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tonycries · 8 months ago

Text

NNN

Synopsis. No Nút November finally came, and so did he!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, losing NNN, PÚSSYDRUNK BOYS, bréeding, creampíes, cúmming in his pants, oraI (fem receiving), cúmplay, spítting, húmping, making Geto WHIMPER, exhibítionism (Geto), jealousy (Gojo), GOJO’S POWERS, innap. use of jujutsu, true form Sukuna, dp, p slapping, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Y’all have no idea how I’ve been waiting to write this since FEBRUARY.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 8th Nov. 7:48PM

“S’stupid, so stupid-” Toji’s spitting, teeth grit so hard that he thinks he could taste the tang of metal. With a roughened grunt, his big palms smear open your sopping lips, “Such a stupid challenge, n’ a stupid month ah-”

And oh how Toji wishes he could reel back the babbles spilling from his ravaged lips. How he wishes his rumbling baritone didn’t shake ever-so-slightly near the end.

Because Toji Fushiguro was going crazy - and it was all your fault.

“Deprivin’ me of her-” Every single shred of his needy frustration from the past eight days bleeds into each gush of his furiously weepy cock. Fingers curling around the hilt to smack! smack! smack! his round, pinkish tip on your soppingly wet lips. “-ya know how hngh- crazy it drove me?”

One strong arm of his flexes mouth-wateringly tight around your squirming body, massaging your perfectly arched spine closer into his rock-hard abs. A full nelson. His favorite. One he’s missed for- “Over a week. Ohh- over a week n’ m’still not gonna lose.”

He already knew that was a lie.

Because just a single, sunken inch is enough to stretch your sloppy entrance so gapingly open, enough to have you keening for air.

To have him let his jaw fall slack with a hoarse drag of your name, drunken head falling back into the silken sheets when your gooey cunt swallows more and more of his hefty girth. So heavy and sweltering hot inside your clingy walls.

The first time in so long and it felt too good.

Your trembly fingers clutch Toji’s sweat-dampened locks. He growls with a rough pull of your hands, fat, readied balls giving such a painful squeeze at the simple gesture. Hiccuping a feverish puff of condensation by your ear, “What, ma? T-torturin’ me for eight days isn’t enough?”

“Not that–” you’re whining, batting away big bulbous tears of stimulation in your eyes. “Jus’ need you so bad.”

Fuck, that has every drop of blood in his body pumping right to his maddeningly hard dick, staggering size growing twofold.

You feel his velvety shaft kiss deeply into the bullseye of your g-spot, swollen length making your elastic walls constrict around him. Shit, all it’d taken was eight days to almost forget how jaw-droppingly big Toji was. How he was rutting up in mindless, squelching wet gyrations up into your dripping cunt.

“Shoulda thought of that before ya were holdin’ out on me.”

And Toji’s utterly seething, pressurizing his riotous hips with enough of his almost-inhuman strength that he’s fucking you like he hates you. Every one of his words are dripping in a scolding tone, pumping up harshly with sudden jabs into your snug pussy. Deeper and deeper and oh-

He can’t help but leer his glassy eyes over down at the heavenly view, splaying his beefy forearms underneath your quivering legs to stretch you out shamelessly.

“Did ya kn-know this was ah- gonna happen?” he gruffs, already feeling a slight trickle of drool down the side of his scar. “That this stupid fuckin’ challenge was gonna drive me mad? M’still not- not gonna ah- cum-”

Fuck.

But even Toji didn’t know at this point.

“Shit-” Your body bows in an even sluttier way, hips swiveling in slow, sultry grinds to guide the very end of his weepy cock into kissing your most sensitive spots. Drawing wet, translucent glides of steaming hot precum down your insides. “W-wasn’t on purpose, Toji I s-swear- s’a chall-”

“Challenge my ass.” he’s rolling his eyes, and you feel his lips graze across yours in a messy excuse of a kiss. Dark brows furrows, a low ah! ah! ah! leaving his mouth with every slurping plunge. “My only ch-challenge right ah- fuckin’ now s’to get you to cum–”

You shake your bleary head, fingers dipping to his wrist. “No– wan’ you to cum first-”

Earning you a sweet, simpering smack! right alongside the peak of your throbbing clit, he’s smoothing over the sting with methodical massages of his rude fingers. “Move that damn hand.”

Leaving you gasping when he shotguns his painfully hard cock at such an angle to mash ruthlessly into your g-spot, your cervix. Punishing, bruising spearheads to remind you. “A challenge and m’gonna t-treat it like one. Cum.”

But oh, if Toji Fushiguro thought that he was running on merely the fumes of his sanity before then he wasn’t ready for you to finally reach your orgasm.

Milking his cock in only a few more shuddering jams before you’re crashing headfirst into a sudden wave of your high, tightly stuffed pussy gushing out in honeyed gushes. It glistens down into his drenched tufts of black, squirting all over his rippling abs to shine an almost-creamy sheen.

His dewy eyes widen - you squirted. You squirted.

And in response all Toji can do is bite down into the tender crook of your neck. Bite and bite until he was cumming.

Whimpering out a broken tone into your skin, his sharp canines dig even more animalistically. Dangerously pulsing cock snapping upwards in a sudden surge that has his rummagingly fat tip bumping into your womb, a thorough thrust before dumping out thick, voluminous spurts of his cum.

“F-fuck–” he’s breathing out unsteadily, sculpted chest heaving for breath. Eyes still scrunched firmly shut no matter how much he wanted to see that prettily fucked-out expression on your face, because ever slight squeeze of your cozy walls had him twitching out another ribbon of cum. “Oh god- shit, ma- this pussy- gonna be- hngh- death-”

Easily overstimulating Toji until he could feel embarrassing tears prick behind his lids, cumming after what felt like so long and now he didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop.

Instead swirling a ravenous thumb down the edges of your leaking slit, pooling the creamy dredges of his seed that’d formed a little ring around his thick base.

Without warning he’s shoving every single pearlescent bead back into your already overspilling pussy.

“Heh, whatever-” he tuts, sliding his tongue down those syrupy splatters of your slick - glossing all the way up to his scar. “Now that I’ve already lost this stupid challenge, jus’ stop yer whinin’ and ride me proper, doll.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 21st Nov. 5:31PM

Nanami Kento was not going to lose to your little challenge.

He was not going to let down his gorgeous wife.

He was not going to-

“Fuck.” Nanami heaves, he gasps for air. “Fuck.”

Thick fingers curl even tighter around his fat hilt, squeezing within an inch of himself. He’s hissing at the way that makes his angrily red tip blush even deeper, beading down glistening beads of precum that drip! drip! drip! right onto your pretty face.

“Tha’s it-” he’s huffing out, darkened eyes drooping into a sultry half-lid. Muscled thighs spreading further, he sears a firm five-fingered grip onto your hair. Cool wedding ring brushing over your scalp, “K-keep that gorgeous face still f’me, my love.”

But oh, despite that sweet, sweet pet name his tone drips with such sheerly primal need. Hoarse towards the end with something dangerous.

It was only a brief mention of this month that ended up with you two this - just a tiny joke of a special reward at the end that had Nanami clenching his teeth and his sanity to keep from cumming this entire month.

And he’d only made it so far.

All it took was a single pissed off work meeting, a single complaint from a client, one bad day at work for him to slam your shared apartment door open. Striding his way towards you darkly before spitting to you - his beautiful wife - “on your knees.”

Not even to have your pretty mouth on him- no, Nanami’s blond brows furrow deeper, sweat sheening a thin layer on his forehead when his greedy palms just drag down his drooling length. Over and over.

“Ken-”

“Shit.” His fat, rotund head twitches at the mere sound of your honeyed voice, his favorite song. Gushing out a steady stream of glossing precum against the side of your lips, and Nanami just hunches. “Shhh, darling you’re gonna have me-”

“I want you to, Ken.” you’re batting your lashes up at him in a way that makes him gasp, admiring all the dips and curves of his sculpted body. “Please?”

He pants out such a shuddering breath that you feel fan your face, stern lips falling further and further slack with every sodden clench of his balls. Every swirl of the soft pad of his thumb around the bawling pinkish divot of his tip.

“Take it.” Reward be damned. He was nothing against you. His metallic wristwatch flashes with every hurried pump up and down up and down up and- “T-take it all f’me, my wife.”

And oh then he’s cumming - head thrown back, toned abs rippling, face burning red when he’s moaning your name like a mantra. Over and over again into the heady living room air because Nanami hadn’t even made it as far as the bedroom before giving into that dark urge to paint your pretty features white with himself.

Spazzing tip weeping out thick dredge after dredge of his seed that sticks to you like a sloppy second skin. Drooling down the side of your mouth, and he’s guiding his fat cock to gloss over your lips. Pretty.

“My love- get up-” he’s hissing through clenched teeth. And before those syrupy slurring words can even register in your mind, Nanami’s swiftly looping two strong arms around your waist. Dragging you upwards like some glorified ragdoll. “Need- hahhh– I need-”

Immediately, you’re being carried to splay all out on the plushy sofa nearby, Nanami hovering over you with kiss after messy kiss. Tasting himself, tasting you.

“Have no idea how much- hngh–” Shit, he can’t even speak right now, words breaking into the most whiny groans you’ve ever heard pulled from the man. “How much I missed-” And with a particularly loud squelch! he’s reeling back just enough from the filthy kiss. Drunken grin leering across his face at the dripping gleam all over the lower half of your face, delicate strings of spit and cum still connecting you to him. “-this.”

You’re blinking away the haze, pressing pecks into sight dimple at the corner of his mouth. “M-missed this, too- Hah, don’t even care about that ch-challenge.”

Gliding an open palm down your curved spine, he grins. “Exactly what I like to hear.”

And then you feel like you’re being split open apart so widely that it feels like Nanami’s reaching into your very lungs, swiping the milky tip of his still-hard cock against those hidden-away sensitive spots of yours. He’s prying open your snug cunt with steady, slow spearheads, barely even tugging away his work tie before folding you into such a thorough mating press.

“I remember–” he’s dancing a thumb across your sodden lips, glossing it over in the most obscene opaque coating of cum you’d never even imagine. Popping it into his mouth. Sucking. “-something about a reward.”

He’s smearing his left hand down your throbbing clit - purposefully, to chuckle at the way you whine and puff about the cool sting of his golden wedding band. But more importantly, Nanami’s other hand draws down an invisible line about halfway down your stomach.

Fuck.

Exactly where he could feel his leaky cock bludgeon solid, circular bruises into your spongy cervix. Bouncing back at the recoil, exactly where he knew that little nudge was, dragging his pulsing cock to massage your cunt, your womb-

You suck in a shuddered inhale, “Wh-what about the reward?”

“Well, since there’s no ngh- u-use in the challenge anymore…” His long fingers press down hard. And oh the way the realization dawns on your face makes you look so beautiful underneath him - his beautiful wife. But Nanami can’t help but think how much more of a beautiful momma you’d be. How perfect. Unable to tear his eyes away from the slow dribble of cum down your lips. “How about a reward for both of us, my love? Two or three rewards?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 11th Nov. 3:33AM

“S-Sugu-”

“...”

“Sugu-”

“Shhh–” Your leader’s silky smooth voice thrums at your throat, pressing an unapologetic trail of kisses down the tender skin. And you jolt at the sharp nip of his canines, “We’re trying to have a hah- meeting here, honey.”

But it was anything but that.

Fed up with your little challenge, Geto had all but demanded you sit with him through your next cult meeting. Plopping you down all prettily on his manspread lap as soon as the rest of your members filed in, acting for all the world like he wasn’t just taking filthy advantage of that short skirt he’d insisted you wear.

Stuffed staggeringly deeply inside.

Your saturated pussy lips bulge around his fat length, swirling his swollen cock around your walls with even the tiniest jostles. Firmly and readily cockwarming him for hours now.

And both of you were nearing your limits - especially Geto, but, of course, he couldn’t let you know that yet.

“Something wrong?” he’s lilting his baritone voice in volume, just enough for the surrounding members to catch interest in. Deliberate. One massive palm gripping a handful of your hips, “Seems like you’re having oh- difficulty gettin’ comfortable, gorgeous?”

Muscular thighs bouncing up and down in a relentless little cadence that had you gripping onto his decadent robes for balance. Tiny, rummaging thrusts of his sloppy length pierce your snug insides. Ridges upon ridges of his prominent veins massaging every single sweet spot he could reach - all of them.

They had him coaching those gruff grunts to the very back of his throat, fists curling on the table to prevent himself from simply slamming you down until you were stupid on his thick cock.

Babbling out in a desperate tone, “Suguru I can’t-”

Oh? He grits his teeth at the clingy squeeze of your velvety walls around his rotund tip, the way your ass jiggles at every slight gyration. So filthy. Raising one dark brow, Geto flicks a finger at the rest of the meeting to carry on. “Can’t even handle a lil’ cockwarming, hm? What h-happened to my stubborn girl from before? And her no-nut-Nov-”

“Stop teasing!” you’re mewling out with a pretty pout that makes him twitch inside. “Jus’ want you t-to cum–” d-don’t care that i-it’s November anymore-”

His rock-hard cock throb throb throbs inside your melty walls, bumping every oozing wave of precum into the very bottom of your pussy. And you could hear mutters spurting from every corner of the room now.

