#Lane Loud x Reader
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Study Muffin
Genderbent!Loud Siblings x Reader
Linka groans from the sight of her paper. Her test was marked with an F. She rests her head on the desk, defeated. “I don't get it, Claudia. Usually, I'm a good student but lately it's been all C's and D's and now an F.”
Claudia grabbed Linka’s test paper and grimaced at it. “Ugh, and a frowny face too. Girl, I cannot.” Claudia’s reply made Linka groan even more, disturbing others around them. “If I don't turn this around, I could fail fifth grade!”
“Linka, you can't! If I go to middle school without you, I could fall in with the wrong social group, and get frosted lips, and start being into bubble nails." Claudia shivered.
Linka just stared at her best friend blankly almost lost hope but she remembered she knew someone who could get her to tutor.
That is… no other than Levi!
“No.” Levi refused while staring blankly at his sister. The two siblings are at home. Linka approached her brother the first thing after she came home from school.
“But, Levi!” Linka whined, Levi is the only one who could help her right now as he is the prodigy intellectually among her brothers. With no way out, she tried to do puppy dog eyes at him to try and persuade her younger brother to give in and help her.
“Cute, but you really thought that would work on me? Sorry, Link. Unfortunately I am completely booked. I got math with Lars on Mondays, geology with Lynn on Tuesdays, finger painting with Leon on Wednesdays, et cetera et cetera." He showed Linka his schedule for the rest of the month which made the girl sigh.
“Oh, since you did the puppy eye thing, I’ll give you an advice. I've heard through the tutoring grapevine that some high school students tutor for extra credit.” With that, Levi turned to walk away from Linka.
“Hey, you said the puppy eye thing didn’t work!”
“Oh, pish-posh.” Levi grinned and left. At a distance, he could be heard yelling at Loni about being tardy with the Pre-Cal tutoring session.
Your phone dinged as someone sent you a message about being interested of booking you as a tutor. Finally, the time has come! You’ve been growing anxious about being a tutor. Although this isn’t the first time teaching another student, it’s still nerve-wracking since it’s a stranger this time.
It really wasn’t your idea to offer tutoring sessions but your friend suggested that it might be a good idea to build an image for college applications in the future.
You opened the message and found that you would be tutoring a fifth grader since she’s bound to flunk if she continues to fail the remedial. Your body relaxed a little knowing the lessons would be a bit easier to teach and nothing could go wrong.
You ringed the door bell to what you assumed the Loud Residence as this was the address the tutee gave you. Within a minute, a young girl with striking white hair opened the door for you and gave you a welcoming smile. “Hello, is this the Loud Residence?” you gave her your professional smile you practiced prior.
Her eyes glimmered and gave you an affirming nod. “Yep! You must be my tutor. I am Linka.”
After introducing yourself, she led you to their dining table and set up her textbooks. “I really appreciate this, (Y/n). I have a big multi-subject test coming up, and I need to ace it.”
You smiled at her, “I’m sure you’ll be able to ace it, but after thorough assessments from our sessions of course. So, I’ll do my best to help you.”
“And I thought that angels only exist in heaven.” Linka dramatically says while clenching her fist on top of her chest. You only laughed at her.
“So, I'm like, if you literally don't know the difference between rugby and football— Oh, Linka brought a new girl friend around.” A male voice spoke which caught both of your attention. His tone was a bit playful.
“Loki, get out! Can’t you see we’re studying here?” Linka hissed but the boy never faltered. “Oh really? This is our kitchen, Link. I can do whatever I want.” You turned to look at him as you can feel his presence between you and Linka. He ruffled Linka’s hair, satisfied at annoying his sister.
Must be a family of blondes. Loki has a common blonde hair compared to Linka. He also has a light stubble that complimented that growing smirk of his. He suddenly turned his head and made eye contact with you. “Don’t ogle too much, it’ll be harder to concentrate.” He grinned at you, but instead of being flustered, his comment only irked you.
“Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you.” You undoubtedly replied not thinking it through. You only came to your senses when it suddenly became quiet and Loki looked at you dumbfounded. Your cheeks became flushed and felt embarrassed. What were you doing in your first day of tutoring?!
You hanged your head low, mentally facepalming yourself. You’re sure Loki caught on about your reply. “Yeah, right! Give him an uppercut!” Linka instigated.
Yeah… an uppercut…
While looking down, you saw that Loki dropped his phone and handed it to him. “Loki, you dropped your phone.” However, when you looked up, you’re sure that his cheeks were tinted pink or maybe your eyes were just playing with you.
His silence broke Linka from her uppercut suggestions. “Loki, are you okay?”
Loki rubs the nape of his neck and trying to build “I uh… I am… I’m fi—“
“I heard a goose! I call dibs!" A young blonde came into view holding a net, however upon seeing you, he was a bit confused. “What’s a pretty stranger doing in this house?!”
“A what?” Another boy came into the kitchen. He’s wearing a clay mask and has cucumber slices in his eyes. He removes the slices and made eye contact with you. “AAH! MY FACE!”
Yep, a family of blondes. Your claim was disproven immediately when the rest of the siblings came into the kitchen probably curious about the commotion.
Ah… there are lots of them.
All of them started talking at the same time. Unfortunately, you can’t comprehend any of this as their voices became inaudible. You just stared at them amused of how this family caters a lot of siblings.
The one who cleansed his on-going skincare came back and greeted you. “Hey, guys. Oh, Linka, I didn't know you were entertaining. Hi. I'm Loni.” Is this guy for real? He acted as if he wasn't here minutes ago. You can’t help but let out a laugh about his silliness which caught the siblings’ attention.
You became self-conscious when they all stared at you. Their stares made you a bit shy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Linka’s tutor, (Y/n). It’s nice to meet you all.” You nervously laugh.
“Ugh, could all of you please get out? We’re trying to study!” Linka snapped at them but the sibling with a crown pushed a chair between Linka and I, and sat, "It's a free country, Linka. We can go where we want to."
"I'm standing here!" The boy with the net stood next to you while smiling ear to ear. You're now trapped between these cuties. They resemble each other, must be twins.
"The heck you are!" The princely twin retorted, but before any punches were thrown you immediately disputed it. "Boys, I know you're interested in joining Linka and I, but she can't concentrate if eyes are observing her." You grabbed something from your purse
"And mouths yapping" Linka raised an eyebrow at his brothers.
"Yes- wait-, what I mean is she can't focus if there are distractions." You grabbed something from your purse. "Here, I'll give these to you since I'm hoping you'll behave accordingly." You handed each twin a lollipop and gave them a wink.
Their smiles grew wide and immediately shoved it in their mouths. "Roger that!" They saluted and walked away with puffed chests. You turned to the remaining brothers. "We'll just occupy the space for a couple of hours, if you don't mind."
"No problem, Love." A brunette with a faux hawk leaned his arm on your chair gave you a boyish smile. "You can be here anytime of the day. You can even join me on my rock sessions upstair-- Ow! Lane!" On instinct, you leaned your head away when a brunette with braces karate chopped his head. "No, you're not, you just want both of your strings to get attached. Haha! Get it? Strings!"
"Come on, (Y/n)! Let's go somewhere a little less crowded." Linka dragged you away from her swarming brothers. She's clearly annoyed with her brows furrowed.
She led the both of you to the living room and settled on the couch. When she was opening the textbooks, voices were heard outside the house. "The one who catches Geo wins!" The younger brothers were playing in competition with each other, and Linka could see that they were showing off to impress her tutor.
"What are they doing?! They're literally disturbing you. I'm sorry, (Y/n)." Loki sat next to you on the couch and started typing on his phone. His presence made you a bit shy, being this close made you notice his arms' lean muscles, and his full eyebrows. You instantly looked away as he might caught on that you were staring. "Ooh, Linka, you have so many books. What's the story about?" You were caught off guard by a voice coming from behind you. When you turned your head, you saw Loni peeking his head behind the couch. He emits a clean and sweet scent, and he also looks neat.
