit up, slipping one of his arms underneath your knees and his other around your waist so he could lift you up into his embrace to carry you towards the bathroom.

“So I’ve been told.”

tags: @mars-rants-a-lot @ninejloveb0t @oscarisaacsleftknee @ameliaswife @Vane28282 @kmc1989 @viscade @starsm00n @kenseverything @storiesofsvu @sabage101 @spiritofthewriter @geeksareunique @urlocalgeek @avencol

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asiatic-apple · 1 month ago

Text

Tracing fault lines

Caleb x female reader

Words: 1.7k

Content: reader has scars from being a Hunter, angsty caleb, mentions of reader's past grief and survivor's guilt, sexual tension but nothing too nsfw

a/n: as someone who scars a lot and very easily, I couldn't shake this idea of caleb finding all the scars reader got while he was "gone"—and how he would kiss every one of them Read on AO3 here

Caleb’s fingers freeze in the middle of carding through your damp hair. The towel around your body loosens as you shift, and that’s when he sees the discolored line arcing along your shoulder blade. His eyes follow it to another jagged scar that dips down your back before it’s hidden beneath the towel. It feels like his chest might cave in with how tightly his heart clenches.

“You only had a couple small scars when you started at the Hunters Association,” Caleb murmurs to himself, the frown in his voice unmistakable.

Back then, he worried, sure. But he knew you were careful. If you weren’t careful enough, then at least he was there to check on you. He made sure you weren’t being reckless then.

Now, nearly a year has passed since he…had to leave you. And your clothes, he realizes with a sick twist in his gut, have been hiding a battlefield since the two of you reunited.

“When did this happen?” Caleb’s voice is soft and breathy as his fingers tickle the mark on your shoulder blade. He already knows the answer, but he still needs to hear it from you.

You hesitate, a memory flickering to life before you can shut it down: the flash of a wyrm’s sharp teeth too close for comfort. A sudden sting of pain as its spiked tail rakes across your skin when you mistime your dodge.

You swallow against the rising panic creeping up your chest. It’s taking everything in you to lock it back down.

His fingers make another pass against the scar, and you realize you’ve been quiet a second too long. You shrug off his concern. “Don’t worry about it. It happened several months ago.”

He exhales slowly, trying to bury all the things he wants to say. You barely have time to gather yourself before his fingertips find another scar, then another—a map of all the moments he wasn’t there to protect you. Proof of all the dangers you were forced to face alone.

He wonders how many more marks are scattered along your torso and your legs. Just how much have you been hiding from him? Were you more reckless in his absence? Did you throw yourself into danger, thinking it was better than the pain of grief?

Caleb can relate to that last part too well. But it doesn’t mean he can bear the thought of you rushing headfirst into every fight, desperate to feel closer to the one you lost. I should have been there, he thinks, guilt curling tight in his chest. Every raised line on your body is a quiet accusation, a reminder of how much he missed.

He wants to kiss each scar to erase the memories associated with them—and to better understand you. He wants to uncover the pieces you’ve hidden beneath clothes and soft, practiced lies.

I’m fine, you always tell him. If he could, Caleb would ban you from ever uttering those empty words again. He doesn’t want secrets or niceties. He wants your truth, even if it hurts to hear it.

“Tell me about what happened here,” he whispers, not giving up this silent fight between you two. His fingers follow the faint curve of a scar along your neck, one he would have noticed sooner if it weren’t for your hair hiding it.

Another memory rises, bitter and sharp, but you do a better job of pushing it to the recesses of your mind this time. “Cat scratch,” you deadpan.

He hates how you always use that excuse, even when you know he’s seen through it for years. It doesn’t stop him from pushing until you finally confide in him.

His brow creases as his fingers trail lower, brushing the brutal line he noticed before. “And what about this jagged one, hm? Is this a cat scratch too?”

You sigh, and he can tell you’re going to cave now. “Herte knave,” you mumble, shoulders sagging in defeat and slight embarrassment.

You’ve always hated admitting you weren’t strong enough, weren’t fast enough, when it mattered. And you especially hate letting Caleb in on that secret because you know how overprotective he gets.

This time, it stings even more to admit your failures because of the implications of them. All your scars reveal just how much you couldn’t cope with Caleb’s death. How much you wished it was you who stepped back into the house first that day.

Shaking off the residual grief—your brain still hasn’t gotten the memo that he’s not really dead—you clear your throat and finish your explanation. “It lunged at me before I could spot it coming.” You decide to leave out the part where you almost didn’t make it back in one piece.

Even though he’s relieved you’re giving him real answers now, Caleb is not fully satisfied yet. He wants to see everything. Not for the first time, he feels a different kind of yearning—not the usual pulse of desire, but the sharp, aching urge to stand in front of you on every battlefield. The urge to shield you so you never have to know pain again.

His fingers tug gently at the towel, intent on finding out how far that jagged line snakes down your back. For once, he’s not even thinking about the fact that you’re completely bare beneath the towel. You stop him before it slides too low on your chest, and he blinks, remembering his manners.

“Please,” he begs before he can think better of it, “let me see the rest of them.”

There’s a long pause. Caleb expects the usual—for you to brush him off, make a joke, remind him that he hides his own wounds just as carefully as you do. But tonight, something in you softens. Instead of pushing him away, you nod silently and lead him into the bedroom.

When you approach your dresser, you glance back at him, and he gets the hint. He turns to face the opposite wall so you can change in privacy.

After a few seconds of tense silence, you call him to join you in bed. You’re dressed in nothing but a comfy sports bra and soft shorts, your skin bared in the lamplight. The sight nearly undoes him.

Caleb approaches slowly, as though afraid you might vanish. You lie back, the quiet stretch of your body against the sheets drawing him closer without a word.

The rest of the evening unfolds in hushes and shivers. His fingertips trace every line on your skin, each touch delicate as if memorizing you anew.

He doesn’t linger near your chest or lower stomach. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. But even so, goosebumps bloom in his wake, and you hate how easily your body betrays you. Your heart flutters beneath his hands, warmth unfurling in your cheeks and low in your stomach.

With each scar, he asks soft questions, and you tell him the stories. You tell him about a mission gone wrong, an unstable protofield that popped up in Azure Square, and countless other close calls since he disappeared from your life.

And with each confession, his grip tightens a fraction, his jaw working as though he’s biting back all the things he doesn’t know how to say.

“Promise me,” he whispers, voice breaking from the weight of everything you’ve revealed. “Promise me it won’t happen again.”

With soft lips, he presses the plea into your skin, the words repeating between shuddering breaths. He doesn’t stop muttering them amid careful, chaste kisses scattered along the scar above your rib, the curve of your belly, the hollow of your hip.

Your mind goes blank. The only sounds in the room are the soft rustle of the sheets, the whisper of your breath hitching—and his, catching at the edges like he’s desperately holding back more than the soft gasps that escape him. Each sound hangs between you like a secret.

Caleb has given you a few platonic kisses before. But those were always innocent, even though his affection for you has long run deeper. None of the quick pecks he's ever peppered on your forehead in the past compare to the heat of his touch right now.

There's something far more dangerous in the way he looks up at you during each slow kiss. Like he's indulging in something he knows he can't have yet. Something sinful he can't help but savor to its fullest.

But it's okay because this is just what close friends do, right? This is comfort. This is care. This is not a confession. You repeat it like a mantra as his hands find a scar just above your hip, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

His lips begin to stray from the scars along your body, brushing against your shoulder before settling over the racing pulse at your neck. He lingers there, warm breath ghosting over your skin, too close.

Then he hovers just shy of your mouth. You know what he’s waiting for, but you don’t close the gap. Not yet.

Instead, you just whisper, “I promise.” The words seem to tremble on your tongue.

You both know you can’t promise never to get hurt again. But that’s not what he’s really asking for. You understand the true meaning behind his plea: if anything ever happens to Caleb again, you’ll find a way to go on without him. You’re not sure you’ll keep that promise. But it’s easier to lie for now.

Caleb pulls away, slowly, as though releasing something heavy inside himself. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Still, he’s satisfied with your promise for now, and he knows you might need some space after being so vulnerable.

He thinks he’s being merciful when he slips quietly from the room to give you privacy. But the moment the door clicks shut, you draw in a shaky breath, fingers drifting to the places his lips caressed. The warmth of his touch lingers, a phantom ache that leaves you restless and wanting.

And in the hush of the empty room, you let yourself wonder what it would be like to trace his scars someday. To pull back the armor he wears so carefully, to uncover the jagged secrets he’s never spoken aloud.

Maybe, you think as you close your eyes, maybe one day you’ll both stop pretending you’re only trying to heal old wounds.

#MAYBE i will do a part 2 to this bc i already have a small idea…but we’ll see #i do have other things i wanna write and i already feel pretty satisfied with how this turned out #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb xia #caleb xia x reader #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x reader #caleb lads #love and deepspace x reader #ivy writes

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verridaiya · 4 months ago

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—Dream Blooms

"I've seen you there, before."

This fic was born from watching Sylus's Abyssal Blossom card and watching my heart break into a million pieces. It hurt, but then I realized you know who hasn't been hurt by it? Sylus.

Based on the prevailing theory/my headcannons that the Abyssal Blossom card was just a dream, brought on by MC's yearning for a normal, quiet life after the events of Beyond Cloudfall chapter 7.