They knew. They always did.

“Oh so now, you don’t care?” Geto snickers, leaning back in his velvety chair to seep a bit more power behind his swiveling hips. “D-didn’t hngh- seem so greedy for my cock when ya made me p-promise not to cum for a month.”

As if to prove his point - and disprove yours - Geto’s hand comes slamming! down onto the vast mahogany table, grin wide. Dangerous. A primal rasp resounding at the back of his throat when he’d punishing your poor pussy with his first thorough thrust yet.

One. Two. Three.

“P-please!”

“P-p-please, what?” he’s mocking, dramatics of your own whiny tone.

“Please, Sugu–” You’ve definitely attracted the attention of every other person in this meeting room right now. But Geto couldn’t give a fuck. Not when those words fall from your syrupy sweet lips, “-m’s-sorry jus’ fuck-”

SLAM!

He stands. One hand at your neck, the other at your clit.

And as soon as your needy front is hitting the cool table, Geto’s merciless cockhead is diving thoroughly into your sweetened spots. The sudden change in angle letting him barrel his girthy shaft to tuck away at your very womb, all it takes for you to cum.

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, nails clawing at the poor wood, he’s driving his weepy cock in to pound you through every single one of your highs.

Peak after peak that Geto can’t help but get addicted to, and he’s missed this heavenly feeling so much that he can’t help but let his mean mouth hang open. Dark, dewy eyes rolling so far into the back of his head that he’s forced to scrunch them closed.

The table rattles precariously when he’s rutting his hips into you ferally, sharp hip bones smacking aching bruises against the fat of your ass. Pressing you down with his entire body weight when-

“Oh- oh shit, all your f-fault. Fuck-” He half-collapses when he cums. Over and over in thick, stringy wads that gush into your very cervix. Sloshing around with each of his jackhammers, it paints your velvety walls with a dripping white coat. Again. And again. And again and again- “So jus- take it-”

Shit.

Geto almost forgot how unfairly good it felt to have his achy cock milked by your cunt. Mustering up every shred of will to crack an eye open, he could spy the way your soppingly wet slit was overspilling with so much of his seed.

Licking his lips, he’s holding back a whimper.

And, truly, it was almost embarrassing the way that obscene sight was all it took for Geto’s once-softening cock to shoot up another few wispy ribbons of cum all over again.

So much of it that he couldn’t control.

Couldn’t even think of taming the way he was hiking up one powerful thigh onto the table to drive even more forcefully into you. Fingers curling almost painfully tightly around your throat to reel you into a filthy kiss of teeth and tongue.

He has absolutely no shame wrapping his glossy lips around your tongue to suck. And even less at the way that honeyed taste of you is all it takes for him to shoot a well round of sputtering blanks into your pussy.

Chuckling tearily at those downturned, greedy eyes - shit, when did he even start crying? “A-aw look, you’ve interrupted the meeting, gorgeous.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 4th Nov. 10:01PM

“F-four days?” Choso’s swallowing a heavy gulp, burning face buried into the crook of your neck. And he can’t stop from heaving in deep inhales, from letting his mouth water. “-s’only been four days, baby?”

That cute, broken quiver in his tone has you tittering out a teasing giggle, something that only has his breath even more shortened. Brows knitting together when his hips just rut-

“Sorry.” your lovely boyfriend’s hiccuping, trembly fingers wrapping even tighter around your body. And he’s trying - scrambling - oh-so-desperately to stray his glassy gaze back onto the movie on-screen. He has to. He needs to or else he’s about to lose his fucking sanity. “Sorry didn’t hngh- didn’t mean to, jus’ ignore-”

But that’s when Choso’s breath hitches, when his large body wrecks with a violent shudder running down his spine. “Are you alright, Cho?”

Because oh, your taunting body was squirming up just right against the hefty girth of his swollen cock. Dragging your ass down the exact line of his sensitive slit in a way that has his hand grasping roughly onto your hips to make you stop-

“M’gonna ah- m’not gonna be able t-to do it, baby–” he’s pleading in a filthy kiss against your lips. Sucking. Begging. “Please- don’t-”

“Don’t what, Cho?”

Shit, that nickname has him hurling his hips forwards with a choked-up grunt. Seeing white-hot pleasure behind his eyes at every one of your smoothly swiveling gyrations, seeing you in all your dripping wet glory when he thumbs your drenched panties just to the side.

“Shit.” he gasps, dewy eyes widening, breath turning feverish at your neck. “Shit shit shit- wh-why are you so-”

And Choso moans, he can’t even finish his sentence right now. Can’t do anything but tug down his too-tight gray sweatpants to glide a steamingly hot smear of precum down your slit.

“So what- oh-” Your taunting mouth only drops further and further open when he’s dragging his achy cock down your cunt like he was addicted. Getting off to the way that your saturatedly wet pussy lips were coating him in a glossy sheen, sucking him up like you wanted-

“Just the tip.”

It’s his little mantra.

Rasped out over and over into your open mouth, panted in every messy kiss of his reddened, fat head against your sloppy hole. Once. Twice. Pretty pecks to French kisses..

“What was that–?” you’re batting your lashes, your hips meeting his messy cadence when his own speeds up. Keening at the sculpted leg being thrown over yours to angle his driving pistons more determinedly - desperately.

With a low whine at the back of his throat, the curved tips of Choso’s fingers find their sultry way down to your clit. And he’s giving you a harsh tug at the very peak before sobbing, “Just want to put it in, baby- jus’ the tip- p-please-”

“Just the tip?”

The movie long-forgotten.

The resounding squelch! squelch! squelch! of skin on sodden skin rings louder in your ears, as do those tiny hitches in Choso’s pants. Words gurgled though those big, bulbous tears rolling down his cheek, “Please- can’t do it anymore. Ngh- wan’ to c-cum- can I cum inside?” Drooping, half-lidded eyes boring right into your bleary ones, “Please?”

And all you can do is nod.

All Choso can do is try not to lose his fucking mind just as soon as the thick circumference of his head is bullying past your swollen folds, feeding you inch after ragingly needy inch of his cock.

All it takes for him to lose - because with the most broken of moans, you’re being stuffed snugly full with the sheer volume of Choso’s cum. With just the tip. And there’s so much of it, it’s like he hasn’t cum for years, sloshing to hit the very back of your womb, slopping around in a way that makes you shiver.

Wrangling to slip out his cock the tiniest inch-

“No!” Choso gasps, eyes blowing wide almost comically. “No no no- wanted- inside- hngh-” His ruddy lower lip wobbles at the slow, sultry dribble of his potent seed down your inner thighs, glossing over his own hands when he’s smearing your sodden pussy lips stretched even wider. “Inside, baby–”

“O-oh my god-” your eyes can just barely crack open when two slender fingers slip into your slick entrance, plugging you staggeringly full as soon as he’s shoving you tight with the rest of his angry cock. Rock-hard length stretching your meshing cunt taut, the very tips of his fingers being jostled to the side of every spongy g-spot in your walls. “Cho- s’too full it won’t- won’t- ah-”

The sheer stimulation was maddening.

And Choso was drunk on your pretty moans.

“Yes it will-” he’s babbling, syrupy saliva being drooled in a streaming wad right onto your lolling tongue. And with his free hand, he’s prying your pretty mouth shut. “Don’t- hngh- don’t sound so cute, baby s’gonna make me- oh-”

But you could already guess.

Because just the slightest note of your voice, the slightest grind of your hips to fuck back into his mindlessly messy cadence had him jolting inside you. Too-sensitive tip twitching out in honeyed ribbons of precum that drip down your walls.

Choso hisses with a sudden thwack! of his hefty balls kissing up against your cunt, gliding a hand underneath your thigh to pound into you languidly. Desperately. “Four days- shit- couldn’t make four days without this c-cute cunt-”

“Baby—” you’re huffing, your half-lucid eyes drifting away to the black screen. “The movie’s over.”

He huffs out a wet bout of laughter into your lips, nipping slightly at the very bottom one. “But I g-guess that doesn’t matter when I ah- already l-lost does it, baby?” Reeling out the sticky digits of his fingers, snapping at those delicate strings of cum and your sweet, sweet juices. He grins. “Because I already have four day t-to make up for-”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 7th Nov. 8:29PM

Times like this, the king of curses found himself on his knees. Times like this, he wanted to ruin you.

“Awww, don’ be like that, woman-” he’s digging the rough dark claws on two hands onto the small of your back. Inhuman stretch wrenching you down, down, down that never-ending girth of his twin cocks. “Not when I’ve hngh- got you like this-”

But the only answer you’re giving him is another one of your stubborn pouts, brows scrunched together in a way that makes his tips twitch. Eagerly nudging up in a wet kiss against one of those sweet spots Sukuna knew would make you mewl.

Your lower lip wobbles with a whine, “M’ s-still mad at you, Kuna.”

Ah, he’d roll his eyes at your adorable antics but he knew that wouldn’t quite help his case. You’ve been like this ever since you’d joked about that little tradition humans did in November - and he took it seriously.

Too seriously, according to you, perhaps. With the way your devilish boyfriend was still fucking you into the decadent royal mattress - simply leaving you teasingly high and dry the mere moment he felt his orgasm coming.

And now, the very actions had him groaning. Powerfully muscled hips staggering upwards to bob you slowly on his cocks, rearing his fat tips against your cervix, your g-spot, your cervix, your g-spot, your- “What more do you ngh, want, brat?”

It’s asked with a sudden sopping swat planted on your beading cunt, and Sukuna’s taking the opportunity to let his other tongue take over. A slow, lewd drag of those massive tastebuds down your throbbing clit.

“I-I don’t ngh-” you’re moaning, and he already knows he’s winning. By the way your melty walls are cozying up even hotter around his thick cocks, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “-don’t know-”

“Awww–” The third of Sukuna’s big, beefy arms just can’t help but thread through one of your own, bringing it right up to his lips to leave a saccharine sweet kiss on the back of your hand. “My woman- my love-” One. Then another. And Another. “My queen, tell me what you want.”

Your tone cracks into a saturated whine when he ambushes a particularly sensitive part of your g-spot, drawing a wet glisten of precum down the side of your walls. Swelteringly hot. “W-want more-” Your trembly arms snake around his broad shoulders, digging into the smooth muscle. “-wan’ more, Kuna- hah- please-”

And who was Ryomen Sukuna to ever say no to you?

In just a few split-seconds, you’re being dragged right off of his bulging cocks. Throat just barely moving to whimper in disappointment, when Sukuna manhandles you to splay out pliantly on all fours on those silken sheets.

Face buried into the mushy pillows, his cocks buried in your dripping cunt.

“Shit-” he’s shuddering, heavy balls clenching at the newly sodden wave of slick that drools down your slit. And Sukuna can feel himself drool ever-so-slightly, hiding his burning face away in your neck. Thank fuck for doggy. “Is tha’s all you wanted, then–”

And every one of his surging thrusts have you plummeting further and further up the bed, gripping onto the mahogany headboard. He’s swiping down your thrumming clit, kissing a wet trail down your sluttily arched spine.

You sob when his smacking hips turn bruising, your gummy walls stretched to your limits. “Y-you were so mean-”

“Mhm– so mean, baby.”

“M-made me so hngh- mad- never liked that ah- stupid challenge-”

Sukuna’s just snickering, flashes of white-hot pleasure sparking behind his eyes. Every time he’s milking himself on your tight pussy forcing him to hold back his whimpers, his gasps. One large set of his rough digits curling around your throat to haul you off of the bed, your head airy when he’s fucking each and every single thought out of your syrupy mind. “Don’ worry, my ah- spoiled brat. M’gonna fill up this oh fuuuck- cute cunt n’ there nothin’ you n’ any stupid challenge can do about it.”

Both of his rock-hard cocks were so messy, dragging out the sloppiest of slurps when he’s rummaging around your velvety insides. Spurts of wispy white precum staining down your sodden walls, making you gasp.

“M’so close-” You’re arched into the perfect bow for Sukuna to drag his lips down yours in a filthy kiss, humming darkly. “Gonna ah-”

Your pretty cunt has Sukuna chuckling, babbling out drunkenly. “So cum then- hah- why dontcha cum. Cum all over my cocks-” And he wants it. Needs it now, and shit- he’s never participating in this puny human custom ever again. Lazing out his second tongue to squelch an unapologetic pathway to your clit. Rolling. Sucking. “-go on then, woman. Show off f’me.”

And each one of his words were trembling with sheer desperation, cracking, even when you’re finally reaching your peak. Pound after pound. Every flick of his monstrous tongue drags you through your high, letting your toes curl.

With a sudden, hefty shudder, his cum-filled balls clench - and Sukuna’s finally cumming. Harder than he has in all his thousands of years. Harder than he ever thinks he could.

You’re simply at the mercy of both weepy ends of his cocks when they burst out thick streams of his seed, reverberating the most filthiest of sounds that make your ears buzz. Doubly. And his balls smacking against your ass grow drippingly wetter, your poor pussy overspilling each of his steamingly hot ribbons of cum.