Synopsis: Sylus invites himself over to take care of you while you're sick. You tell him about a pleasant dream of yours and proceed to break his heart. (Or, you dream of something you've dreamt before, and Sylus hears about it for the first time.)

Contains: Spoilers for Sylus's Beyond Cloudfall myth and the Abyssal Blossom card, Sylus x MC/reader, gender neutral MC/reader, angst/hurt (the comfort will come later), current timeline Sylus & MC

Word Count: 1.7k

start | Part 2 >

“I had a strange dream again.”

“Another one, sweetheart?”

Sylus’s voice is a soft murmur above you. You open your blurry eyes to a darkened room and a pleasantly warm body under you, wrapped around you. Your head feels as hazy as the moonlight filtering in from the cloudy night sky through the window. Half-awake and half asleep, you can still feel the sensations of your dream like phantom memories. You hum an affirmation, shaking off the vestiges of a medicine-induced sleepiness.

You’re not quite sure how you found yourself in this position: sprawled out on your couch, nestled between a warm blanket and an even warmer Sylus, breathing in the scent of him through your admittedly stuffy nose. The last thing you remember was you laying collapsed on your bed, trying to convince yourself that you’re not sick, you’re just tired from a long week at the Hunter’s Association, and to muster up the energy to find something to eat. And then, suddenly, there was Sylus, filling your doorway as he had filled every part of your life, your thoughts, and now your dreams.

You’ve been having more of those recently, ever since you absorbed the power of another Aether Core almost a year ago. Reality intertwining with illusions, the people in your life woven intricately into a tapestry of dreams. Fragments of memories, glimpses of things that could never be, or never was. Flashing scales underneath glistening waves. Zayne, in a flowing robe you’ve never seen on him before, but looked so right on him. A silent forest, illuminated by starlight. You would wake up yearning for something just out of reach, hands outstretched to capture the essence of something that slips, incorporeal, through your fingers.

This dream was gentle, though. And this time, your hands didn’t need to reach far to grasp the heart of your dreams.

“You were in it this time, Sylus.”

“Oh?” he says, sounding intrigued. “Do tell, kitten.”

You hear him place something on the coffee table—his phone, probably—his attention shifting solely to you. He carefully moves to his side, extricating himself from under you, a large hand propping his head up so he can fully face you.

The soft moonlight illuminates on his face, throwing it into relief. Silvery hair threaded with shadow, a pale complexion half shrouded in darkness, eyes like banked hearths warming you with its glow. Through the haze of your fever, you can almost envision what you saw in your dream. You lift a hand pat his soft hair, as if searching for something that wasn’t there, before trailing your fingers down the side of his face.

“You had something on your head.” No, not exactly on his head. You can’t quite remember. The you in the dream was certain that the something was more a part of him than anything else. You frown slightly. The more you strain to remember the details of it, the more awake you became, and the more it danced out of your grasp. “Something sharp and twisting. Rough. It was beautiful, though. You were beautiful.”

Sylus stares at you with wide eyes you couldn’t decipher in your current state. There’s a spark of something foreign in his eyes.

“And?” he urges on, his deep voice uncharacteristically eager to your ears. He reaches to grab the hand that was holding his face, pressing it gently to him. His thumb rubs against the back of it in small soothing motions. “Can you tell me more about this dream of yours, kitten?”

You grasp at the cotton inside your head, stuffy from sleep and sickness. It takes so much effort, to tease apart the strands and find the wisps of fading dreams. It doesn’t help that you were also fighting off the drowsiness. You try, though, to give him what he’s asking for, as he always does for you.

“We were standing in a lovely field of flowers. They were breathtaking, Sylus. Such a vivid, dazzling red. There was a black spire in the distance, I think.” The spire had stood tucked away in the backdrop of rolling hills, but it was a small detail your mind was stuck on for some reason.

Thinking about that spire again, your mind can almost conjure a clear image of your dream. A lingering feeling of déjà vu washes over you, settling heavy on your chest. You’ve dreamt this before; you feel this with every bone in your body as an unshakeable fact. You’ve seen this obsidian spire before, this sprawling flower field. You know with startling certainty that you’ve had this exact dream before. But when you try to recall when, the feeling dissipates and leaves behind only a phantom sensation and an absence in your memory you cannot comprehend.

Sylus watches as you shake away the remnants of déjà vu. Your brow furrows. You’ve come to be accustomed to his intense stares through the months you’ve known him, but this one was… strange. It was as if he was trying to look deep into the fabric of your soul, even without the use of the Aether Core in his eye. His face remains a blank and indecipherable mask, leaving you with no indication of what he’s thinking of. You wanted to know what was going on in that unfathomable mind of his.

Longing. Trepidation. Yearning, a yearning that aches and makes you want to answer its call. You become distantly aware of emotions trickling into you that weren’t your own. You didn’t realize you were resonating with Sylus until he severed it, the hand holding yours shifting to catch your wrist instead. He leans down to brush his soft lips against it before letting your hand rest gently on your stomach.

“How about you recover from your fever first before you use your evol, sweetie.” He laughs softly, the red-gold brilliance of your evols intertwined fading from your hands.

“Oh, sorry.”

His presence in your mind and by your side was so natural that you weren’t even aware of when you began resonating with him. It seemed like your body responded to your desires even while your mind lagged behind. That brief glimpse into him enabled you to decipher that emotion in his eyes, though you struggle to make sense of it.

It was hope.

“Never apologize to me. What else do you remember?” he asks quietly, before you can puzzle over it further.

You close your eyes, willing the memories of the fleeing dream forward. The golden light of a setting sun. The crisp cold of mountainous air. The feeling of being the only two creatures in the world. And, inexplicably, the feeling of home.

“We were up in the air flying, somehow, before we landed in that blossoming valley. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I felt like I was in a whole other world. When I turned around to look at you, I saw you sitting there amongst the flowers. Red, like shining rubies. Red like-” you pause, the words at the tip of your tongue. A silhouette appears in your mind’s eye, before it sinks back into the void.

“Red, like rich wine,” you finish, though you know that’s not what you had wanted to say.

When he said nothing, you continued on. “I decorated you with those flowers. We were so carefree, unworried and relaxed. It was just us, no one else, in the valley that was our playground. I think I was teasing you, or maybe you were teasing me. You said something about seeing the other side of things, something taunting. We ended up play-fighting, rolling around and sending petals up in the air.”

You smile, the warmth of the dream enveloping you.

“It felt so real.” You wanted it to be real, this lovely lush field and this gorgeous, monstrous Sylus.

Monstrous?

Startled out of your reverie, you blink open your eyes. No, there is nothing monstrous about Sylus. Not anymore, not since those first few nights that you’ve met him so long ago. Shaking your head slightly to dispel the thought, you turn your head to glance at him, realizing he hasn’t spoken in a while.

His eyes are closed, brows furrowed and drawn tightly together. You’ve seen this expression on his face before, briefly, when he struggles to heal a particularly nasty wound. His body is so tense when you reach out to him, muscles taut and rigid beneath your fingers. You’re not quite sure he’s even breathing.

“Sylus?”

At your prompting, Sylus sucks in a breath through his teeth and exhales. He opens his eyes and your breath catches. Rich garnet eyes glow in the darkness, twin wine-dark seas drowning in sorrow, regret. Agony.

It is so at odds to the sweetness of your recounted dream that alarm shot through you, temporarily driving away the sleepiness. Seeing the pain in his eyes unsettled you; it didn’t belong on his face at all. Your sluggish brain tries to make sense of what you could have said to have garnered this reaction. Did you say something wrong? Your chest tightens at the thought of hurting him with your words, somehow. You begin to prop yourself up.

Sylus stops you with one gentle hand, pushing you to lay back down. He silently regards you, the silence between you stretching into something delicate.

There are so many things you want to say, to ask and to comfort. Sylus was never one to let his emotions show as openly as they are right now. You want to ask what was wrong, take back your silly little story if all it gave him was pain, even if you didn’t understand why.

But through the jumble of your fever, all that came out of your tired mouth was, “It was just a dream, Sylus.”

He quietly watches you for a few breaths longer. Slowly, he lifts a hand to gently caresses your cheek, holding you as if you were something as fragile as a memory. Leaning down, he brushes his lips against your forehead, soft as a butterfly’s wings, as the petals of a phantom flower.

“You’re right,” he says, with a grief you cannot fathom.

“It was just a dream, sweetheart.” His voice is barely a whisper. “It can be nothing more than a dream.”

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #verridaiya's writing -#yay I did it wooo #second ever fic 🎉#time to write the other parts! which I'm so excited for #there will be comfort I swear #after... one more hurt. just one #I can't help myself #this fic is once again brought to you by: the emotional devastation of beyond cloudfall

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 2 years ago

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flower therapy | f. odair

masterlist

summary: after being rescued from the capitol’s torturous clutches, your boyfriend, finnick odair, assists you with recovering from haunting memories and ptsd.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: finnick being major boyfriend material, soft reader, mentions of torture, ptsd, panic attack, hurt/comfort, fluff

notes: the way i lowkey triggered myself into a panic attack while writing this?? i’m okay now though 😀

word count: 1.3k

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. That is what the psychiatric doctors of District Thirteen suggested after you were rescued from being captured and tortured in the Capitol. Their methods sounded daunting and all too familiar—sterile white rooms, memory flash cards, persistent strangers who would force you to relive your trauma so you could 'work through it'.