“Fuck-” Sukuna sucks in a sharp breath, tears crinkling at the very ends of his eyes from how heavenly it felt having his stringy seed slosh against and between his jostling lengths. His hand feels for that inflationary bump where you’d been stuffed full, purring. “Did you take your pill?”

You blink, “N-no?”

“Good. Because m’suddenly wanting for an h-heir this Christmas.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 1st Nov. 12:17AM

Shit, he’s going to lose. Gojo’s musing with whatever’s left of his syrupy mind - or wait, was it even November, yet?

Ah, he can’t even remember. Can’t even think to do anything but piston the very cockhead of his needy length between your puffed-up pussy lips. Spreading apart your folds with an easy, glistening swipe. And he’s so half-lucid that Gojo giggles at the way your ready cunt is taking him in so well.

“You’re mine-” Gojo’s panting out a feverish breath. Kissing your sopping wet cervix easily with each furious thrust, he’s spitting out a wet drawl of profanity into your lips. “M-mine, y’know that?”

“Toru–” Fuck, your cracking whine has Gojo’s glassy eyes veering into the back of his head. Murmuring out a vibrating groan. “S’jus’ hah- what’s gotten into you-”

And the strongest could babble about how seeing that newly appointed teacher at Jujutsu Tech churned his gears. He could tell you about how easy it is to conjure up a hollow purple when some bastard is making eyes at his wife.

Especially in November of all days, when he’d finally said he was going to make it through the whole month. He has to.

But, no.

Instead, he’s crackling the very soft tips of his fingers with jujutsu. Pinching your clit ever-so-slightly–

“Fuck!” Your spine’s arching into such a delicious bow that has his mouth watering. His thoroughly sunken cock bursts out in a few dangerously wispy waves of precum that make him shutter a gasp. “U-using jujutsu’s not ngh- fair-”

“Fair?” he hiccups, nosing down the side of your neck. “Not fair is how hah- good this pretty pussy of yours f-feel, sweetheart.” And he’s rutting into you so sloppily, massaging down your elastic walls with each of his prominent veins. Over and over Gojo can feel himself losing his mind- “Shit- I think I-I’m the one that-”

You can’t even react.

Because in a split-second, Gojo’s splayed out all the way near the foot of the bed. Teleported.

Strong hands jostling your legs spread even further open, drool dripping down the side of his mouth when he just drinks in your essence, feverishly hot breath hovering over your quivering cunt. And that pathetic mewl barely out of your lips before-

“A-at least I can’t lose the ch-challenge way, heh-” Gojo’s lips move sultry and slow over your already thrumming clit, wrapping around so prettily to suck on the saturated beads of slick.

You can only keen, you can only thread your shaky fingers through his snow locks. Giving a harsh tug that does absolutely nothing to deter his messy make out with your cunt - if anything, your husband’s surging his face even deeper into his favorite heaven between your thighs.

Nose meshing against the very tip top of your presoaked slit, dragging in a wet glide with every languid roll of his tongue into your sloppy entrance. Jaw grinding deeper and deeper-

He’s simpering out such a fucked-out smile on your pussy, long pinkish tongue lolling out to smear open your swollen folds. And all you can do is watch and watch as he’s slurping up syrupy stripes, slender fingers dancing their way dangerously up, up, up-

“Ah!” Your entire body wracks with a sudden surge of electricity - coming from the slender digits currently bullying their way into your slippery entrance. Gushing a thumb over your clit- “Toru what did I tell you about-”

“Ah, the jujutsu?” Gojo leans his head deliriously against part of your inner thigh, leaving a wet trail of bites. Hips mindlessly grinding down pathetically onto the plush mattress. Fuck.

And he looked so pretty like this - gaze drooping so close-lidded that they were almost shut, blue eyes half-glowing, mouth all glossed over with a dripping wave of your sweet, sweet juices. With this, you’re gifted with another swat of his thumb over your sodden clit, slurring, “Can’t r-remember a thing–”

And then you’re cumming.

Toes curling, your hips jerking upwards into his ready hold, fisting painfully at Gojo’s hair. If it hurt then he didn’t show it. Anything but. Because he’s hiking his legs up into a seated position, your trembly thighs splayed out shamelessly on the muscles of his broad shoulders.

Dragging and dragging you through your high with drippingly wet sucks on your clit, those drawing squelches ring in your ears and make you gasp. It was so filthy.

But not as filthy as the way that Gojo’s head drops backwards with a wet whimper, his eyes firmly scrunched shut. “O-oh sweetheart I-” Bedroom lights flickering.

And then nothing more is said as he just rips down the rest of his overpriced trousers until they were nothing but tatters hanging haphazardly around his slender waist.

Jittery fingers immediately taking hold of his cock - his furiously cumming cock. From just eating out his girl.

So reddish and weepy at the very thick tip of his, streaming out thick ribbon after ribbon of his seed that coats his fist a glossy white. You could see the way his hefty balls clenched, how his girthy shaft was twitching ferally in his fingers.

He bares you with his drunken gaze, lightning bolting at the ends of his eyes. Kiss electric. Sucking on your tongue over and over - before shoving two of his dripping wet digits between your pretty lips.

“There we- hngh- go don’t give a fuck about November-” You flinch when he smacks! his cock along your overworked clit. Circling the very edge of your entrance with his fat, sobbing tip.

Coated such a creamy ring with his cum. His.

Prattling, “Th-this is what my girl s’pposed to hah- look like. My girl.” And as soon as he sinks in just the barest of his bulbous head - the lights go out, in all of Tokyo. Soon, in all of Japan. “Heheh, doesn’t c-count that I lost no nut November if I can’t hngh- see it, right?”

A/N. Hope y’all have a lovely lovely NNN *evil laughs*

Plagiarism not authorized.

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fairykukla · 4 months ago

Text

Why "Universal" means "Equally bad."

So you go to the store to buy needles for your sewing machine. You are going to find one of two things: a few "Universal" needles, or a large section with dozens of needle types.

"None of these say my machine brand on them," you think. "What do these numbers mean?"

I'm here to help you out!

It turns out that needles for sewing machines have amazing specialties to help make the work easier.

Ball point/Jersey: these needles have a rounded 'ball' point so that they don't accidentally cut the threads in a knit fabric. Ever cut a thread in a sweater? We don't want that to happen in a knit fabric either. Knits are used for t-shirts, Sweatshirts and the like.

Sharp/Microtex Sharp: My Beloved. If you sew on any woven fabric, and see "puckers" along your seam, you're not using a Sharp needle. Developed for micro-textiles, these are brilliant for printed quilting cotton, satin, woven silk, and the like.

Jeans/Denim: larger eye, bladed tip. The Sharp is a stiletto; a Denim needle is a sword. The bladed tip makes it easier for your machine to power through densely woven fabrics like canvas, upholstery fabrics, brocade, and old-fashioned denim.

Stretch: this needle is designed to sew on Elastic fabrics with minimal skipped stitches. Spandex and Lycra can stretch so well that they're carried by the needle into the bobbin area of the machine, preventing the stitch from completing. Stretch needles pass through the fabric easier without punching holes.

Quilting: Yep! There's a needle for this! Great for piecing, these really shine while sewing through the layers of fabric and batting. They make free lotion quilting a lot easier, and you won't have to fiddle with the tensions as much!

Leather: perfect for Vinyl, pleather 'vegan' leather, actual leather, and suede, this needle is like a Denim needle with a twist; a twisted blade, that is. It makes a perfectly round hole to prevent the dreaded "Tear along the dotted line" effect.

Metallic: yes, all needles are made of metal, but this type is gentle to metallic threads for decorative work.

Topstitch: this needle has an extra large eye and groove to accommodate heavier threads. Great for high-contrast visible topstitching with heavier threads.

There are others, but this is a good place to start. "Universal" needles don't have any of the specialized features listed above. They aren't sharp, aren't ball-pointed either. They have an average sized eye and groove.

They will sew. They will form a stitch, and they can be a lifesaver when you're not sure what kind of needle to use because you're sewing with more than one challenging fabric simultaneously. However, they aren't "good at" anything. They're kind of "equally bad" at everything.

Do yourself and your sewing machine a favor: Use the right needle for the right project.

One final pro tip: change your needle every 8 hours or so of actual sewing, or at the beginning of every major project.

#2025 #sewing machine needles #machine needles #sewing machine advice

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

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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notsodelirious · 2 months ago

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Little Red Riding Hood

synopsis: your boyfriend’s a werewolf and sometimes he needs a little help with his ruts

notes: NFSW MDNI, also super unrealistic sex, reader is fucking a werewolf so like, they’re allowed to be a little elastic

tags: vaginal sex, monster sex, knotting, dubcon, referenced breeding kink, ftm reader, werewolf!Jason, 1k words, no use of y/n

no, I’ve got nothing to say for myself, I just like monsterfucking, enjoy

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

He was a werewolf.

You knew this intellectually.

He had told you point blank.

He had shown you.

He was a werewolf.

Fully, through and through, without a doubt. A werewolf.

And yet mating seasons never occurred to you.

He explained it vaguely one evening when he said he’d be spending a little time away (ei. lost somewhere deep in the Rockies where nobody could find him).

You asked if you could come.

He scrunched his face and explained what would happen if you did. In vivid detail. How attached he’d get to you (even more than currently) how desperate he would get, doing anything and everything in his power to knot you, stuff you full of his cum, as much as your body could bear.

You just blinked up at him and smiled.

He worried that he’d hurt you during his rut—he’s heard of partners getting hurt during their werewolf’s heat; but you had pointed out most cases were cishet couples, from 100 years ago.

You’d been on T for a couple of mouth now, did strength training with him; he knew how strong you were.

It took a little more needling, a little more reassurance before he finally gave in.

A month later you found yourself in the Rockies.

You sat by the crackling bonfire, a beer in hand, simply enjoying the silence and the stars—Jason had left a little before the moon had risen to acclimatise himself alone.

Not that he lost all inhibitions when he shifted—the disorientation just made him a little violent—and you were perfectly okay not being around for that.

He promised he’d find you, no matter where you waited. And you believed him.

You kept an ear out on the forest, watching the shadows dance and flicker, embers and fireflies flitting across your eyes.

You shuffled closer to the fire—dressed in only a pair of old sweatpants and a dye stained hoodie, you were dressed for the hunt, not the temperature.

Jason didn’t want you freezing. You didn’t want him tearing off perfectly good clothes from your body—you weren’t worried about the aftermath. This was the compromise and you made do.

You used a stick to arrange the kindling when you heard a branch snap. Followed by a deep growl.

“Jason?”

You didn’t have time to turn.

You cushioned your face before your head could smack against the ground, grunting softly as you inhaled dirt and ashes.

You didn’t try fighting—it was far too late for that. You just squirmed in his grasp, massive hands holding you down as claws caught on the fabric of your clothes and tore them apart—swiftly, no hesitation.

You gasped and grumbled about the cold air, nipples pebbling as they scraped against the ground, uncomfortable but not yet painful.

“Jay?”

The beast—Jason—huffed, growled softly, nosing the back of your head as you felt the warm, heavy weight of his dick land against your back, making your heart stutter in anticipation.

He rutted against you, passively, almost disinterested in the act itself, more fascinated by your smell and touch, but leaked thick pre-cum down your back.

You almost whined when he pulled away, basking in the cherishment and body heat, almost having forgotten the threat of violence—only for your eyes to widen when you feel the tip of his cock press against your unprepared pussy.

“Jason-! Jason, wait!”

Your pleas went unheard—the tip of his cock pressed against your opening before splitting you open, tearing a scream from your throat. His fat cock forced its way between your walls, stretching you far beyond what you had ever experienced before—he pressed in deep into your body, his tip insistent against your womb, your stomach bulging slightly from how many inches he was stuffing into you.

You moaned brokenly as you were pulled all the way down to his pubic bone, handled like nothing more than a doll, limp and wheezing in his hands.

His warmth breath blew against your back as he huffed softly before he started to move—slowly at first, getting used to your tight warmth, clenching around him like a vice grip, he gradually sped up until he was fucking viciously into your body.

“Ah- ngh… Jas’n,” you mumbled as he thrusted into you with reckless abandon, bullying into your cervix, your stomach clenching as he threatened to push past it. “Ja-ay-“

Your face was pressed into the ground, his determined huffing against the shell of your ear, snapping his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the trees around you, your cries and pleas turning into nothing more than wet sobs and whines.

Your mind slipped into oblivion, the burning and pleasure in your pussy searing through your mind and you could do nothing more than sit there and take it as he bruised your insides, claws leaving indents into your soft skin.

You felt him get closer, felt him grow more desperate, whining and panting; his knot grew, catching on your rim once, twice before he was slamming in to the hilt, popping his knot into your abused pussy.

He growled, jackrabbiting against your ass, balls drawn and cock twitching inside you before he flooded your insides, marking you with his cum as he buried himself deep inside you, pumping loads into your welcoming cunt.

Your entire body fell for a moment, muscles relaxing as it forced itself to accept all of Jason, everything he had to give, his love and cum alike.

You were laid on your side, carefully, as if to not shatter your already ruined body, bruised and bleeding, and cut and trembling…

You hummed softly at the cold nose pressed into your neck.

You pushed it away weakly, blinking as the fog dissipated a little. You shifted, only to wince when your cunt tugged his knot—nearly making you gag at the sudden nausea.

He nudged you again, licking your cheek, appeasement as you breathed through the discomfort for a moment, focusing instead on the firm swell in your lower belly.

You chuckled breathlessly as you looked down at him, adoring and love stricken as he rested his big head against your chest.

You ran your hand through his fur, smiling as he chuffed.

“Does this mean we’re having cubs?” you asked softly, laughing again when his tongue darted out to lick your jaw.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

I’m thinking of either doing a part 2 or the other boys (Dick probably as a merman and Bruce as a dragon, idk) but all of that will have to wait until after my summatives — anyway, requests are still closed due to aforementioned essays and the slow process of writing the ones in my inbox, but here’s my masterlist for more works <3

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writing-prompt-s · 9 months ago

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On a random day everyone is given a super power based on what they were doing in that moment, people who were reaching for something can now stretch like elastic, people who were running now have super speed. You really wish you were doing something else when it happened…

#writers #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #writeblr #writing inspiration

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quarterlifekitty · 3 months ago

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if devils were real (they'd be in the military)

john price/succubus!reader part 1

When John lays down for sleep, he does so with a smile. Talismans greet him from each cardinal direction of his room, ready to bring his darling home to stay. When you come through his window, you're none the wiser. In the dark of his room, your tattoo glows a faint pink over your womb.

You settle yourself gently atop John's hips, just barely grinding your panty-clad pussy against his boxers before he starts to stir. He stares at you with that dumb, sleepy smile like a man in love. It almost makes you feel a bit bad for what you're about to do to him. But not quite.

The scent that begins to pour from your skin is heady and saccharine, making the air heavy as it coats the insides of John's lungs better than a cigar ever could. He's hard in an instant. You giggle, rubbing your hands up and down, cupping the swell of his chest and raking your fingers through the coarse, dark hair.

Price lazily brings a hand to the curve of your hip, perfectly playing the part of the fool out of his mind from your pheromones.

"Daddy," you purr, "I missed you so bad… wanted this cock more than anything…" the words drip like honey off of your tongue, landing feather-light against his throat, threatening to catch the breath within. Your pinkie finger ghosts at the elastic of his boxers, just barely catching and slipping underneath with a perfectly timed bite to your lower lip.

His heart does pound. But not for the reason you think.

The night follows your usual routine. A few special tricks to keep things interesting for him (or maybe your just do it for yourself). Grinding that pretty, wet little pussy against him until he's aching. Taking him into your mouth with a tongue just barely too long to be natural. More and more teasing until you finally let him into your soft, wet heat. You languish in it when you're fully seated— hips flush with his. A drawn out moan escapes you, a shiver running down your spine as you feel his pre leaking out inside you. An appetizer for what's to come.

"Always feels so big… I'll never get used to this cock, daddy. It's just so much—" another rehearsed bite to the lip, tears at your lashline as you grind yourself down and choke out a sob.

John often doesn't speak much during these encounters. Pretends he's too hazy on your cocktail of a scent to formulate a full sentence. But if there's one thing you've always noticed about him, it's his gaze. Men tend to keep their eyes firmly locked on the hypnotic bounce of your tits as you ride them, minds too addled to focus anywhere else. But John keeps his eyes firmly locked onto yours. You chalk it up to his rather severe case of loneliness, but it does unnerve you. Like his line of sight is an ice pick being driven under your eyelid, probing in a place you yourself haven't mapped.

Like he's looking in your eyes just long enough to pull the wool over them.

But you're too much of a professional to let silly little ideas like that affect your performance. You can feel him start to swell and throb inside of you, your tattoo pulsing in anticipation. He lets his eyes close, and he quirks his lip enough for you to see the grit of his teeth as he cums inside you, a shiver running through you from the surge of power it creates. The mark of your womb radiates a bright fuchsia as you take it all in.

It takes some restraint on John's part not to dig his fingers deep into the fat of your hip when he cums— he's just so ready for you to be his. But he hasn't gotten this far by acting in haste. A rustling of paper, a glimpse of calligraphic sigils in the corner of his eye, all a sign of victory on the horizon.

This would typically be the part where you say goodnight. Kiss his forehead and stretch your onyx wings wide to take back off into the night.

It's worth everything to John and more— when your wide eyes betray the searing tension binding the muscles at your shoulder blades.

A careless fly treading six-legged over the trigger hairs of the carnivorous plant.

It becomes your turn to grit your teeth when every attempt at unfurling you wings just makes more pain bloom in their place, almost causing you to double over. John's other hand creates symmetry, planting itself on your other hip. He holds firm and bucks his hips.

The sound you make is beautiful. Unplanned. For a man so neurotic, it's shocking that something so spontaneous could please him so much. It's not the kind of sound a performer makes. No, it sounds like someone thoughtlessly tied a silk ribbon around the neck of a swan just a little too tight.

In the fraction of a moment after that strangled cry leaves your throat, you're on your back, staring up at the cat who caught the canary. His stare is unrelenting, wanting to burn your vulnerability into his synapses. A chuckle rumbles through his chest, deep enough that you swear you can feel it where you're connected still.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart. Why don't you tell daddy what's wrong, hm?"

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #succbus reader #john price #john price x reader #cod x reader #succubus reader

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space-salaman · 11 months ago

Photo

Gerald's Stretch Power! 🎋🥊 - drew him with his favorite power Wow he saved a goblin pal of his who got roasted from the evil fish! :0 And he got to spar with PowerCroc too, cool! ~ ~ ~

Bsky 🦋 | Twitter 🐦 | FurAffinity 🐾 Join me on! Discord Server 💽 | Telegram channel🎨

Posted using PostyBirb

#marubahrt #superhero oc #stretch powers elasticity #human oc #furry crocodile oc #powercroc the hero #alfonso the crocodile

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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

Text

Chaînés

ballerina reader x gym-rat soap

It's hard for Johnny to focus at the gym when there's a ballerina spinning in a box just for him.

tags: johnny "came back wrong" mactavish, light stalking, non-consensual pictures/drawings, johnny is not mentally sound, references to johnny being shot, choke holds, abduction.

a/n: i keep having dreams about being back in ballet and being forced to dance so i this is my attempt of getting that dream to stop.

There is a new room in the gym. It stares through Johnny like baptism water in the church he attended when he was a child. It burns just as bad as the hellfire his pastor promised would befall him if he couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil.

He’s watched its construction for the last handful of weeks. Incessant drilling and the cacophonous melody of power tools has made his evenings pumping iron less than pleasant, and his ears ache from how far he has to shove his earbuds into the canal to drown out the noise. The only reason he started coming here was because of his sleeping issues—how his body seems too high strung to relax when the moon rises—and it’s been disrupted by inconsiderate construction workers. Now, every bastard in a high-vis vest has vanished, leaving him alone with nothing but the bar clasped in his palms and the lingering sillage of sawdust.

For a few more weeks, the room stands empty. It’s nothing special. Nothing that he believes should harbor more of his attention than has already been stolen. Floor to ceiling glass windows offer little privacy for the pinewood floors and dazzling mirrors that line the walls. It is an abandoned box. It haunts the gym with no heart to hold.

When no one is looking, he wanders through the unlocked door. He is met with only the sound of his running shoes echoing off of the pristine floor and the never-ending image of himself pasted upon the walls. He sees himself from every angle. From the side, like a bystander. From above, like an omniscient god. It only gets worse when the automatic lights trip and flicker to life, buzzing like the dying breath of an animal caught in the constricting ribcage of fear.

Johnny stares at himself as if he were a stranger. He scrutinizes the tattoo on his forearm and the stretch of his compression shorts over his thighs. Angry fingernails dig into the pink keloid by his temple. His skin buzzes at the bump. Hair follicles attempt to press through the scar tissue, but it follows the old fracturing of his skull. It dies in a star pattern that leaves him naked—a warrior without a weapon.

As his feet cross the threshold back into the weight room, Johnny promises himself he will never traverse back into that box again.

On Monday, the room is full.

Women clad in elastic garments sprawl out on the floor on multicolored mats as they stretch. Their appearance stops Johnny in his tracks, leaving him to stare through the thin window that separates them apart. Yoga, he realizes. The awkward positions and instructor towards the front has his skin squirming within its own confines. There are too many eyes. They echo through the mirror—they all find him.

Deciding to spend his evening on the other side of the gym, Johnny starts off with cardio. It’s the only way he can satiate the need to flee from wandering gazes without actually vanishing. It’s the only way he can drown out the solicitude that lurks too deep for him to reach in and claw it out.

Peeved that he has to now change his whole routine, Johnny grumples through the night as he packs up his water bottle and slugs towards the exit. As his feet tread, he reminds himself to request the class schedule for the room from the front desk. He wants to avoid the eyes. The gazes. The pupils that pierce through him worse than a bullet.

Johnny freezes when he sees something spinning.

There, through the thin veil, you dance. Rhythmic and fluid. Like a babbling river. Like blood dribbling from a wound. Propped up en pointe, you pirouette with your arms above your head and your head snapping in spinning circles, eyes keeping contact with yourself through the mirror. He witnesses the way your chest expands with a huff—how you refuse to rest before attempting the move again.

You see him in the mirror. Standing behind you, pack slung over his shoulder as if it were heavy enough to be a rifle. He sees you see him.

Ignoring him as if he is nothing more than a trick of the light, you continue with your practice.

Johnny can’t sleep at night. The image of you burns too deeply into his retinas, and he can’t shake you loose. You’re lodged in his psyche. Trapped deep in the tissue of his brain where you nettle—making space for yourself. A bed of brain matter. He envelopes you too readily. His body holds you home and it screeches whenever he attempts to yank you out like a weed from the earth.

So you spin.

And spin.

The next time he goes to the gym, he brings his sketchbook.

Really, he’s not sure why he lugs the thing around. The only thing it’s full of is pain—bleeding ink that soaks each page like blood on cement. That book harbors the residue of each gun he’s shot and the soil of every country his boots have kissed. It holds the memories of the places he can’t return to. The man he used to be before he was fractured beyond repair.

Now, he uses it to record you. Committing your image with his pencil, he sits on the bench press closest to the window as you practice again while the night waxes away from the evening. He sketches the curve of your pointe shoes, the delicacy of your fingers as you hold your arms out on either side of your torso—you’re printed onto paper as you present an arabesque with trembling calves and quads.

Throughout it all, you do not recognize him in the mirror behind you. You give him no hint that you are aware of his presence besides a quiet flickering of your eyes in the reflective surface before you continue to glissade across glistening floors.

It isn’t until the second week of this—of this new routine Johnny has found himself in—that he realizes he never sees you enter or exit the room.

You’re always there, appearing out of thin air the moment the area is vacated by the yoga class or anyone else who wishes to lurk within those four, painful walls. He blinks, and you’re there, dancing through the windows like a collector’s doll stuck in the confines of her box for all of eternity. Never to be embraced. Never to be loved. Only made to be gawked at while chained down by your hands and wrists, unforgiving zip ties digging into your skin like a honed edge.

It’s then that Johnny begins to question if he’s seeing things again. Factitious things. After he was discharged (bullet buzz, buzz, buzzing through his skull, cold cement on his cheek, blood, drip, drip, dripping from his teeth), it was troubling to differentiate between what was real, and what was fabricated. Thoughts bleeding into reality—a clear ichor that only morphs his vision, but doesn’t obscure it.

At home, his fingers brush over his artwork. Tenderly, as if he’s pasted your very flesh onto each page. He tells himself that you have to be real. The proof of it is in his very hands—it’s tangible. This book that holds your likeness. It would be impossible for his disconnected mind to dream up something as lovely as you. There is no morphing here. No shadows twist to contort and confuse his mind.

He’s sure of it—

—until he isn’t.

Once more, his sweet ballerina has come to perform for him—to haunt him. You spin before him like a music box doll, steady and without a care for the eyes piercing through the window to look at you. There is not a single soul in the building besides you and him. (If you even have a soul at all). The barrier that separates the two of you seems thinner than ever as he puts pencil to paper and inscribes your likeness as if he fears his mind might forget if there is no physical reminder to follow him home.

He soaks up the view of your feet. The way the arch curves beneath your body weight. The way sweat beads along your collarbones and the line of your forehead. He wonders if the brine is as tasty as it looks.

When you stop to catch your breath, your eyes find Johnny in the mirror. Sitting, hunched forward on the bench, scribbling down in his journal. His heart ceases to beat, and the tip of his pencil stills against his paper as he straightens himself up. He would open his mouth to speak if it weren’t for the insufferable barrier that separates the two of you—keeping you confined to your own little worlds. Instead, he smiles.

You stare right through him.

You do not smile back.

Johnny is incensed when you continue your routine. You leap through the air without a care in the world, and you leave him sitting there to wonder if you ever even saw him at all. No, you did. When he reaches up and touches his chest, he feels his shirt. He feels the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. His hand presses forward and it doesn’t punch through his sternum because he’s real.