Finnick did not like the sound of that one bit. So, he offered an alternative.

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. The label was a mouthful. Finnick preferred to call it "flower therapy". Twice a week, you and Finnick were authorised to spend two hours above ground where you would sit in a nearby meadow, make daisy chains, and occasionally open up about what happened in the Capitol.

You liked to call it "the power of flowers". Stupid, but saying it always formed a little smile on your face and there was no harm in simple joy considering the cruelties you had endured. Most of the time, you were silent and would lie in Finnick's arms while making flower crowns. He was always patient; he understood you needed time. Day after day, he proved his unconditional love, and you thanked the universe for blessing you with such an incredible man.

"Oh no," you whispered.

"What is it?"

You dangled your broken daisy chain in front of you and Finnick.

"Oh no," he echoed.

Your back rested against his chest and his arms enveloped your body as he held his own effortlessly crafted yellow chain in your lap. Apparently, years of weaving fishing nets creates a master of making daisy chains.

"Here," he said, positioning his own flower crown on your head. "Beautiful."

Smiling, you turned your head to face him. "I'm going to tell everyone I made it."

The flowers sat like a golden halo atop your head, beaming just as bright as the smile Finnick had bloomed at the sight of you. Beauty was everything that you were; not just outwardly, but within the confines of your mind too. Flowers and sunlight were interwoven with your soul, making up the essence of who you were—loving and warm-hearted. One of the many reasons Finnick had fallen in love with you.

He would forever want to remain in your garden, tending to and protecting every petal that blossomed.

His thumb swiped affectionately across your cheek. "Of course you are, you thief," he murmured, grinning. "You owe me."

Your stomach flooded with butterflies and you leaned in, tenderly kissing him with soft pink lips. Finnick cupped your cheek, stroking the baby hairs of your hairline with his fingers as he smiled against your mouth. Even your lips tasted like sweet nectar to him.

After you pulled away, you settled back into his embrace, sinking into those arms that shielded you from any and all harm.

"Okay, I suppose you're forgiven," Finnick said, the smile present in his voice.

You toyed with his fingers while wearing a glowing smile of your own, his arms lovingly wrapped around your body. Oh, you loved him so endlessly.

As the sun began to lower, a mixture of orange and pink clouds blanketed the sky. The trees surrounding the meadow cast large shadows throughout the area, making it appear much darker than it really was. A subtle shift in the once tranquil atmosphere rippled through the meadow, happiness now becoming a distant and unreachable feeling.

The broken daisy chain crumpled in your hands no longer shined in the sun like a beautiful mess. It instead looked tangled. Chaotic. Darkened by the dimming light and transformed into something sinister that resurfaced haunting memories of the Capitol—twisted IV tubes filled with unknown substances, chains that removed layers of skin, decaying white roses that covered the floor of your cell.

Heaviness clutched at your heart, suffocating you from within.

Finnick sensed the sudden shift, loosening his hold around you as he whispered, "What's wrong?"

"I—I don't know," you stammered, the air thinning around you.

The wilting daisies started to taint your hands with darkness, creeping slowly up your arms and causing them to tremble. Finnick, who noticed your fixation on the daisy chain, gently took the flowers from your grasp and set them aside.

It was too late; the panic had already set in.

He turned your body to the side in his lap, forcing you to face him. Your eyes flickered with worry. No amount of pain could compare to the heartbreak he felt seeing you like this.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," he urged, his tone soothing. "Breathe with me, alright? In..." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "And out."

But it was no use. Air was caged within your lungs, burning like fiery hot whirlwinds inside your chest. It was all you could do to force rapid shallow breaths out of your mouth.

"No, no!" A tear fell from your eye as you fervently shook your head. "Finn, I ca—I can't."

"Yes, you can, baby," he said, pushing aside the hair that obscured your vision. His eyes searched the area, looking for anything that could help distract your frantic mind. That is when he spotted a small flock of birds perched on one of the tree branches, instantly recognising their black feathers and sharp beaks. "Look. See those birds? They're mockingjays."

Finnick pointed up at the tree, gaining your attention which then shifted to the birds that were gawking down at you with curious tilting heads. Mockingjays. Katniss. Rebellion. Hope. You focused all your attention on the little black birds and listened to Finnick's reassuring voice.

"They'll repeat any tune you make," he continued, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Can you do that for me? Try and whistle something for them?"

Attempting to control your ragged breathing, you jerkily nodded. Songs from the world before the war overtook your mind. At first, it was overwhelming as your mind scrambled for a suitable melody, fuelling your panicked state. But then you heard something familiar and focused on the familiar tune, one that was from your childhood.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

Go to sleep, my little baby,

When you wake you shall have,

All the pretty little horses.

It was a lullaby your mother sang whenever you were upset. Seemed fitting considering the situation. You managed to whistle the first few notes, albeit a little wobbly of course, hardly noticing the air that was starting to flow more freely into your lungs.

"That's it, sweet girl."

Once the mockingjays began echoing the song throughout the forest—far more beautifully than your broken whistles—you continued the melody until the end. When you finished, the birds continued to repeat the tune, singing your mother's lullaby over and over in the trees of District Thirteen.

Whilst sat cradled in Finnick's embrace, you quietly hummed along as he stroked soft patterns on your arm. Darkness and pain were long forgotten now. Your body no longer trembled with fear nor did your breathing. Memories of the Capitol's brutality were locked away and hidden in the back of your mind, diligently guarded by the man whose arms you lay in.

Golden beams filtered through the tree trunks; the sun was now lowered enough to let the warm light in, illuminating both you and Finnick. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, wrapping you up even tighter in his arms now that he was certain the worst had passed.

You clutched onto his arm and blew out a final stabilising breath, finding comfort in the strength and protection he held. The side of your head rested against his chest, the beats of his heart harmonising like a drum with the mockingjays' song.

You wanted to apologise but knew his response would be dismissive. You wanted to tell him how deeply you loved and appreciated him but knew your words would fail you.

So, you remained silent.

"You're safe," Finnick whispered into your hair. "Right here, right now. I promise."

Right here, right now, you repeated in your mind. In Finnick's arms, you were safe. You were loved.

tags: @tayrae515

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️#finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x you #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #sam claflin #odesta #finnick x reader

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wooyoungiewritings · 28 days ago

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Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (EPILOGUE)

Summary: It's been a year since you and Seonghwa decided to commit to each other fully. You have a date night, casual teasing as usual, until you accidentally say something that makes Seonghwa doubt himself. Wanting to apologize, you do what you know he'll love. And it's not for the weak ones.

Word count: 11.1K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, SMUT

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), she accidentally hurts Seonghwa's feelings, our boy is sad and hurt :(, TEASING, Seonghwa is a menace, DOM/SUB Seonghwa, DOM/SUB reader, fingering, oral (fem and male receiving), LOTS of dirtytalk, sex while on the phone (omg yall it's so filthy i'm sorry), creampie, aftercare (<3), lmk if I missed anything!

Authors note: The very last chapter we're gonna get from this story and this Seonghwa.. A little bittersweet because I LOVED writing him and I can tell he's got you all hooked as well. But thank you so much for the support on the story, I can't put into words how thankful I am. I wish you all the best, stay tuned for the next story! <3

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been a year since you and Seonghwa officially started your relationship, and so much has changed. The time between you has been full of growth, personally, emotionally, and together as a couple. What started as stolen moments between two people who couldn’t help but be drawn to each other has evolved into something solid and unshakable.

You left your old life behind in more ways than one. The house you once shared with your ex-husband, the memories of your past life, all of it now feels like a distant chapter. With Seonghwa’s quiet, unwavering support, you packed up your things, everything from old photos that no longer held meaning, to the things that represented who you used to be.

Seonghwa helped you move every single item from your old house. He was there for the little things, like when you found the remnants of an old birthday card tucked away in a box, or when you had to call the movers to sort through the mess of broken furniture. Through it all, he remained a constant. His presence was a reassurance, his touch gentle but firm when you needed it.

You moved into his place soon after. His apartment, which already had the warmth of someone who lived there fully, felt like home in an instant.

And yet, the transition hasn’t been without its challenges. Your ex-husband, in the wake of everything, struggled to understand why you had chosen to walk away. Even after the day your ex-husband tried to lash out at Seonghwa and he had pulled a knife. The arguments had been tense, but Seonghwa made you feel safe.

Your ex-husband was charged with assault and carrying a weapon. The legal proceedings have been slow, but it’s clear he’s facing serious consequences for his actions. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s also a relief. You’re no longer tethered to a life that no longer made sense, and Seonghwa’s support through the entire ordeal has been everything you needed.

The candle flickers between you at the restaurant midtown, silverware clinking against plates, low conversations around you filling the silence as you have dinner with the love of your life.

“Wait, did you remember to move the laundry before we left?” you ask, mid-laugh, swirling the wine in your glass as you lean toward him across the table. There’s a tiny smudge of sauce on your plate and soft piano music humming through the air, but all you’re looking at is him.

Seonghwa pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. The guilt flashes across his face immediately. “...I absolutely did not.”

You gasp, faux-offended. “Seonghwa.”