He’s real.

But are you real? Or are you some creature sent to torment him within the confines of his own mind?

Slamming his journal shut, Johnny tosses it into his bag with a huff. Hot air passes from his nostrils like a bull ready to charge, and he struts up to the glass, so close that his nose nearly presses against it. Fog builds on the surface as his palm lies flat against it. It’s frigid to the touch. Standing, separating. The barrier that traps you is real and algid beneath his fingers.

But are you real?

Metal bites into his skin as he twists the knob on the door to the room. He promised himself that he would never step foot in there again—where the eyes are plenty and his scar screams louder than he can—but he tells himself he has to know. It clicks quietly shut behind him only to be drowned out by the sound of your pointe shoes tapping against the pine at your feet. It echoes like a hushed prayer. It rattles his eardrum. Tangible. Real.

But are you real?

Feverish skin bleeds through his hand when he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Wild eyes look to him, and for the first time he’s able to see what they’re like without the barrier of a reflection to get in the way. Sweet lips part and he sees the way your teeth shine beneath the fluorescent lights that hang over your heads.

“Excuse me?”

Bitter. Sharp. Your question pierces through his eardrum and he smiles. Your voice. An alluring melody. His grip only grows more firm as you attempt to wrench yourself free from his grasp.

Real.

Your screams are just as corporeal as the rest of you. It reverberates off the walls of Johnny’s skull, and it forces his face to contort at the throb in his brain. Oh, how it aches. How it always aches. He muffles you with the palm of his hand flat against your lips and he presses until he feels your tongue. Rigid nails dig into his flesh as his forearm wraps around your throat and squeezes. He feels the sting of broken skin—real—and the pressure of dull teeth against his fingers—real—and hot tears along the back of his hand—real.

It isn’t long before your body grows heavy. Johnny lays you on the floor like Ophelia in a river; Odette in the lake; Aurora in her bed. Limp limbs lie helplessly as he stares down at you and rakes trembling fingers over every inch of your body. Every curve he has committed to memory for the last few weeks is now here before him—tangible.

“Real,” he says outloud. A tender thumb brushes against your split bottom lip. “You’re real. And I’m real. I made you real.”

Johnny sleeps better now that he’s started going to the gym. Muscles melt just as they should the very moment his head hits his pillow, and his slumber calls to him without issue. Of course, it helps that he has his sweet ballerina to keep him company. Head propped up next to his, tear stains on your cheeks, and eyes squeezed tight as you rest soundly in his bed.

He reaches out and cups your cheek in the palm of his hand. Your skin twitches beneath him, but you do not stir. Grinning in the darkness of his bedroom, Johnny hums, content with his life. Content with knowing that you truly are real.

After all, the proof of it is in his very hands.

#ilium writing #jm ilia #female reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader

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captainmalewriter · 6 months ago

Text

Just Like Him

Lewis stood in front of his bathroom mirror with an ancient tome full of magic spells in hand. He had stolen it from an antique bookstore just the other day. All it took was slipping the book into his jacket as he walked out the door. Now, a world full of powerful magic opened up to him- and without ANY restrictions.

Lewis grinned as he mentally rehearsed the incantation he was about to cast. He couldn't decide what spell to cast first, but after hitting the gym that morning, Lewis knew exactly which one he wanted to use. He wanted to steal the appearance of the handsome gym bro he saw at the gym. In Lewis' mind, Darwin was the embodiment of a perfect man. Good looks, bulky body, cute face with a full beard... No doubt a man like him could get any woman or man he wanted. Lewis knew he liked Darwin from the moment he saw him. But his attraction went beyond just the physical. His lust was infused with intense envy. Lewis wanted nothing more to become Darwin and was ready to use magic to accomplish that. Surely, his luck in the dating world would increase tenfold with a body and face like Darwin's.

Feeling determined, Lewis took a quick breath then set the book down. He focused on his reflection in the mirror, then recited the spell from the ancient tome.

serised ym fo tcejbo eht emoceb i llit ydob ym mrofsnart wen eht htiw ni dlo eht htiw tou

Once he recited the last syllable, a wave of nausea hit him like a semi truck. His face tingled as stubble along his jawline came in. Lewis was never able to grow much facial hair, but that changed thanks to the magic spell. Stubble soon became a full beard and thick mustache as seconds on the clock ticked away. Lewis smirked at himself as his face morphed to match his gym crush. Within minutes, his original face was gone and in its place was the hot Filipino Darwin.

Then, he felt a sudden tenderness in his chest area. Lewis had always been a rather thin, flat-chested man. His pectoral muscles were growing at an explosive speed. Lewis bounced in place his pecs grew heavier and heavier, causing them to jiggle from their newfound heft. Loud, whiny moans left Lewis' lips as he pinched his sensitive nips. His torso thickened up with mass too until his body filled in the baggy wife beater he was wearing. Yet despite growing bigger, his body fat percentage remained low, giving Lewis the physique of a big, cuddly man with visible ab lines but still had plenty for a lover to grab and play with.

"OHHHH FUCKK MANNN!!!"

Lewis cried out with delight as he felt a surge of blood rush to his groin. No doubt it was just a physical reaction to the magic hitting the lower half of his body. He became fully erect within seconds, but something felt inexplicably off. Lewis was blessed with a well-endowed cock. He knew how his big tool sat in his pants when he was hard. It didn't feel the same this time. With bated breath, Lewis pulled out his underwear and took a peek at his- or rather, Darwin's tool. His jaw dropped when he saw his once 7.5 inch monster shrink until it was just slightly below average at around 5 inches.

"What the fuck? Nooo..."

Lewis was powerless to stop the shrinking. He wanted to become an exact copy of Darwin after all, and like a computer program, the spell he cast was just doing its job.

But while Lewis was focused on his new package, his butt began growing bigger and rounder until he had the perfect bubble butt of a man who never skipped leg day at the gym. The elastic waistbands of his briefs and sweats stretched out a bit as they had to accommodate his new dump truck. Darwin had an ass that turned heads when he walked into the room. Lewis himself knew how true this was. He couldn't help but take a good, long look or two (or three) as Darwin hit his squats. But as mouthwatering Darwin's butt was, Lewis was a total top. He was more interested in putting Darwin's tool to work than having someone lay it down on him.

Or so he thought. As his ass became the perfect size and firmness, Lewis' thought patterns began changing too. Suddenly, all he could think about was finding a long, girthy cock to tame his hungry hole. Dreams and ideals of a monogamous relationship were erased from his mind and in their place was Darwin's burning desire as a power bottom to be used and bred by any attractive man he came across. Just imagining taking backstrokes from a gang of big, strong men making his cheeks clap with every thrust was enough to make Lewis drip with pre. Soon enough, Lewis had become a perfect copy of Darwin just like he wanted. Both in body, and in horny mind.

#male transformation #male tf #male body theft #permanent change #unintended consequences tf

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astrcmoni · 1 month ago

Text

༄sucia༄

MASTERLIST

▹sucia ~ kehlani

synopsis: after the final curtain falls on your set, you find a new rhythm in the hush between jazz notes and gasps—wrapped in silk, skin, and your fiancée billie’s hands. in the quiet, she teaches you worship, and you teach her how to crave slow.

pairing: burlesque!fem!reader x billie eilish

genre: smut

wc: 9.4k

warnings: alcohol, teasing, oral sex (b! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), mentions of cigarettes, let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

author’s note: can’t believe it took me a month to write this. i highly suggest for you to listen to the song to understand the tone of the story.

the speakeasy shimmered like a secret too good to keep.

hidden beneath the bones of an old hotel, it breathed in velvet and candlelight, steeped in sweat and anticipation. the room was all smoke and satin, heavy with perfume, jazz, and unspoken things. it wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into—it was the kind of place you earned your way inside.

there she was, sat in the far corner of a booth.

the velvet cushions clung to her like memory, her frame tucked low into the shadows, legs crossed beneath the table like she had all the time in the world. one hand toyed with the stem of a half-melted glass, the amber liquor inside catching glints of the stage lights like it, too, was waiting. the low hum of jazz vibrated through the walls like a second heartbeat, but she wasn’t listening. not really.

her eyes were locked on the stage.

on the hush before something holy.

the music dipped.

a shift so smooth it felt like sin—something slower now, more dangerous, thick with bass and suggestion. the lights melted into a haze of deep red and smoldering gold, a dusk painted across velvet. smoke began to unfurl from the floorboards, heavy and deliberate, curling slow around ankles and heels, crawling toward the ceiling like it had secrets of its own.

billie leaned forward, slow and deliberate, as if pulled by a string only she could feel.

her glass hovered near her lips, but she didn’t drink.

couldn’t.

the velvet curtain peeled back with the hush of breath held too long.

and you emerged—

barely a sound, barely a step. like a secret whispered into skin.

your presence flooded the stage like warm liquor down the throat, like dusk falling too fast.

your skin gleamed under the lazy lights, slick and golden, as though you’d been dipped in sunlight and slow fever. even the air around you seemed to bend.

you didn’t walk.

you arrived.

and billie? she forgot how to breathe.

your outfit was western temptation made flesh: a red velvet corset sculpted tight, boned and curved like a prayer answered too late. gold rope laced the seams with the promise of undoing. red stones glittered across your chest, catching the light with every slow roll of your hips, like fire had decided to wear diamonds. the neckline dipped, sinful and sweet, inviting the eye and daring the heart.

your shoulders—sharp, exaggerated—spoke of theater and danger, of power hidden behind lace. long ruby gloves traced the line of your arms, and your boots, thigh-high and slow-striding, echoed against the stage like gunshots wrapped in silk. a wide-brimmed western hat dipped low, casting your eyes in shadow, but your smirk sliced through the dark like a blade.

this wasn’t for them.

it never was.

your gaze yearned for her instantly—threaded through the dark like a compass needle to its north.

you tilted your head, just so, letting the lights catch the high curve of your cheekbone, the gold dust clinging to your collarbone. your lips parted, not to speak, but to taste the moment.

and billie—

billie was a prayer on the verge of being answered and undone.

her breath caught in her throat.

“fuck,” she whispered, barely audible over the music.

you smirked wider.

as if you heard it.

as if you knew.

you placed one hand on your hip, the other dragging the tip of your glove down the curve of your thigh, letting the anticipation stretch, elastic and aching. every movement was molasses—slow, deliberate, aching with control.

“she’s gonna ruin me,” billie murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

and maybe she already had.

you took another step.

and another.

the stage wasn’t a stage anymore. it was a battlefield. it was a bedroom. it was a confession booth.

and every eye was on you.

but your eyes—your eyes were only for her.

the one who wore your name like a wound beneath her ribs.

the one who sat there now, undone and worshiping, not sure whether to pray or misbehave.

maybe both.

because the thing about devotion is—it never comes clean.

and tonight, neither would you. your eyes scanned the room, not looking for strangers—no. you were searching for your mark. your muse. your prospect.

and once you found her, once your gaze collided with billie’s across the smoke-drenched distance—you didn’t look away.

you lingered.

you stared straight through the haze and into her soul, like you knew every secret she tried to bury in the dark. like you could see the trembling heartbeat hidden behind her ribcage. it made her shift in her seat, jaw tightening, her spine pressing deeper into the velvet cushion like she could escape the weight of you.

she couldn’t.

your eyes pinned her in place. your attention alone touched her—more intimate than hands, more invasive than breath. one ringed finger twitched against the fogged edge of her glass.

you moved with the music, letting it pour into your bones, letting it pull you like silk across skin.

your hands slid from the tops of your shoulders, trailing slowly, deliberately down your arms—like you were memorizing yourself for her. soft caresses curved over your body, fingertips grazing the outline of temptation wrapped in velvet and gold.

each step was a tease.

measured. smooth. deliberate.

your hips swayed with a rhythm all your own, fringe swishing around your thighs like it had its own pulse—like even the fabric was desperate to touch you.

you slid one gloved hand down the slope of your waist, trailing slow over the curve of your hip. languid, sensual, almost cruel in how little it gave. someone gasped—but you didn’t flinch.

because your eyes never left hers.

blue met fire.

and something ancient stirred.

desire bloomed in the space between you, thick and smoky, unspoken but undeniable—simmering low like embers waiting for breath.

you reached the edge of the stage and descended slowly, deliberately dropping to your knees in a fluid motion that made the room forget how to breathe.

your thighs parted, unapologetic, claiming space.

your body leaned back with the poise of something divine, the gloss on your lips catching the lights above—molten, mirror-like, wicked. they parted, just barely.

not into a smile.

but a promise.

the crowd was still.

not in reverence.

but in need.

someone’s drink clinked faintly—but billie didn’t blink.

didn’t dare.

you lifted your arm, slow and sinuous, fingers curling into the edge of your glove like it was a vow you were about to betray.

the fabric clung to you.

and you let it.

dragging it free with painstaking patience, revealing skin inch by inch—warm, glistening, kissed by the spotlight and sweat.

the glove sighed against you, slipping like silk over the curve of your wrist, the slope of your forearm, until it fluttered to the stage like something sacred that had outlived its purpose.

your other hand rose to help, slower still, tugging past each knuckle like it hurt to part with the fabric. the lights caught on your nails—long, sharp, lacquered obsidian tipped in blood-red stones, sparkling like they had stories to tell.

they looked like claws meant to carve out sin.

like they’d been made to leave marks in someone’s back.

when the thread of the glove snagged on the tip of your acrylics, you didn’t flinch.

you twirled it once—delicate, decadent—before letting it fall.

and then came the second.

dragged between your teeth with a growl so quiet it felt like thunder.

your eyes stayed locked on hers the whole time, unblinking, daring her.

daring her to want more.

and more she did.

god, she did.

your fingers flexed—slow, deliberate—letting the light play along each wicked edge, letting every glint, every movement tell its own story.

you unfurled your legs like silk spilling from a torn ribbon, rising smooth from the floor and stepping off the stage mid-song. the lights followed you like they knew better.

your boots clicked against the polished wood, each step a countdown.

the crowd parted without being asked—held back by reverence, or fear, or lust. maybe all three.

but you never looked at them.

you didn’t need to.

your eyes were still tethered to hers, like gravity bent for you.

billie couldn’t move. couldn’t think.

the music swelled around her, but it all sounded distant now—muted by the blood rushing through her ears.

she sank further into the booth as you approached, her heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.

you didn’t speak.

your hands settled on the curve of your hips, head tilted just so, that smirk teasing the edge of your mouth like you were already laughing at the mess she was becoming.

your gaze roved over her, slow and assessing—like you were deciding what part of her to touch first.

and god, did she want to be touched.

her voice barely made it past her throat.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me,” she breathed.

you leaned in, low enough that only she could hear.

your lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“then die slow,” you whispered, your breath hot, honeyed, dangerous. “and beg for it.”

her knees nearly buckled—and she wasn’t even standing.

because in that moment, she didn’t care if this was performance or possession.

all she knew was this:

you had her.

and you weren’t letting go.

reaching one hand forward, you flicked your wrist with elegant precision, pointing wordlessly toward her lap. it wasn’t a question, not really—it was an ask stitched in velvet and authority. your eyes never wavered. and hers, after trailing the line of your arm, flicked back up to your face.

she nodded. once. slow.

and with the same agonizing grace that made the stage tremble beneath your heels, you lifted one thigh and slid it over hers.

you straddled her.

and the crowd dissolved into smoke and shadow.

the music murmured around you, low and sticky, lyrics swirling through the room like perfume, like heat, like prophecy.

you lowered yourself into her lap with purpose. slow. your weight settling onto her thighs in a way that made her breath stutter. skin meeting denim—heat blooming between you like fire licking at gasoline.

billie inhaled sharp and shallow, her hands twitching against her sides. she didn’t touch.

couldn’t.

you hadn’t given her permission.

you had her leashed with a glance, and she wore it like worship.

your fingertips skimmed the side of her neck, featherlight, and her lashes fluttered in response. a hitch in her breath, a flush across her cheeks.

you traced her collarbone, the hollow dip of it, the slope that led to her throat. and there, just below her jaw, you rested your thumb.

you could feel her pulse thrum against it—quick, frantic, betraying her restraint.

her jaw clenched.

you leaned in again, lips close enough to be mistaken for contact, but not quite. your breath skimmed over her skin like silk drawn across a blade.

her chest rose faster now, tighter beneath the fabric of her shirt, caught between want and control.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, the words dripping into her ear like honey laced with something sharper. your lips ghosted the shell, not quite touching—just letting her ache for it.

her fists balled tight against her thighs, knuckles straining white. she was trembling with effort, trying not to pull you close, not to ruin the delicious pace you’d crafted with every movement.

you smiled against her skin. a smile that knew the chaos it caused. soft. sharp. both.

and then your lips began to echo the lyrics—your voice low and liquid, smoky with desire but smooth as cream.

“you ain’t gotta tell me what you like,” you murmured, dragging each word like velvet over bare skin. “she say it for you…”

your fingers slid lower, slow and playful, picking at the hem of her shirt. you slipped beneath it with ease, skin meeting skin, heat meeting heat. her stomach was feverish to the touch—every inch of her radiating a kind of tension that vibrated beneath your palms.

you squeezed the flesh at her sides, just enough to ground her. just enough to let her know she was still real, still in her body—barely.

your hands climbed higher, returning to rest just under her chest, fingers splayed and waiting.

“i just wanna fuck you ’til you cry,” you purred, watching her reaction, “vintage dior you…”

your hand drifted back to her throat, fingers dancing, teasing. your thumb found her bottom lip and brushed over it gently.

you smiled again. wicked and warm.

her mouth parted under your touch—instinct. surrender.

your eyes flicked toward her drink, untouched and sweating on the table, and before she could process it, you leaned back.

she caught you instantly, arms looping behind your back, anchoring you. her reflexes spoke for her body, not her brain.

you let her hold you, only for a beat.

then you reached for the glass—cold and glistening with condensation. ruby-red liquid sloshing gently within.

you brought it to your lips first, letting the chilled rim kiss them. then the fruit—some bright citrus wedge sugar-rimmed and ruby-pink—met your mouth.

you let it linger.

you dragged it between your teeth slowly, biting into the flesh until juice welled up. it spilled, slick and sweet, onto the seam of your lips.

billie’s eyes never left your mouth.

she was focused, transfixed, locked into the movement, the sheen, the drip.

you set the glass down next to her thigh and leaned in again, lifting the bitten fruit.

your free hand rose to her throat, thumb and forefinger tilting her head gently, reverently.

then you squeezed—just enough.

juice dripped.

a single bead of it slid from the fruit’s flesh and landed right on her bottom lip.

billie gasped—soft, breathy.

your thumb caught the juice and smeared it across her lips. slow.

not to clean.

to paint.

you glazed her mouth in citrus and suggestion, pressing it in like a ritual.

you reached for the glass again, letting the ice clink against the side, a soft crystalline sound that paired perfectly with the fog of lust that clung to her like perfume.

“i need you to hold it ’til you can’t,” you sang, voice soft, dragging the lyric out as your bare hand cupped her chin.

you traced the shape of her mouth with your thumb until her lips parted again.

then, slow as sin, you tilted the glass and poured just enough to wet her mouth.

you watched her throat, the curve of it, as she swallowed. your thumb pressed gently at its base, and her lashes fluttered from the contact, her mouth forming the barest whimper.

she was unraveling.

and she wanted you to know it.

“i’ll reward you…”

a drop of liquor escaped the corner of her lips, slid down her jaw, and caught the dip of her collarbone.

you leaned in and licked it away.

a flick of your tongue.

a blessing.

a claim.

her breath shuddered out. her head fell back for just a moment, her composure slipping like silk off a shoulder.

but when her eyes drifted away—overwhelmed, seeking escape—you brought her back.

your fingers on her jaw turned her gently, insistently, until her eyes met yours again.

they were heavy-lidded now, drunk on you. hands trembling against your back, her fingers itching to rip through every layer of clothing between you.

“come with me,” you whispered, echoing the music as your hand rose to hook a single finger around the front of her chains.

the metal was cold against her flushed skin.

you tugged.

not enough to hurt—just enough to make her move.

she inhaled sharply, your scent invading her senses as you hovered close.

“come with me,” you repeated, voice lower now. your thumb swept once more over her jaw, and she nodded like she couldn’t have done anything else in that moment if she tried.

and that smile—

that wicked, indulgent smile—

returned to your lips.

because you knew she would follow.

anywhere.

everywhere.

and that power tasted sweeter than any drink.

as the song began to near its end, you slid yourself off billie’s lap with the kind of slow finality that made her body flinch. a soft, helpless whine spilled from her throat at the loss of your warmth, your weight. she blinked up at you, dazed, lips parted like she might beg without realizing.

before she could even register what was happening next, you reached out with two fingers, gently tilting her chin up. her breath hitched. you leaned in and pressed a kiss to her mouth—short, warm, electric. the kind of kiss that leaves something behind. her eyes fluttered closed again, like maybe she could will you to stay, chase your lips and steal another. but she was too slow. by the time she leaned in, you were already gone.

you gave her one last look over your shoulder, something smoldering and sweet behind your eyes, and turned away. every step you took was molten. hypnotic. drawn out like a performance within a performance. a slow burn no one else could touch.

your hands roamed your own body as you moved, nails skimming along your hips, tracing the soft curve of your waist. a private ritual made public. a map only billie could read. and god, how well she knew it.

you licked your lips and tasted her there. the sweetness of the citrus you’d fed her, the faint tang of her skin. your tongue lingered on that taste, your breath shaky as your heels struck against the stage.

with a final pivot, one more sultry glance at the crowd, the velvet curtains began to draw closed behind you—swallowing you in shadow.

your hand came to rest on your chest. you exhaled hard. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t starting to feel it, the ache pooling low in your belly. having billie under your control like that—so pliant, so desperate—in front of an audience no less? it was intoxicating. a power so heady it left your mouth dry and your fingertips buzzing.

turning to your right, you stepped off the side stage and into the narrow back hallway. the overhead lights flickered once, then steadied. your heels echoed off the tile like a slow drumbeat. the air here was heavier, tinged with sweat and hairspray and too many overlapping perfumes—thick enough to choke on. it clung to your lungs and stung the back of your throat, making you cough once, then again.

lipstick-smeared mirrors lined the walls like crooked memories, and peeling wallpaper curled away at the corners like it was trying to escape.

the voices grew louder as you approached the green room. laughter, music, chatter that turned sharp with delight when you stepped through the door.

“ooh, here she comes,” someone purred, voice lilting with mischief.

“you were gorgeous, and don’t think we didn’t see that sexy little spell you put on billie.” another chimed in, perched on the edge of the vanity, eyes gleaming like a cat in heat. he raised a cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, and exhaled in slow spirals, letting the smoke dance in the golden stage light.

you stretched your arms overhead, slow and feline, letting the arch of your spine show beneath the stage lights.

“well,” you drawled, voice thick with amusement, “someone had to keep the show interesting.”

a ripple of whistles and teasing applause followed. someone clapped. someone else let out a high-pitched mm-mm-mm.

“please,” he said again, flicking ash into a tray and leaning back into his chair, eyes still fixed on you through the haze, “the way she looked at you? honey, i thought we were gonna have to peel her off the damn floor. bless her poor, poor heart.”

a chorus of laughter broke out, but it all felt distant. muffled. like a memory you’d already moved past. your ears buzzed with leftover adrenaline. your skin still hummed with billie’s presence, even in her absence.

you reached for a flute of something sparkling and cold, condensation sliding down the stem onto your fingers. the first sip was sweet and sharp, the bubbles dancing against your tongue.

with the glass in hand, you slipped past the others, weaving through the vanity-lit chaos until you reached the far end of the room. a door waited there, made of dark, polished oak, the only thing in this place untouched by time. a golden plaque gleamed in the low light, your name carved into it in looping script.

you smiled at the sight of it. not vanity—recognition. this was your world. your temple. and behind that door, you’d wait just long enough to cool down. to think. or maybe just to let yourself ache a little longer.

you turned the knob and slipped inside, the door closing behind you with a quiet click, like the final note of a song no one else could hear.

you pushed open the door to your dressing room, the familiar creak of the hinges met with a wash of warm, low light and the soft hum of old jazz spinning from a rusted radio in the corner. the kind of music that curled like smoke in the corners of the room, slow and unhurried. it sounded like the end of something tender.

the scent shifted the moment you stepped inside. gone was the heavy cloud of perfume from the green room—here, it was all pressed powder and sweat, melted makeup, the faint, earthy echo of blunts long since burned down to ash. and still, it felt sacred. intimate. like stepping into the hushed temple of a woman who only existed behind velvet and spotlight. a woman you knew well. the version of yourself that only billie had seen this undone.

the bulbs framing your mirror buzzed in quiet harmony with the music, casting a golden halo around your reflection. you looked otherworldly—flushed, glowing, alive. glitter clung to your collarbones like stars caught in skin, and a thin sheen of sweat kissed the swell of your chest. your lipstick, once precise, was now slightly smudged—evidence of billie’s mouth, her chin, her hunger.

you peeled off your hat with the kind of practiced grace that only came from repetition and reverence. the rhinestones caught the light as they settled, still dancing from the movement, like your body hadn’t fully stilled. one glove hung from your pocket, its delicate sway mirroring the low tempo of the song, and with a sigh, you reached for your water bottle. your other hand moved behind you, pulling at the zipper of your corset until the tightness finally loosened, releasing your ribs from their velvet prison.

you closed your eyes. just for a moment. just to breathe. your heartbeat thudded in your ears like the fading drums of the show, but softer now. slower. the air touched your skin like a lover’s hand—cool, intimate, curious. the room smelled faintly of roses wilting in water and burnt-out incense—a little too sweet, a little too strong, but still… comforting. still home.

you tossed your gloves onto the vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you touched your jaw. still warm from her gaze. still tingling from the way billie had looked at you—like she wanted to be ruined by you.