“I got distracted!” he defends quickly, placing his fork down. “You were standing in the hallway wearing that dress and spraying perfume and looking like… like that-, what was I supposed to do? I barely remembered how to speak, let alone handle the laundry.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “So, we’re coming home to damp, probably mildew-scented towels. Again.”

He gives you a sheepish look, reaching for his wine. “I’ll rewash them. I swear. With lavender detergent. Extra soft cycle. Don’t punish me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I will punish you.”

He coughs into his drink, eyes flicking up to yours with a flicker of heat. “Not sure if that was meant to sound like a threat or a promise, but either way, I’m listening.”

The smile you give him is wicked and slow. “Depends on how the towels smell when we get home.”

He exhales through a breathy laugh, watching you like he’s almost tempted to skip dessert and drag you home right now. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kick his ankle gently beneath the table. “You’re lucky I love you. You’ve ruined three loads of laundry in the last month and tried to blame it on the weather.”

“The weather was humid.”

You roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. His hand slides across the table to brush yours. Warm, calloused fingertips graze your knuckles, lingering. The light from the candles flickers against his jaw, casting shadows that make him look dangerously beautiful.

You intertwine your fingers with his. “Are you working late on Monday?”

Seonghwa’s gaze lifts to meet yours, his thumb still idly stroking along your palm. “No,” he says. “Switched a few things around. I’m all yours.”

You hum softly, your foot sliding slowly up his leg under the table, brushing along the warm skin through his trousers. The slow movement isn’t innocent, you feel it, and so does he. “Good,” you say, lips curving into a sly smile, the kind that hints you’re already miles ahead in your own head.

His eyes narrow just a little, curious. “Why?”

You glance at your wine, then back at him, smirking like you’re keeping a secret. “Because I already know how I want you Monday night.”

His fork freezes halfway to his plate.

“…You can’t just say that to me in public,” he mutters, eyes darkening slightly.

You tilt your head. “But I just did.”

His eyes flicker over your lips, then back up to your eyes, burning with a heat that makes your breath hitch. He raises his glass slowly, taking a measured sip, jaw tightening as if fighting a rising tide of want. The silence stretches, thick and electric.

He watches you over the rim of his glass as he drinks, jaw tight, eyes smoldering. “Tell me.”

You blink, pretending to play innocent. “Tell you what?”

His voice dips lower, more dangerous. “How you want me.”

You lean in just a little closer, your eyes locked on his, shining with that mischievous light he knows too well. The restaurant’s soft lighting brushes over your skin, but all he can focus on is your voice, smooth and casual, like you’re talking about the weather.

“Monday,” you say, slow and deliberate, “I want you to tie me up.”

He nearly chokes on his wine. The glass slips, and he coughs, hand flying to his throat as if trying to catch his breath. His eyes widen, flicking around the restaurant like he’s checking if anyone else heard what you said.

You sit back, innocently biting your lip, pretending to be utterly unaware of the effect you just had.

His fingers tremble slightly as they fumble with the top button of his shirt, loosening it with more force than necessary. He leans back, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the sudden rush of heat, but his eyes never leave you. “That’s not something you just throw out casually over dinner.

You shrug slowly, biting your lip. “I mean, you can. If you want to.”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s just recalibrating his thoughts. His usual steady composure flickers for a heartbeat, just a quick flash of surprise, but then he smiles, cool and collected, fingers tightening on the wine glass as if to remind himself who’s in charge.

“You say that like it’s nothing,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes darkening with something sharper now. “But I can see exactly what it does to you… seeing me like this.” His gaze drifts to your lips for a moment before snapping back to your eyes, cutting through your teasing smile.

You bite your lip, slow and deliberate, watching him more than you speak. “Maybe I like seeing you like this,” you say, voice innocent, but the heat behind it is unmistakable.

He chuckles, deep and slow, the kind of sound that promises he’s not about to lose control, no matter how much you push. “Careful,” he warns, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “You’re tempting me in all the wrong ways, and I’m not sure I’ll play nice Monday.”

You settle into the challenge, your fingers tightening around his hand beneath the table. “Good,” you whisper. “I wouldn’t want anything less.”

The evening ends with sexual tension and laughter still lingering between you two, the kind of easy, effortless laughter that fills the air as you walk down the sidewalk. The night is cool but not too chilly, and Seonghwa’s hand is warm in yours. You chat about nothing in particular, tossing around silly comments and inside jokes. It’s just the two of you, enjoying the simplicity of being together after so much time has passed.

“We need to pick up a few things for the week,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence between you as you step toward a convenience store. “I don’t feel like cooking tomorrow. Maybe just a quick, easy dinner.”

Seonghwa gives a nod of agreement, his smile soft and easy. “I got it,” he says, already heading inside with you. “You just tell me what you need.”

You follow him through the automatic doors, the familiar buzz of the store greeting you with its aisles of snacks, drinks, and everyday essentials as Seonghwa grabs a basket.

He picks up a few things, your favorite tea, the cereal you’ve been eating for months, a couple of random things that seem to just appear in his hands as if he knows what you like before you do. It’s easy, almost like you don’t need to say anything at all, and he just knows what to do.

You can’t help but feel a little guilty. “You always do too much,” you joke, glancing at him as you reach the pasta aisle. “I don’t need all of this. I can do it myself.”

He laughs, a light sound that makes your heart feel full. “I know you can,” he says, but his tone softens slightly. “I just like to take care of you. I want you to feel good at home.”

You stop for a second, glancing at the shelves and picking out a jar of pasta sauce. “Yeah, I know. It’s sweet of you.” You pause, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you turn to him. “But don’t get too comfortable, you know. You’re not the only guy who can win me over.”

You say it offhandedly, your tone light, more as a joke than anything else. But as soon as the words leave your lips, you don’t notice the shift in Seonghwa’s expression. His smile falters for just a second, his eyes clouding over with something that catches him off guard.

He doesn’t even know why it stings so badly. It’s just a joke. A stupid, offhand remark. But suddenly, he’s questioning everything.

He takes a deep breath, his gaze drifting toward the shelves in front of him as he forces a smile, but it’s tight, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You’re already moving on, picking up a carton of milk and dropping it into the basket. “So, should we get eggs? I’m kind of craving some scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow.”

Seonghwa just nods, quiet, as he grabs a few more things off the shelves, his movements slightly slower now. He keeps his distance, trying to figure out what to say, what to do, but the uncertainty in him is louder than anything else. He’s unsure of how to move forward without feeling like he’s overstepping, unsure if being this sweet, this attentive, has been a mistake all along.

You don’t notice it, but for him, it feels like a reality he’s been dreading, a quiet reminder that no matter how much he tries to be perfect, no matter how much effort he pours into showing you he’s there for you, there’s always the possibility that you might slip away.

You push open the door to the convenience store with your hip, arms full of snacks, grinning as Seonghwa keeps it open for you without a word. The cool night air hits your skin, and you shiver slightly as you step out under the glow of the parking lot lights.

“I swear, we went in for two things and came out with enough for a sleepover party,” you say, adjusting the bags in your arms.

You glance at him, expecting a grin, maybe a sarcastic comment, but his face is neutral, lips drawn into a soft line, eyes focused on the pavement as you walk to the car.

The ride back is quiet. You talk most of the way, telling him about a trailer you saw earlier for a movie you want to watch, asking him about the weekend. He gives short answers. There’s no more teasing tonight. No warmth in his voice. But you’re still caught up in your own good mood, not quite catching on.

When you pull up to the apartment, he takes the bags without a word. You thank him, distracted, already going on about what movie you might watch while unpacking things in the kitchen.

He helps, silently passing things to you or putting them away himself. No jokes. No small touches. Just a quiet presence.

At one point, you bump into him while reaching for the fridge handle. He steps back quickly, avoiding the usual playful contact.

You don’t think about it. You’re already talking about something else.

Later, when you crawl into bed and call out to him to hurry up, he just murmurs, “Coming,” from the bathroom.

He slides in beside you a few minutes later, settling stiffly on his side of the bed. His arm is warm when it wraps around you, but there’s hesitation in the way he holds you, like he’s not sure he should.

You let out a happy sigh, burying your face in his chest. “I love nights like this.”

He smiles, but you don’t see that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

But inside, your words still echo.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not the only guy who can win me over.”

You’d said it like a joke. Something flippant. Light. But it hadn’t landed that way.

Not to him.

Because he was comfortable. Not with the idea of being safe, but with you. Because he didn’t think of this as temporary. Because he'd been trying so hard to be everything you needed.

And maybe that was the mistake.

He stares at the ceiling long after your breathing slows. He wonders if he’s been too much. Or maybe not enough.

He closes his eyes, and holds you tighter anyway.

***

The apartment is quiet when you wake. The warm morning light spills through the curtains, soft and golden, but it does nothing to soothe the weight in your chest. You turn over expecting to find Seonghwa asleep, but he’s already up, sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, hunched slightly, hands resting on his thighs.

You blink the sleep from your eyes, sitting up slowly. “You okay?”

He turns with a small smile, one that barely brushes his lips. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep much.”

There’s something distant about him. You watch as he pulls on a hoodie, movements slower than usual, like his body is weighed down by something heavier than tiredness.

You hesitate. “You sure you’re okay?”

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. “Do you want coffee? I was about to make some.”

You climb out of bed, following him to the kitchen. He doesn’t reach for your hand like he usually does. He doesn’t tease you about being a sleepyhead or offer you the first cup like he always does without fail. Instead, he pours two mugs silently, sliding one across the counter to you without looking up.