“jesus,” you whispered under your breath, the sound barely audible beneath the music.

you let the corset fall the rest of the way, the sound of it hitting the chair behind you muted, fabric and bone softened by the years. stockings followed, slow and deliberate, rolled down your thighs in the same rhythm you’d danced with. garters unhooked like secrets undone. satin slipped off your frame in a sigh.

goosebumps rose across your arms, your stomach, the backs of your knees. you stood there in nothing but lace panties and the quiet ache of adrenaline, a sheen of sweat still clinging to you like dew on moonlit skin.

you padded across the room barefoot, each step sinking into the plush velvet rug beneath your feet. the rack by your wardrobe stood like a shrine to softness—lace, silk, velvet. your fingertips drifted over them with care, pausing when they reached the familiar weight of your favorite: an onyx robe made of clouds and dreams. sheer, feather-trimmed, with sleeves that whispered past your wrists and a hem that kissed the floor behind you like a lover’s plea.

you slid your arms through, let it settle over you like smoke. decadent. ridiculous. perfect. the sash fell into a lazy bow at your waist, loose enough to tempt, tight enough to withhold. the neckline fell open just enough to tease the soft curve of your chest, a glimpse of skin beneath a veil of shadow.

you stepped back toward the mirror, catching sight of your lips. the red had faded into something softer, stained and smudged like a secret still being kept. you leaned in, fingers brushing your mouth, then lowered your hand.

“nah,” you murmured to yourself, smile crooked, soft. “leave it.”

it felt like a love note from her. unfinished. unforgotten. and you weren’t ready to let that go just yet.

behind you, there was a knock—light, hesitant. a breath against the door.

your smile curled slow, knowing. it ghosted across your lips like smoke, already aware of who waited on the other side.

the knock came again—three soft taps, a rhythm that felt like a question whispered through wood. you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. silence was an invitation she’d already learned to accept.

you crossed the room unhurriedly, each step deliberate, sensual. the sheer hem of your robe swept the floor behind you like mist crawling across a stage. your bare feet made no sound, only the rustle of silk and the low jazz still curling through the speakers filling the air between breaths.

when you reached the door, you paused—hand resting on the knob, pulse fluttering beneath your skin like the wingbeat of a hummingbird. a soft inhale, one last flicker of control. then, with a single fluid motion, you turned the handle and opened it.

and there she was.

billie stood in the doorway like something pulled from a dream—soft and sharp all at once. her shirt was slightly wrinkled now, collar undone just enough to reveal the delicate glint of gold resting against her chest, the chain catching the low light. her hair was tucked behind her ears, but a few strands had fallen loose, curling near her jaw like they’d been toyed with—maybe by her hands, maybe in frustration, maybe in want.

her eyes—those eyes, blue and endless, bottomless—devoured you the second she saw you.

and she didn’t say a word.

she didn’t need to.

you leaned against the frame, one leg bent just so, the robe parting to reveal the soft curve of your thigh, the gleam of skin beneath sheer black. your voice came out low, velvet-lined and lazy. “took you long enough.”

billie’s gaze lifted—slow, reverent—as though looking at something holy. her lips parted, voice scratchy with something raw. “hi,” she murmured, soft and rough, like gravel under silk. like she hadn’t spoken since the lights went down.

you let the word wrap around you. smiled, just barely. “hi.”

she stepped closer. close enough that her perfume began to mix with the warm, heady air of your dressing room. she smelled like heat and spice, like orange peel and cedarwood and something faintly sweet—like honey warmed on skin. she reached for your waist, hands moving on instinct, like gravity had pulled her forward.

but you caught her just before she could touch.

your fingers wrapped around her wrist, gentle but firm, your thumb brushing slow circles over her pulse. you felt it jump beneath your touch—fast, then faster. your eyes held hers, gaze unwavering, pupils blown wide like the room had dimmed again. your brow arched, playful, challenging.

a silent conversation passed between you. a language born from glances and tension, one only the two of you knew how to speak. no translation needed.

her lips parted again as she leaned in, breath mingling with yours—warm, laced with want. her mouth hovered just above yours, close enough to feel but not close enough to taste. you could feel the hum beneath your skin, the hunger, the ache—but you didn’t move.

instead, you pulled back—slow, teasing, wicked.

your fingers lingered at her wrist before slipping away, the absence making her sway ever so slightly forward, chasing you without meaning to. your smile was all mischief and silk. “well,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned slightly, letting her see more—more of the robe, more of the skin beneath, more of what she already knew was hers, “are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?”

she didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

she followed you without a word.

like she always did.

billie shut the door behind her with a soft click, sealing you both inside the haze of warmth and low light. the jazz was still playing—slower now, like it understood the pace of your breath. her hand was soft in yours, fingers laced in a loose grip, your palms brushing in a rhythm all their own as you led her deeper into the sanctuary of your room.

the black velvet loveseat waited in the corner, plush and inviting beneath the amber wash of lamplight. you stopped just short of it and turned, the silk of your robe whispering against your thighs as you faced her fully.

your palm landed on her chest—right over the steady thrum of her heart. “sit,” you murmured, not a command but a suggestion wrapped in sugar.

a gentle shove followed, and her knees gave without resistance. she sank into the cushions with a quiet exhale, head tilted back just slightly, gaze never leaving yours.

your fingers wandered up her chest, brushing over the open collar of her shirt, grazing the hollow of her throat. your touch was light but deliberate, a ghost of a promise. when you reached her jaw, you hooked your finger under her chin and tilted her face up to meet yours. the heat in her eyes made your pulse thrum.

her hands found your waist, warm and certain, grounding you. the fabric of your robe did little to shield you from the heat of her palms—like her touch was seeping into your skin, into your bones. with a soft tug, she pulled you down, and you let yourself fall into her side, laughter bubbling from your lips like champagne, airy and golden.

your legs folded beneath you as you curled into her, a sinuous thing draped in onyx and honeylight. one hand slipped up to toy with the open collar of her shirt, teasing the buttons. the other found the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair there, your nails dragging light, lazy arcs against her skin.

she didn’t speak. not at first.

she just looked at you.

like you were something pulled out of a fevered prayer. like she didn’t know if she should kiss you or confess to you.

“you’re unreal, you know?” she whispered, voice cracking like something sacred had slipped free. “like some dream i wasn’t supposed to wake up from.”

you smiled at that—slow and sure. your fingers kept threading through her hair as your lips ghosted near the shell of her ear. “oh really?” you murmured, breath warm against her skin. “i take it you liked the show?”

her hands flexed at your waist, a quiet reaction, but telling. her breath caught for a second too long.

“loved it,” she admitted, soft and helpless. “you were… fuck. you were everything.”

your nose brushed against hers, tender and teasing. “good.”

and then your mouth found the place just beneath her jaw, where her skin was softest. you kissed her there—slow, open-mouthed, deliberate. you let her feel all of you in that single press of lips: the heat, the reverence, the ache.

your hands moved like you were sculpting something precious—slipping beneath her shirt, fingertips cool against the heat of her stomach. you explored her inch by inch, dragging your hands upward in a slow unraveling. the fabric gave way, soft cotton sliding from her shoulders as you peeled it back with care, like you were opening something fragile.

you weren’t in a rush.

you never were with her.

you wanted her to feel it. to know that she was being touched, not taken. worshipped, not claimed.

her skin flushed beneath your hands, blooming rose-colored under the golden light. her breath stuttered as your fingers danced lower, painting invisible lines down her ribs, her stomach, her sides. every inch of her sang for you.

she looked at you with those heavy-lidded eyes—dark and dazed—like she wasn’t sure whether to breathe or break.

“then show me,” you whispered.

it wasn’t a dare. it was a prayer.

your words hung between you like incense, curling slow and sacred in the space where your bodies met.

billie never said much during moments like this. she didn’t have to.

her eyes always gave her away.

and right now?

she looked like she was starving for you.

and god, you were already halfway gone. aching for her in a way that made your bones feel too soft, your breath too shallow.

so you leaned in. let her feel it.

let her see it.

the want.

the surrender.

the love.

billie’s hands moved slowly, reverently, like you were something rare. something sacred. like she was afraid too much pressure might break you—or wake her up.

your fingers found her jaw again, tracing the delicate curve of it, your thumb stroking over her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her breath catch. you dragged it lower, skimming the column of her throat where her pulse throbbed steady beneath skin, then down—between her collarbones, over the rise of her chest. you kissed each place you touched, letting your mouth linger, letting warmth bloom in her skin like sun through fog.

your legs curled around her hips, pulling her in, guiding her just where you wanted. it wasn’t about control—it never had been. it was gravity. a natural pull. the quiet ache of bodies that knew exactly where they belonged.

you craned your neck to meet her mouth again, lips brushing, then parting, tongues brushing slow. her taste was still there—sweet, faintly sticky, like strawberries and something riper, something you couldn’t name. billie sighed against your lips, the sound soft and aching, and you swallowed it whole.

each movement was silk-wrapped, slow and sinuous. moans feathered against skin like secrets. fingers tangled tight in hair, your back arching as her palms splayed against it. her lips found your collarbone, trailing heat in their wake. there was no performance now. no mask. just skin and hunger and a softness that made your chest feel too full.

her fingers slid along the edges of your robe, skimming lightly, reverently, until they reached the knot that kept you from her. she tugged gently, watching you with wide, dark eyes as the sash unraveled with a whisper. you didn’t stop her. instead, you rose slightly onto your knees, the movement fluid and easy, and let the robe slip from your shoulders like ink spilling into water.

it fell behind you in a black pool, quiet and cloud-like. the air kissed your bare skin, goosebumps rising as your nipples tightened, aching in the cool. billie’s fingers moved to your hips, stroking the band of your underwear with just the edge of her knuckles. her gaze swept over you—hungry, yes, but soft. reverent. like she was staring at a prayer made flesh.

your hands came to her face, cupping her cheeks, thumbs grazing the high points just beneath her eyes. you kissed her again, deeper now, a breathless surrender. it was the kind of kiss that filled your lungs and lit your veins. velvet, heat, and want, passed back and forth like fire.

when your lips parted, she was already reaching for more. her hands found your waist, then the small of your back, pulling you close until your skin met hers—bare in places that made you tremble. your thighs tightened around her. you were flushed and breathless, but still unhurried. the two of you moved like time didn’t matter. like it had paused just for this.

your eyes fluttered shut as billie leaned down, mouth dragging wet kisses along the slope of your neck, her teeth grazing lightly at the shell of your ear before dipping lower—down into the valley between your breasts. her nails dug gently into your waist, a sweet sting that made your breath hitch.

a gasp slipped from your throat. instinctively, your hand found her forehead, gently lifting her face. her eyes met yours—crystalline, pupils blown wide, glassy with need. her lips were slick, the soft pink deepened to rose, and her thumbs rubbed slow circles into your hips as she waited.

waited for you.

“you’re being so good,” you whispered, thumb stroking her cheek again. “you always are.”

her eyes fluttered shut when you leaned down and kissed her again, slow and honey-warm. her lips molded to yours, open and eager, your breath tangling in the space between. your hand slid up, fingers curling lightly around her throat, pressure tender but firm. she melted beneath it, exhaling through her nose like she was falling into you.

your other hand traveled downward, gliding over the dip of her sternum, the flat plane of her stomach, tracing the faint outlines of muscle. when you reached the button of her jeans, you fumbled just slightly—blind, desperate—but managed to undo it with ease. the denim loosened, revealing the black band of her panties, the flush of her skin beneath.

your fingers slipped under the waistband, teasing at the heat you found there, dragging light over the softness of her hip. billie’s breath stuttered into your mouth and you smiled into the kiss—lazy, smug, fond.

you pushed her jeans down just far enough, your hands smoothing over the generous curves of her thighs. she helped, kicking them off with a soft rustle. neither of you broke the rhythm. your mouths stayed close, brushing and breathing and tasting each sigh as it came. your hands roamed slow—reverent like worship. like prayer.

billie leaned into every touch, her body pliant, her edges softened by you. like your hands were the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

you kissed her jaw, then her throat, your tongue tasting the salt that clung to her skin. your mouth moved lower, lips brushing over her pulse—steady but quickening.

her head tipped back, neck exposed, lips parted.

and then she said your name—low, breathless, sacred.

like it was the only thing she remembered.

like it was the only thing she wanted.

you pulled back just enough to see her—really see her.

her face flushed a shade deeper than rose, skin dewy with sweat, lips parted and kiss-swollen. her chest rose and fell in slow stutters, and her thighs twitched beneath you like they were holding back something feral.

she looked completely undone.

and you hadn’t even touched her properly yet.

your palm rested flat and warm over her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, the heat of her skin pulsing against your hand. you leaned in, close enough for your noses to brush, for your breath to mingle.