“Thanks,” you say softly. He just nods.

Something’s off. Really off.

“Are we okay?” you ask quietly.

There’s a pause. Just a breath too long.

“Of course,” he says gently. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

You look into his eyes with worry, brows furrowing. “Because you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.” He smiles again, but it’s too quick. Too practiced. He leans against the counter and sips his coffee, eyes down. You study him for a long moment.

“Seonghwa.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping to his coffee. “I don't want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Out of what?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Seriously. Let’s not-”

“No,” you cut in, your voice soft but steady. “You always tell me to be honest with you. That I don’t have to pretend I’m okay when I’m not.”

That stops him. His eyes lift to yours. For a second, they just search your face, like he’s trying to gauge how much to say. Whether it’s worth the risk.

Then something gives. A crack in the surface.

“…Right,” he murmurs, voice quiet.

“So…” you continue gently. “Can’t you do the same with me?”

His jaw tenses a little, he looks like he’s thinking through every possible way to respond. His lips press together, and he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding it in all night. He sets the cup down slowly. Then finally, he speaks.

“That thing you said last night,” he says. “About me not being the only guy who can win you over.”

You feel the air still. Your heart dips.

He gives a soft, humorless chuckle, but there’s no real amusement in it. “I know it was a joke. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“But it hurt,” you say.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. It did.”

You wait, quietly.

“I know it was a joke,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “But I’ve been trying so hard to be good for you. I don’t expect anything back. I just… I want to be the person who makes you feel safe. Loved. Like you’re not alone. And hearing that…” He pauses again, swallowing thickly. “It felt like none of it mattered. Like it could be anyone. Like I could lose you just like that.”

He lets out a breath, voice more fragile now. “And it made me wonder if I’ve been doing too much. If I’m just overwhelming you.”

“No, Seonghwa-” you begin, but he gently raises a hand.

“I know you didn’t mean it that way,” he says quickly, softer this time. “But I need you to know that I’m not trying to be some perfect boyfriend. I just want to be someone you don’t want to leave.”

You don’t speak, your chest is too tight.

“I spent the night wondering if I’m just… trying too hard.” he took a deep breath. “I thought maybe if I did everything right, I wouldn’t have to worry,” he says, his tone finally beginning to crack. “But when you said that, when you laughed and told me not to get too comfortable, it was like… I don’t know. Like I could do everything right and it still wouldn’t be enough. That maybe I am too comfortable.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s my worst nightmare. That I’m doing everything I can and I’d still lose you. And I can't lose you again.”

You step closer, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes closing for a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean it. I never wanted to hurt you. I was careless with my words, and I’m so sorry. You do so much for me, more than I deserve, honestly. I’m grateful every day that you’re here.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and for the first time since yesterday, you see the mask drop completely. The hurt. The quiet fear beneath the surface. Like something delicate in him has cracked open.

He gives a slow nod as he closes his eyes briefly, jaw working as if holding back something. “You don’t have to say that. I know. I see it too.”

You smile softly, the corners of your lips lifting with genuine warmth. “I want you to know, I see everything you do. And I see you. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to prove yourself to me. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He opens his eyes, shimmering with something tender and real. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he cups your face and pulls you into a kiss, Slow, deep, full of all the unspoken words between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his lips. Stroking your thumb along his cheek.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Then his hands find your waist again, sliding gently over your sides, grounding himself in your warmth. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours again, not rushed, not needy, just full of quiet emotion. A kiss that says we’re okay.

You melt into him, arms winding around his shoulders as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. He kisses you again, and again, soft and slow, like he can’t get enough of you. Like he’s memorizing the way you feel, the way you taste when it’s safe again between you.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses bump and you both laugh under your breath, forehead to forehead. His thumb brushes beneath your jaw as he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead.

Then you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in as he breathes you in like he needs it, like he missed this even in the smallest absence.

You smile again, a little crooked now, brushing your nose against his. “Can we go make breakfast now? I want to pretend this morning started in the kitchen. Not me being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” He laughs, low and genuine, kissing your forehead. “Maybe a little,” he teases gently. “But you’re my idiot.”

You smile, cheeks flushed, and slide your arms around his neck. “So… should we start the day over?”

He grins, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Fingers laced, hearts lighter, you head further into the kitchen together, ready to begin the morning again, this time side by side.

You start pulling ingredients from the fridge, working in easy rhythm together. He’s in charge of eggs, and you handle the toast and coffee. Every time he passes behind you, his hand brushes along your lower back or waist, and you steal a kiss on his cheek each time he reaches for something near you. It’s sweet, almost ridiculous, like you’re teenagers in love for the first time, unable to keep your hands to yourselves.

You’re standing at the counter spreading butter when your phone buzzes in your hoodie pocket.

You pull it out lazily. The name on the screen makes your stomach twist.

Ex-husband Can we talk? Please. I just want to see you.

The sight of his name alone used to wreck you, stir up all the confusion and pain. But now… now it just feels distant. Faint. You stare at the screen for a second, lips parting in surprise. Not because it’s unexpected, he’s been sending messages like this every few months, but because of how numb you feel reading it now.

Your eyes drift to Seonghwa. He’s by the stove, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed slightly as he cracks an egg with one hand, effortlessly graceful even in a hoodie and sweats. He glances over and smiles at you, the kind of smile that says you’re his favorite part of the morning.

Something swells in your chest. You lock your phone without replying and leave it on the counter.

Then, quietly, you walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

He freezes for half a second, then leans back into you with a breathy little laugh. “Again?”

“Mhm,” you mumble into the fabric of his hoodie. “Can’t help it.”

Your hands slide up under the hem of his hoodie and find the bare skin of his stomach, soft at first, then slowly tracing over firm muscle with featherlight fingers.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His breath hitches. “I love you too but,” then, low and warm: “you need to be careful.”

You bite back a grin and slowly release him, stepping away like nothing happened. “Sorry,” you sing innocently, moving back to your toast.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stirs the eggs. But you act like you didn’t just get a reaction out of him. Like you didn’t just wake something up.

He chuckles, but then pauses when you lean over the counter just a bit too far, the curve of your body on full display. Your hoodie rides up just enough to tease his imagination, and your little satisfied sigh as you sip your coffee doesn’t help.

Even with the tension rising between you, there’s something light and beautiful in the air. You steal bites from each other’s plates, wipe crumbs off each other’s lips, laugh too loudly when you burn the first toast. You kiss over the coffee pot.

It’s not dramatic or extravagant, but it’s everything.

The quiet gratitude that you don’t have to wish for love anymore. You’re living it.

The rest of the morning flows in that slow, perfect rhythm. Dishes done together, sunlight spilling through the windows, occasional kisses stolen in the hallway. It’s one of those quiet days that doesn’t need a plan. No errands. No meetings. Just two people wrapped up in each other, moving through the softness of a lazy Sunday.

By early afternoon, Seonghwa is curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped along the backrest. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and an old black tee, barefoot, hair a little messy from your fingers running through it earlier. His phone rests beside him, untouched. Some documentary plays in the background, but he isn’t really watching it. He’s just… existing. Content.

You peek around the corner from the hallway, heart fluttering as you tighten the belt on your robe. You come padding into the room, soft steps on the hardwood floor. He glances up casually at first, then does a double take.

You’re wrapped in your short silkrobe, cinched tight at the waist, hair still slightly damp from the shower, skin soft and glowing. Something about the way you carry yourself is different. Intentional. A quiet tension hums beneath your slow approach, and it draws him in immediately.

He’s watching you too closely now, sensing something in the air.

“Hey,” you murmur, stopping a few feet from where he sits.

“Hey,” he says back, voice a little rougher now. “You okay?”

You nod, gaze flickering down as you toy with the edge of your sleeve. “I was just… thinking about last night again.”

His brows pull together slightly. “You don’t have to keep thinking about that. We talked-”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I know we did. And I know you said it’s okay. But I still feel bad.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a touch as he studies you. “You don’t need to. Really.”

You take another slow step forward, the robe shifting slightly with your movement. His eyes follow the delicate sway of fabric, the way it clings and parts at your legs just enough to hint at what’s underneath.

“But I want you to know,,” you say, eyes flickering to his and away again. “That I really hate that I said something that made you feel like I didn’t love you enough. Or that you weren’t enough. You are. You’re… everything to me.”

He blinks, caught off guard by the sincerity in your voice. His throat bobs as he swallows, caught off guard by how soft your voice is. How close you’re getting. How goddamn breathtaking you look under this lazy afternoon light, skin glowing, lashes casting shadows, mouth pink and nervous.

You take another step, and he shifts a little on the couch, legs parting instinctively as you drift closer into the space between them. You’re not touching him, not yet, but the tension is a livewire stretched between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes meeting his. “I’m really sorry.”

He blinks slowly. “You’ve said that like… four times now.”

You smile, just barely, lashes lowering. “I know. I just need you to understand how much I mean it.”

“Mmhm,” he hums suspiciously. “And this doesn’t feel at all like the start of something else?”

You widen your eyes innocently. “Like what?”

His gaze drops to where your robe has shifted slightly, just the faintest hint of something darker, softer, underneath. Not skin, not yet, but something lacy and out of place for a lazy Sunday.