“tell me what you need, baby,” you whispered, voice low, liquid, coaxing.

the kind of tone that made blood rush downward.

her lashes fluttered, her hips arching faintly into your touch. “i just…” she swallowed, voice soft and helpless. “i need you.”

you kissed her—slow and plush, pressing your lips to hers like sealing a vow.

a promise you intended to keep with your whole body.

your hands moved again, this time with clear purpose, reverent and unhurried.

you hooked your thumbs beneath the band of her panties, easing the fabric down her hips as she lifted for you without a word. her thighs trembled slightly under your palms, her breath catching when your nails grazed her skin.

you kissed every new inch of exposed flesh—her hipbones, the tops of her thighs, the delicate dip where her pelvis met her lower belly. your tongue flicked against the faint ink etched into her skin, tracing tattoos with a reverent curiosity.

worshipping.

savoring.

billie melted beneath you, pliant and open, her legs parting with a gentle tug of your hands. you settled between them, knees pressing into the cushions, your robe still pooled behind you like a fallen shadow. her heat called to you, thick and tangible in the space between your mouths.

you looked up, eyes locking with hers.

“imma need you to keep your eyes on me, okay baby?”

your voice came out like velvet laced with smoke, each word deliberate and slow, breath warm where it fanned out over her soaked slit.

her hole clenched around nothing, her body reacting to your voice before your mouth even touched her. she moaned at the sensation, her hips bucking lightly as a laugh escaped your lips—low and amused.

“so needy,” you teased, not unkindly, as her eyes fluttered in frustration.

“then shut up and eat me,” she breathed out, almost begging.

you dropped your gaze, watching slick glisten along her folds like honey pooled in a blossom. her want was glossy, fragrant, heady in the air.

you reached with one hand, untangling it from her thigh, and propped her legs onto your shoulders. the position opened her further, offered her to you like something precious. you dipped a finger into her slit, slow and exploratory.

the sudden contrast of your cool touch on her heat made her gasp, her fingers curling into the upholstery.

diamonds winked on your finger, catching the low light as you stroked her—teasing her slit, gliding upward, occasionally bumping her clit just to watch her flinch. her breath stuttered again.

your eyes flicked up to meet hers as you drew finger back.

then, slowly, deliberately, you lifted it to your mouth and sucked it clean.

your tongue curled around the digit, savoring her taste, your lashes fluttering shut for just a beat.

a moan slipped from your throat, low and satisfied.

she watched you like you were something unreal.

something divine.

her throat bobbed with a hard swallow, her breath now coming in ragged little pulls.

you released your finger with a quiet pop, then brought both index and middle fingers down to her again—pressing them gently to her folds, spreading her open like a secret.

“look at you,” you murmured, gaze fixed between her legs. “so pretty like this.”

you leaned in, letting your breath ghost over her clit. her whole body tensed, her hands flying to your hair, gripping tight.

you planted a single, slow kiss to her clit—soft and almost chaste.

“please,” she whimpered, voice breaking.

and you answered.

your mouth covered her, tongue licking a long stripe from entrance to peak.

her hips jerked beneath you, but your hands came down to her thighs, holding her steady, guiding her to stay right where you wanted her.

you devoured her like you’d been starving.

like she was the only thing in the world that could fill you.

and maybe she was.

you watched how her face twisted into something otherworldly, every muscle softening and then tightening again as your mouth lowered, kisses dragging downward, tongue slipping further between her folds.

you stuck your tongue out when you reached her entrance—slow, unhurried—and licked a slow, lazy circle, eyes flicking upward just in time to see her lashes flutter and her head tip back.

she looked divine like that. undone and completely yours.

her skin glowed beneath the low light, flushed and slick with heat. she tasted like salt and honey, like longing turned liquid. her thighs trembled around your head, tightening and twitching, but never pushing you away. her hips stuttered into your mouth, desperate and searching.

you didn’t rush her.

you let her come apart in your hands like soft fruit, ripe and splitting at the seam.

your fingers gripped her hips with a tender steadiness, thumbs rubbing absent little circles into the soft skin there, grounding her even as she writhed and gasped.

her breath came in broken pieces, sharp and airy. her voice, when it returned, was raw silk.

“baby…”

just that.

a whisper.

barely audible.

you hummed against her in response, lips vibrating just enough to make her whimper.

your tongue dragged slow and sure through her folds, gliding over swollen flesh, circling and dipping just right. your mouth moved with devotion—no tricks, no rush—just steady worship that made her shake.

her hands threaded through your hair, not pulling, not guiding—just holding.

like she needed the anchor of you, the press of your body between her legs to keep her from drifting into something too big to name.

your name slipped from her lips in fragments, scattered prayers with no rhythm, just need.

and then you pulled back just a little, a shining string of spit and slick stretching from your lips to her core. your face was wet with her, mouth shiny, flushed with heat, but you didn’t care. you licked your lips slow, savoring her taste, the corners of your mouth curling in quiet satisfaction.

“so fucking good,” you murmured to yourself, almost reverent.

then, without breaking the moment, you dipped your thumb into her pussy, gathering the wetness there—so much of it, all for you—and brought it to her clit, circling soft, tight motions.

she sighed at the contact, a sound soaked in gratitude and desperation.

“mhmm, just like that, billie,” you coaxed, nodding along with the rhythm of your hand. “need you to cum for me, okay? wanna feel you let go.”

billie’s mouth parted, but no words came—just a small, strangled “mhm.”

it was all she could manage. her body was trembling under you, barely held together, eyes glassy and unfocused.

you smiled, soft and almost proud, watching her fall apart beneath you.

you leaned down again, mouth returning to her pussy with purpose.

your tongue prodded back inside her, slow and intentional, while your thumb kept steady on her clit—two points of contact pulling her tighter, winding her up like thread between your fingers.

“fuck—oh my god,” she breathed out, voice cracking, hands scrambling across the cushions, across your shoulders, your scalp—searching for something to tether her.

you could feel her nearing the edge—body tightening, breath catching. her legs clamped around your head and you didn’t fight it. didn’t flinch.

you just kept going.

and when the tremors overtook her, when she finally gave in and came with a strangled cry, her thighs clenching around your ears and her body arching off the couch—

you stayed with her.

you kissed her through it, soft and warm, tongue flicking lightly between contractions. one hand slid up her stomach, calming her, tracing lazy patterns into her skin. your other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her steady as her body shook with aftershocks.

“that’s it, baby. i got you,” you murmured, voice feather-light. “still with me?”

she nodded against the couch, breathless, eyes still closed.

you stayed nestled between her thighs, cheek resting gently on her hipbone.

her skin was slick and warm, your lips pressing tiny kisses to the soft curve of her belly, mouth open and reverent. you nuzzled into her skin, letting the closeness settle between you like steam.

you didn’t speak again.

you didn’t need to.

your bodies already said everything in silence.

and right now, everything felt still.

whole.

and hers.

after a few beats of silence—just the soft hum of her breath, the quiet afterglow trembling in the space between you—billie’s hand lifted, fingertips grazing your jaw, a tender nudge drawing your gaze back to hers.

“c’mere,” she breathed, voice rough like velvet worn soft. sugar and smoke. “i need you…”

you crawled up her slowly, deliberately, skin skimming hers in a drag of warmth. she welcomed you immediately, arms curling around your back, mouth finding yours like a reflex. the kiss was languid and low, all breath and tongue and ache, like she needed to taste what you’d just taken from her. like she needed to reclaim it.

her sigh spilled into your mouth, sweet and trembling. her hands roamed, cupping your hips, then sliding down with reverence—squeezing the curve of your ass with a quiet groan that thudded low in your chest.

“i wanna feel you now,” she whispered, lips brushing your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “i need to.”

your eyes fluttered closed as her hands slid beneath the elastic of your underwear, her touch reverent and slow, like peeling away silk. the fabric rolled down your thighs, her fingers grazing your skin with such delicacy it almost tickled—setting you alight in waves.

when she pulled the last of it down, there was nothing between you. just bare skin and the open hum of want.

billie kissed her way up from your hipbones, her mouth soft and unhurried as she flipped you gently onto your back. her body hovered over yours, a whisper of heat and weight.

“you looked so fucking good up there tonight,” she murmured against your collarbone, her lips brushing your skin like a secret. her hands mapped you like a song she already knew by heart. “i don’t think you know how bad i wanted you right then and there. how close i was to pulling you off that damn stage and taking you right in my lap.”

you exhaled, a shaky breath catching on your lips, fingers threading into her hair. “i think i’ve got a pretty clear idea,” you whispered, breathless, voice thick with the heat curling low in your belly. “imma need you to touch me like you mean it.”

“oh baby,” she murmured, teeth grazing your skin. “i always mean it.”

her palm cupped your breast with gentle weight, thumb grazing your nipple until it peaked under her touch. her mouth followed a moment later, lips wrapping around you, tongue slow and wet, dragging over sensitive skin as your back arched into her.

her other hand moved like a whisper over your stomach, tracing the lines of you like you were something sacred. her fingers slid down, past your navel, skating along your inner thigh—pausing just shy of where you burned for her.

“so fucking soft,” she whispered, voice low in awe. “you smell so sweet, baby. like you were made for me.”

and then, finally, her fingers found your slit, parting you with delicate pressure. the first touch was barely there—just the tip of her finger ghosting over your clit, slow and reverent. it sent a tremor through you, breath catching, thighs falling wider in invitation.

your hands clutched the sheets, hips rising in search of more.

“please,” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for. more? slower? forever?

billie looked up from your chest, lips still slick, eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown. “i got you,” she promised. “just relax for me.”

her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing slick from your body with every tender motion. your breath hitched with every pass, pleasure rising like a tide. and all the while, she kissed your skin—pressing her lips to the swell of your breasts, the space beneath them, your ribs, your stomach. each kiss a small prayer, each touch a vow.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered against your navel. “all soft and open. all mine.”

you moaned softly, body beginning to tremble beneath her, hips rocking in slow rhythm to her hand. her fingers slipped lower, gathering your wetness and circling back to your clit, coaxing you higher with every pass.

it was too much and not enough.

you needed her everywhere.

you needed her to never stop.

and when her mouth dipped lower again, following the trail of her fingers, the breath left your lungs entirely.

you were weightless.

lost in her.

and she was still just getting started.

“please,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the firm curve of her forearm, clinging to her like a lifeline, like gravity itself had softened and only she could keep you from floating away. “billie…”

her gaze softened, her whole face folding into something impossibly tender. she leaned in, brushing damp curls away from your forehead, her thumb gently swiping the slick sheen from your temple. her touch was cool, grounding. reverent.

“i’ve got you,” she whispered, her voice thick with heat and honey, eyes locked to yours like she couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

and then—

she slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep, her palm flush against your mound as her hand sank into your warmth with aching intention.

your breath caught mid-throat, mouth falling open in a wordless moan, your back arching like her name had been written into your spine. your thighs tensed around her wrist, slick and trembling, wrapping around her like you needed to hold her there forever.

billie leaned in, her forehead pressing to yours again, breath mingling with yours, hot and shaky. her free hand gripped your waist like she couldn’t trust herself not to fall into you entirely. her fingers curled inside you, firm but gentle, finding the rhythm of your body and mirroring it with care. patient. precise.

the roll of her wrist was measured, almost reverent. each thrust deliberate, like she was learning you by feel, committing the way your body bloomed around her to memory.

“oh my god,” you choked out, your voice fragile and frayed.

her thumb circled your clit—soft and slow and devastating.

“that’s it,” she murmured, lips brushing yours, voice almost too quiet to hear. “you’re so perfect like this. so fuckin’ good for me.”

her eyes never left yours. even as your head tipped back, even as you tried to hide the way your body twitched and jerked under her touch, she was there—watching, drinking in every broken sound you gave her. her gaze made it intimate. her hands made it holy.

you rocked into her hand, chasing every wave she stirred inside you, your hips stuttering as the coil inside you pulled tighter and tighter. every time she kissed you, it felt like a tether. like she was holding you together even as she undid you piece by piece.

“cum for me,” she whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing your cheek now, your jaw, your temple. “let go, mama. i wanna feel you fall apart.”

and you did.

your whole body clenched, a cry catching in your throat and spilling into her mouth as the orgasm ripped through you like flame through paper. your legs trembled around her, your stomach spasming with each pulse of release. it stole your breath. bent your spine. left you wide open.

but she never let go.

billie held you through every wave, kissing your face with shaking lips, whispering things so soft they blurred into the thundering echo of your heartbeat. “that’s it, baby,” and “i got you,” and “so good for me.” she kissed your chest, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth—pressing love into every inch of you like a balm.

when it was over, when your body had softened into something boneless and dazed, she eased her fingers from you with care, wiping them across your inner thigh in a lazy motion that made your whole body twitch.

she reached for the robe still puddled on the floor, shaking it out and draping it over your back like a blanket, tucking it around your sides. her arms wrapped around you next, pulling you into her chest as your cheek found the steady beat of her heart.

her fingers traced slow, thoughtless patterns into your spine. spirals. circles. love letters in motion.

you exhaled against her skin, your lips brushing the hollow of her throat. her pulse thudded against your mouth like an answer.

“you okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, muffled by the quiet hum of jazz still curling through the room like smoke.

you nodded, too blissed out to speak. “i’m better than okay.”

billie kissed the top of your head, her nose buried in your hair. her voice trembled when she spoke again.

“good. ‘cause i’m not done loving on you yet.”

and just like that, the show was over—

but the night had only just begun.

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