Your smile grows, sweet, cheeky, utterly full of mischief. The robe shifts again as you step even closer, until you’re right in front of him, standing between his legs, barely breathing. You pull at the belt just slightly, just enough that it loosens at your waist.

“I just want to say sorry properly,” you murmur, the robe loosening, parting just slightly at the top to reveal a delicate strap against your shoulder. “That’s all.”

“Uh huh,” he says, dry but breathless, leaning back into the couch like he’s trying to maintain some sort of composure. “Just a pure, heartfelt apology?”

“Exactly. Nothing more.”

His gaze flickers over you, jaw slackening as more and more of the robe shifts, revealing the delicate curve of your waist, the high cut of the lingerie hugging your hips, the way the lace kisses your skin in all the places he loves most.

You drop the robe entirely, letting it slide off your shoulders and down your arms in one fluid, quiet movement.

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s completely paralyzed, unable to form anything coherent, his eyes glued to you, his gaze scanning the curve of your body like he’s memorizing every detail.

You’re standing above him in the most stunning set of black lingerie he’s ever seen, something sheer, something lace, something you bought weeks ago but never wore. You’d told yourself it had to be the right time. Something meaningful. Not just lust, but love. Trust. A real connection.

And today, after the talk, the honesty, the sweetness. Today feels like that day.

But it’s not just the outfit. It’s you. The confidence in your posture, the softness in your expression, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing underneath your fingertips.

His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t dare touch you, not yet. Not until you allow it.

You lean forward, just enough for him to feel your breath ghosting across his skin. His eyes flutter, and you smirk, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him. You move your lips closer to his neck, brushing softly at first, testing the waters. You pull his hair gently, just enough to tilt his head back. Your lips trail lower, over his pulse, down to his collarbone, leaving light, lingering kisses.

Seonghwa’s body tenses with every touch, his hands curling into fists beside him. His lips part again, but it’s still only a soundless gasp.

"Seonghwa..." you whisper, your hands sliding down his body, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt, teasing him with just enough contact to drive him crazy. You look up at him, your eyes glimmering with mischief as you drag your fingertips along his abs, taking your time.

He’s shaking, his breath coming in uneven pants now, but still, he can’t speak. He doesn’t know how to. There’s nothing to describe how beautiful you are, nothing he can say to capture how stunning, how perfect you look standing before him, so in control.

One thing you’ve learned about Seonghwa this year is how he adores when you take control. When you take the lead, tell him what to do, all while behaving so innocent. It weakens him and you love it.

And when you reach the hem of his shirt, he finally mutters something close to a whisper, his voice thick with need.

Your heart races as you drop down onto your knees, placing yourself between his legs. He doesn’t move, his eyes wide, drinking in the sight of you. You gaze up at him through your lashes, your hands resting lightly on his thighs. There’s a playful glint in your eyes, one that tells him exactly what you're about to do.

“Seonghwa,” you murmur softly, still looking up at him, “I don’t want to make you feel like you're not enough,” you continue, your voice sweet but layered with something deeper now, something he can’t ignore. “I feel so bad for saying what I did.”

You let your hands slide up his thighs slowly, the touch light and teasing. He’s growing noticeably harder under your touch, his body betraying him, but he’s still silent, completely at your mercy. You smile softly, knowing the effect you’re having on him.

“Do you know what it does to me… watching you try so hard to take care of me?” you ask, voice airy, adoring. Your fingers moving higher now, brushing gently against his waistband. You let the edge of your fingers trace the fabric, feeling him react to every light touch. “How strong you are? How patient?”

Seonghwa swallows, the tension in his jaw obvious. “Y/N,” he manages, but his voice is shaky, low. “What are you doing?”

You look up at him, your expression innocent, yet full of mischief. “I’m just trying to apologize properly,” you reply, voice sweet and slow. “Don’t you want me to make it up to you?”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s breathless, completely caught in the spell you’ve woven around him.

You give him a playful, teasing smile as your fingers tease the waistband of his sweats.

Seonghwa's eyes flicker between your face and your hands, watching your every movement as you tease him.

You finally slide your fingers under the waistband of his sweats, your touch just light enough to make his body tense. Slowly, you begin to touch him, gently, at first, just over the fabric, and he inhales sharply, caught between breath and moan.

“Does that feel good?” you ask innocently, your voice sweet, but there’s no hiding the teasing tone.

His chest heaves with another shaky breath, and he finally speaks, though his voice is hoarse and strained. “Y/N… you’re killing me…”

You don’t stop, your hand moves lower, wrapping around him just slightly through the fabric, feeling the full length of him, the heat of his skin through the material. He groans softly, his eyes closing for a moment as his grip tightens on the couch.

“I love you,” you murmur softly, voice tender but with a hint of playful fire. “You’re the strongest, most incredible man I’ve ever known. You make me feel safe, loved... like I’m the most important thing in the world to you.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on you like you’re the only thing that matters. He’s completely under your spell now.

Your nails skim lightly beneath the elastic, just enough to make his breath catch again. You glance up at him through your lashes, lips barely parted.

“Still okay?” you ask sweetly, voice soft and full of false innocence.

He swallows hard, then gives a weak, breathless nod. “Y-Yeah,” he manages.

You hum approvingly and begin to ease his sweats down slowly, your fingers careful and unhurried. He lifts his hips just slightly to help, and you smile at his obedience. The fabric drags over his skin until the waistband of his briefs is exposed, then those too, bit by bit, revealing the unmistakable evidence of how much he’s aching for you.

He’s fully hard now, flushed and heavy, resting against his stomach. You pause for a moment, eyes fixed on him, before looking up to meet his gaze again. He’s watching you like he’s dreaming, his lips parted, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“You’re so quiet,” you whisper, teasing. “No words for me?”

He tries, but nothing comes out. Just a soft, guttural sound in the back of his throat as you lean in, breath ghosting over his skin.

You place a single kiss just above his hipbone, your hands spreading over his thighs, holding him still. Then another kiss, lower this time, close enough that his body jerks ever so slightly.

You run your fingers along the inside of his thigh, nails grazing delicately as you keep your eyes on him. “You’re incredible,” you murmur, your voice rich and low, “So strong, patient, and completely perfect.”

His hand twitches against the cushion, and he exhales sharply.

“You always make me feel so good,” you go on, brushing your lips over his lower stomach, so soft it’s barely contact. “And now it’s your turn.”

You trail your fingers to the base of his length, light and slow, and he groans, finally breaking the silence.

“Please…” he whispers.

You smile. “Please, what?”

His eyes meet yours, dark, dazed, desperate. “Just… please.”

You press one more kiss to the base of him, just above where your hand rests. Then your lips part, and you finally take him in your mouth, just the tip, warm and slow, and his head falls back against the couch with a quiet, broken sound.

You hollow your cheeks slightly, tongue teasing the underside as you start to move. Soft, steady, deliberate.

He’s unraveling already, hips twitching beneath your hold, one hand leaving the couch to bury itself in your hair. But even then, he doesn’t push or guide, he just holds, grounding himself.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and sultry. “Do you want to touch me?”

His eyes darken with need, flickering between your face and your body. His breath hitches, voice rough and eager. “Please… can I?”

You smile, slow and knowing. “Not yet.”

His hand twitches in the air, hesitant, like he’s begging for permission, utterly captivated by your control.

With a playful gleam, you reach for the thin rope from your robe, twisting it between your fingers. Before he can protest, you loop the soft fabric around his wrists, knotting them together gently but firmly. His breath catches, a mix of surprise and thrill sparking in his eyes.

You smile, satisfied, and then take him in deeper this time, tongue curling, hand stroking what you don’t fit. He groans again, louder now, the sound raw and unfiltered. His hands tied tightly, leaving him utterly helpless. All he can do now is watch you, eyes wide, breath hitching.

You’ve got him exactly where you want him, breathless, speechless, and completely at your mercy.

And the best part is: you’re just getting started.

“Say something,” you purr, kissing the sensitive tip again, tongue flicking out ever so lightly. “Or are you already too far gone?”

He tightens what little grip he has, hands bound, clutching at the air, then shakes his head as if trying to clear the fog.

“I-, fuck-,” he rasps, voice low and hoarse. “You’re… unbelievable.”

You giggle sweetly, like it’s the most innocent thing in the world, dragging your tongue slowly along the underside of him in a long, languid lick that makes his hips jerk and a choked moan escape his throat.

“Mm. You liked that,” you say smugly, then take him back into your mouth, a little deeper this time, slow and warm and deliberate.

You pull off with a soft pop, saliva connecting your lips to his skin for just a moment before you lick it away, hand replacing where your mouth was, stroking him in that perfect rhythm that makes his head fall back with a desperate groan.

“You’re shaking,” you tease gently, voice full of amusement. “Is that for me?”

He barely nods, swallowing hard. “Y-yeah. You-, fuck, Y/N, you’re gonna kill me.”

You pout mockingly. “Awh, I know you can take it.”

He lets out a broken laugh, half-disbelief, half-plea, and you grin, proud of yourself.

“I’m here to take care of you,” you say sweetly, licking the tip again, giving him one slow stroke from base to tip. “You know you’re doing so well, don’t you?”

His voice is barely there now. “Yes… I try.”

You pull back, breath warm against his skin, eyes sparkling.

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not stopping until I say so.”

Your mouth returns to him, slow and hot and wet, and this time, you suck just a little harder, swirl your tongue in just the right spot, and the noise he makes? It’s ruined. Absolutely ruined.

His breath is ragged now, chest rising and falling like he just ran miles, tied hands clenched into fists, thighs trembling under your touch. Every time your mouth pulls off him, he lets out the softest sound of frustration, like it’s physically painful to be denied.

And you love it.

You press a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, then lick slowly back up to his hip.

“Y/N-” he groans, his voice cracking around your name.

You glance up at him, lips glistening, cheeks flushed. “Hmm?”

His eyes are wrecked, pleading, helpless, needy. “I’m-, fuck, I’m close. Can I-...”

You give him one more long stroke, slow and tight, then let go completely, hands sliding back up his trembling thighs instead.

“Can you what?” you ask sweetly, feigning innocence even as your eyes gleam with control.

He swallows hard. “Can I… can I cum?”

You tilt your head, pretend to think about it, even as your hands press into his thighs to spread him a little wider between your knees.

“I don’t know…” you murmur, lips curving. “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he breathes out instantly, no hesitation, no shame. “Please.”

You trail one hand up his stomach, nails scraping lightly over his skin under his shirt, just to feel the shudder it sends through him. Then you lean up, mouth at his ear.

“But wouldn’t it feel better,” you whisper slowly, “if you came inside me instead?”

He practically whimpers.

You pull back, just enough to see the complete desperation in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“Do you want that, baby?” you ask gently, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock, making him jolt. “Want to be inside me?”

“Yes-, fuck, yes, please.”

You smile, satisfied. Then, your hands move to the rope binding his wrists, fingers working carefully to loosen the knot. His eyes widen, breath hitching as you free him, letting his hands fall to your skin.

Then you pull back just enough to meet his eyes and murmur:

“Then take me.”

And in the next instant, he moves.

His arms shoot around you, strong and sudden, standing with you in one smooth motion as if he doesn’t even feel the weight. He’s carrying you before you can blink, mouth crashing to yours like he’s starving.

You laugh into the kiss, breathless, triumphant, dizzy with how much he wants you.

He’s hard. So hard, the outline of him straining against his sweats still burned into your vision, and now it presses hot against your thigh as he carries you. His jaw is clenched, breath shallow, like he’s using every ounce of strength to not lose it completely.

By the time he reaches the bed, he’s trembling.

But even now, even now, he sets you down with care. Like you’re too precious to just drop. Like he worships the very feel of you.

His eyes flick over your body, dressed in lingerie, glazed with hunger and awe.

You shift onto your elbows, spread your legs just a little more, watching the way he swallows hard, so hard it looks like it hurts.

“Cat got your tongue?” you tease, voice syrupy sweet.

He exhales shakily, running a hand down his face. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you purr, trailing one finger down your stomach. “You’ve been so good, baby. Letting me tease you. Beg. You were gonna come just from my hand, weren’t you?”

He groans, like the memory physically pains him.

You crook your finger at him, eyes heavy with heat. “Come here. Let me feel how badly you want me.”

He moves like a man possessed, kneeling on the bed, hands already reaching, but he doesn’t dare touch until you nod.

Only then does he slide a hand up your thigh, mouth parted like he can’t believe this is real.

“I want to make you feel good too,” he breathes. “Let me. Please.”

You smile, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him moan.

“Then make me feel it.” you whisper.

He moves without hesitation.

One second he’s on his knees, eyes locked to yours like he’s praying, and the next, he’s lowering himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

His shirt is off in a second, his hands slide under your thighs and pull you closer to the edge of the bed, lips grazing the soft skin there as his breath shudders out of him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers like it’s hurting him, tugging your panties down as he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing.

You rest back on your elbows, heart hammering in your chest as you watch him kiss up the inside of your thigh.

He dives in slow, teasing at first, tongue sliding between your folds like he’s savoring every inch, every sound you make. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you, but it’s not about control, it’s about devotion.

He moans softly the first time he tastes you fully, and the vibration sends a jolt through your spine. You reach down, fingers weaving into his hair, and tug just a little, guiding him, grounding yourself.

“Right there,” you gasp, and he groans again, like your pleasure is his reward.

He flattens his tongue, licking deep and slow, then flicks it exactly where he knows you need it. He’s relentless, not rough, not rushed, just overwhelming in how thoroughly he focuses on you. Like you’re the only thing that exists in his world right now.

Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and you feel the first wave of heat beginning to build, steady and sharp, curling low in your belly.

And Seonghwa knows.

“Already?” he murmurs against your skin, lips glistening. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice breaking.

He doesn’t. If anything, he doubles down, lips wrapping around your clit as he sucks just enough to make your legs start to shake. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you still, and when your hips buck, he lets out a deep groan that goes straight through you.

You’re teetering on the edge, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow.

Then you feel his hand leave your thigh, only for a second, before a single long finger slides inside you, slow, deep.

You cry out.

His mouth doesn’t stop moving.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And with one more deep flick of his tongue and a curl of his finger, you fall apart for him, back arching, fingers fisting in his hair, legs clamping around his shoulders as your orgasm crashes through you.

But even then, he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, eyes fluttering closed like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

Only when your hips twitch, too sensitive to take any more, does he finally pull back, panting, lips swollen, chin wet with you.

He looks up at you, completely gone.

“Can I have you now?” he whispers, voice rough and full of need.

Seonghwa leans in, his lips brushing over your collarbone as he kisses his way to your neck. His hand slides down, finally reaching the waistband of his sweats.

“I want you, Y/N,” he murmurs against your skin, and before you can respond, he’s pulling down his sweats, his cock springing free, fully hard and pressing against your inner thigh.

His eyes don’t leave yours, blazing with hunger, a slow burn that sears through you. He leans over you, pushing you back into the sheets, his weight settling between your legs, strong thighs caging you in. He takes your wrists in his hands, pinning them gently above your head.

And then, to your surprise, you hear a familiar sound.

A soft pull of fabric. The faint slide of a knot being tightened.

Your breath catches as you realize what he’s done.

He brought the rope.

The same one you used on him earlier.

You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen when he grabbed it, but now it’s there, looped around your wrists as he secures it snugly, expertly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

Your wrists press together above your head, bound tightly to each other. Not painfully. But firmly. Completely.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, wide with surprise and heat, and his expression is dark with satisfaction.

“You didn’t think I’d let that little stunt go unanswered, did you?” he says, voice low and dangerous, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You tied me up and made me beg.”

He dips his head, kissing you slowly, deeply, until you’re breathless beneath him.

“Now it’s my turn.”

You whimper against his mouth, hips rising instinctively to meet his, but he pins you down with one strong hand on your thigh, not allowing you even that much freedom.

“I said no more teasing,” he growls softly. “You’re going to feel me, Y/N, every inch of me, and you’re not going to move until I say so.”

His words are devastating. Delicious.

But he’s doing it for you. Because you asked. Because he remembers everything you said.

And because, right now, he wants nothing more than to make you come completely undone.

His words make your pulse race, but there's something else, a deep trust in him, the way he makes you feel safe while still pushing you to the edge.

You feel him shift, one hand moving between your legs to line himself up with your entrance. The anticipation is unbearable, the air thick with tension.

But just as the thick head of his cock begins to press into you, slow and deliberate, he stills.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his voice quiet but firm, his eyes locked on yours.

Your wrists tug instinctively at the rope above your head, bound tightly and useless now. You’re completely at his mercy, and he knows it. “I want you,” you whisper.

And that’s all he needs.

With a powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, filling you in one smooth, possessive motion. The sudden fullness knocks the air from your lungs, a soft gasp spilling from your lips as your body arches beneath him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He starts to move, slow at first, purposeful, but it builds fast, his hips snapping harder, deeper, each stroke more intense than the last. His hands leave your thighs only to clutch at your hips, dragging you down onto him with every thrust, like he’s trying to pull you even closer, like he needs to feel you everywhere.

Your wrists are tied together in front of you, still flushed and trembling from how he bound them, and now they’re pressed against your chest as he pounds into you with maddening control.

“You feel that?” he growls into your ear, teeth grazing your jaw. “Every inch of me inside you, just like I said.”

You nod helplessly, unable to do more than moan and cling to the sheets with your bound hands, the rope tight and biting into your skin in the most perfect way.

But then, your phone rings.

His gaze shifts to the nightstand, where your phone buzzes insistently.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. If anything, he grins, that wicked, knowing smirk spreading across his lips like he’s been waiting for this.

Seonghwa leans over, eyes glinting with mischief, and grabs it. Glances at the screen.

“Well, well…” he hums. “Look who wants your attention.”

He smirks. Looks down at you, flushed and wrecked beneath him, helpless in the knots he tied.

“It’s your ex-husband,” he murmurs, his voice dark and teasing, still thrusting into you like he owns the moment. “Answer it.”

He holds the phone above you, just out of reach, taunting. His pace doesn’t slow, not even a little. And the look in his eyes?

It says you’re his now.

Your body goes rigid as the phone keeps ringing, your heart pounding, your breath hitching, but the last thing you want is to speak to him. Especially now. Especially like this.

Your bound hands tremble as you take the phone from him, just barely able to clutch it between your fingers. You hesitate for half a second, but one dark look from Seonghwa, one slow roll of his hips that makes your eyes roll back, and you obey.

You barely manage to slide your thumb across the screen to accept the call, your voice a whisper as the line opens. “H-Hello?”

Seonghwa doesn’t pause. He fucks you through the word, drawing out the breath at the end of it, making your voice shake in a way you know your ex will hear.

He watches you with a crooked smirk, fucking into you slowly now, deliberately, dragging it out, because he wants you squirming, wants to see how long you can keep your voice steady.

“Y/N?” your ex’s voice crackles through. “You sound… are you okay? I’ve been calling-”

“I’m f-fine,” you manage to breathe, fighting to keep your tone level, even as Seonghwa shifts his angle and thrusts up hard, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your spine.

Seonghwa’s smirk deepens, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, lazy circles that nearly make you cry out. “Tell him you’re better than fine,” he whispers against your jaw, his breath hot and cruel. “Tell him you’ve never felt better.”

You bite your lip hard.

“I’m just… busy,” you murmur into the phone, your voice breaking as your hips jerk from the next thrust.

Seonghwa chuckles darkly against your ear, his breath hot as his lips graze your skin.

“Busy,” he echoes under his breath, and then drives into you again, harder. “That’s one way to put it.”

Seonghwa’s tongue drags up the side of your neck, slow and possessive. “Hold the phone still, sweetheart. Let him hear how happy you sound.”

You try, god, you try, but your hands are shaking, wrists straining against the rope, voice catching with every deep thrust he gives you.

You don’t even hear your ex-husband’s voice clearly anymore, everything fading into the background as Seonghwa takes you to the edge.

He grins, knowing you won’t be able to speak much longer, that the pleasure will soon take over completely.

“Such a good girl,” Seonghwa murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Answering your ex like this with my cock buried inside you… God, look at you.”

You’re barely holding on, your bound hands wobbling as the phone threatens to slip from your grasp. Seonghwa notices, of course he does, and with a soft laugh, he plucks it from your fingers effortlessly.

He leans back for a moment, letting you feel every inch of his length as he pulls out slowly, teasing. His cock glistens in the low light, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he brings the phone to his ear.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, your whole body aching from the edge he keeps dragging you along.

Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, listening to your ex's voice, panicked and confused, on the other end.

Then he smiles. That smile.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear, and his voice is just loud enough for you to hear over the pounding in your chest.

“You’re not really interested in hearing this, are you?” he whispers, his tone amused, taunting.

And then, with an audible smirk in his voice, he leans back again and speaks into the phone.

“You know, buddy,” he drawls lazily, thrusting back into you with just enough force to make you gasp, “we’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Wait-, what? Is this—Seonghwa?” your ex stammers. “What the fuck is going on? I just want to talk. I’m still—”

Your cheeks burn, humiliation and arousal tangling into something electric, something dangerous. Your bound hands twitch, instinctively trying to reach for the phone, but Seonghwa catches your wrists easily, wrapping his fingers around them like it’s nothing.

He pauses, hips grinding into you, his cock hitting that spot that makes you cry out. His grin widens as he watches the sound punch out of your chest.

“She’s not really available right now,” he says into the phone, voice thick with satisfaction. “But don’t worry. I’m taking good care of her.”

Your ex’s voice spikes in frustration. “What the fuck are you doing with her?!”

Seonghwa laughs softly, clearly enjoying this. “Well, that’s none of your business. Excuse us.”

And then, casually, like it means nothing to him, he taps the speaker button and tosses the phone onto the mattress beside your head.

Then he fucks you harder, brutal, relentless. The rhythm, the pressure, the humiliation of your ex’s voice being drowned out by the filthy sounds of your pleasure, your moans echoing through the room. Seonghwa’s hand tightens around your wrists, keeping you grounded, keeping you his, as he drives you closer to the edge.

You try to hold it back, but it’s useless.

Every inch of you is trembling, raw and exposed, as you finally let go, the orgasm tearing through your body in an overwhelming wave that makes your vision blur.

It’s like everything else disappears.

The only thing you can feel is him.

You’re a breathless mess beneath him, barely holding it together, your body trembling. But Seonghwa isn’t finished. He grabs the phone again with a smirk when he sees the call is still going, his voice low, commanding as he speaks directly into it.

“Oops… guess I forgot to hang up.” A smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he presses the button, ending the call with a casual flick of his thumb. The room falls into heavy silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing, unsteady and wrecked, and the faint echo of your pulse in your ears.

He leans down slowly, his mouth brushing your ear. “Now, where were we?” he whispers, voice low and smug.

His eyes lock on yours, dark with lust, satisfaction, and something more. Something possessive.

Before you can answer, his lips are on yours, not rough this time, but slow and hungry, like he wants to taste the way you’ve fallen apart for him. He kisses you deep, teasing, savoring, like the rest of the world still doesn’t exist.

Then he starts moving again.

His thrusts pick up pace, fast and relentless, slamming into you with the kind of rhythm that makes your legs shake. You’re already so sensitive, your nerves shot, but he doesn’t slow down. He won’t. He chases his own high with the same control he’s had from the start, hands gripping your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You’re barely aware of the choked cry that escapes your throat as he pushes you straight into another climax. It crashes through you like lightning, your wrists trembling where they’re tied together in front of you, fingers clenched uselessly.

And Seonghwa groans against your neck, finally giving in, his hips snapping forward one last time as he spills inside you.

You feel every pulse of him.

He stays there, buried deep, chest heaving against your back, his breath warm and ragged in your ear. His hand slides up your side, slowing, grounding you. Neither of you speak, the silence somehow louder than anything.

Eventually, Seonghwa shifts, his fingers grazing the knot at your wrists. There’s a tenderness in the way he unties you, like his own quiet form of aftercare. The rope slips away, and your hands fall loose with a sigh of relief.

And then, finally, you reach for him.

Your arms wrap around him weakly, pulling him closer, needing him. Not just the way he fucked you, not just the way he ruined you, but the way he stayed. The way he held you there after. The way he gave you all of him.

He lets himself collapse against you, careful not to crush, just to be there.

Skin to skin. Chest to chest. His warmth wraps around you like a second blanket, his head resting in the crook of your neck, the softest sigh falling against your shoulder. One of his hands slips into your hair, fingertips massaging lightly at your scalp, the other resting protectively over your hip, holding you close without a word.

Then, slowly, with care you didn’t know he was still capable of after all that intensity, he begins to guide himself out of you. You whimper without meaning to, not in pain, just from the loss, the ache of being that full of him for so long, and now not.

He hears it instantly. Feels it.

His lips press to your shoulder before you can even breathe his name.

“Baby,” he murmurs, guilt softening every syllable. “Don’t move, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You hum, melted into the mattress, and he presses one more kiss to your skin before slipping away.

You hear the faucet, the rustle of towels, drawers opening. He returns within moments, quiet, collected, but his hands shake when they first touch your skin again.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, kneeling beside you on the bed.

The first press of warm cloth between your legs makes you exhale, your lashes fluttering. It’s gentle, so gentle, like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly, as if you might break. He dabs softly, cleaning you with the kind of reverence most people wouldn’t even know how to give.

To him, this isn’t a chore. It’s devotion.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low, threaded with concern.

You hum. “Mhm. Still floating.”

He smiles, even though you can’t see it. You turn over on your stomach, resting your face on a pillow as you close your eyes. You can feel his love in his kiss when he leans down to press his mouth to your lower back, right at the curve of your spine. He kisses you again, a little higher. Then again. His mouth moves over your skin like he’s rewriting the story he just left behind in red, not erasing it, just softening the edges.

“I didn’t mean to mark you so much,” he murmurs, tracing a thumb over one of the faint handprints on your hip. “But God… the way you feel… the way you sound when you fall apart for me…”

His voice cracks a little, like the emotion is catching up to him.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair instead. He leans into your touch instantly, sighing into your skin.

“I like the marks,” you whisper, smiling softly. “It means you wanted me. It means you couldn’t help it.”

His fingers are so soft, so careful, tracing every mark he left behind, like he’s trying to memorize them. Then, his lips follow.

Kisses. Dozens of them. Scattered like stars across your back, your shoulders, your neck. Tender and slow and endless.

His breath hitches, and then he’s leaning over you again, pulling the blankets up carefully over both of you before tucking himself behind you, chest pressed to your back, one leg tangled with yours, his arm sliding beneath your neck to cradle you. You can feel him everywhere.

He nuzzles your touch immediately, pressing his nose to the side of your face with a long exhale. “Does anything hurt, my love?”

“No,” you breathe. “Just sore. In a good way.”

“Too much?”

“Never.”

His arm slides around you, and he reaches for your hand, the one you wear the ring on. The promise ring. The one he gave you after everything. After you chose him. But you didn’t know that he bought it before you knew you’d be his forever. When he had no right to. When all he could do was hope.

He finds your fingers and threads his through them, bringing them up between you.

And then, he kisses your finger with the ring.

Not quickly. Not casually.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes your breath catch.

It’s slow. Gentle. Reverent.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling out.

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around you.

“I love you more,” he breathes. “And I’ll keep choosing you. Every day. Just like I always have.”

And that’s how you fall asleep, his fingers laced with yours, the promise of forever resting warm and golden between you. His kisses don’t stop. Neither does his touch. Neither does his love.

And he’ll never stop.

Not in this lifetime. Not in any.

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