"I think it'll be better if we went to my room instead." Linka gathered her books and gave the stink eye to her older brothers while escorting you to her room. They only responded with a smirk. Living with ten brothers her whole life, Linka knew what her brothers' antics are all about. They can't even hide that their expressions are living subtitles of their intensions.
After entering upstairs, you saw a brother with an eyeglass interrupting Linka for dragging you to her room, “I need to borrow (Y/n) for a second. I'm tutoring Lexx.” She only gave him a questioning look. You look your tutee with worry, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to help a little.
“Okay, but I can’t stay for more than 5 minutes. I’ll just explain an specific topic they’re having a hard time with.” Levi stared at you with a creepy smile and made a creepy giggle to go along with it.
“This is called a gluteus maximus, otherwise known as the butt.” Levi pointed his pointing stick at the side of your ass cheek. "Wait, what?!" You jerked away from Levi face flushed from embarrassment. You held your hands up to the level of your bust and backed away. "I'm so sorry, I know it's educational but I think I'm not the the best model-- Oof!" Your back bumped into someone's torso. Before you could apologize you were interrupted, "Don't worry about it, (Y/n). These boys are just getting cheeky." Lane came in and pinched both Levi and Lexx's ears which earned a yelp from each sibling. "Wait, I just made a pun! Get it? Cheeky?" Lane laughed to himself.
"All right, all right, CLASS DISMISSED!" Linka grabs your arm and dragged you away from the scene.
"I'm sorry about that, (Y/n)." Linka opened her door and got scared when a goth kid started talking "I wrote a poem about you. (Y/n). Pretty face. Mysterious eyes. Pretty cool for a living girl. (Y/n)."
"Everybody out!" Lexx screamed at Linka's door. "It's time for The Knight, The Princess and The Dragon. You're the Princess, (Y/n). You don't have to do anything your beauty is enough." Lexx giggled. "Lexx, what did we agree on earlier?" You raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "Oopsies." Lexx nervously laughed and bowed before leaving Linka's room.
"Finally, we can get down to business." Linka rejoiced and set her books on bed. "I'm so sorry about my brothers, (Y/n)."
"I'm sorry too, Linka. I should've been more stern with your brothers because tutoring you is my priority." You apologized too. "It's okay, you just met us. I'm sure you just wanted to help." Linka is so cute and can't help but hug her at being understanding. You girls laughed and continued studying.
Hours later, Linka completed the assessments you provided for her. Surprisingly, she got good marks. "Linka, you're spot-on in all of your lessons. Even surrealist art." Linka looked at her assessment scores in confusion, "It's weird. I thought I needed so much help."
"May I ask what happened the day you failed your test?"
"Well, Mr. DiMartino became the substitute for the day--" "Wait Mr. DiMartino? The hunk teacher in elementary?" You laughed at Linka but she only gave you a questioning look. "Girl, no wonder why you're getting distracted and failing your test. Mr. DiMartino is so hot that girls ogle at him and lost their focus."
"Oh my god, you are so right." Linka must've went through a flashback while you're yapping about Mr. DiMartino "I almost failed too because of him. A piece of advice, try not to look too much and you won't worry about failing fifth grade." You winked at Linka and patted her back.
You arranged your things and Linka escorted you downstairs. "It's all in your head, Link. There's no reason you shouldn't be getting top marks on your exam. Well, I guess you won't be needing me anymore." You gave her a hug.
You could hear the whining from the younger brothers about you leaving while the older ones frowned. "Thanks for having me guys!"
Linka tapped your arm just before you left the door. "Can we still hang out after this?" She looked at you with that puppy dog eyes. you only grinned aat her, "You really thought that's gonna work on me? I am a professionally at that, but since you tried, we can 'literally' hang out." You peeked behind Linka and see the guys smile a little.
I guess these dudes needed a playmate.
#genderbent loud siblings#loud house x reader#genderbent loud house#genderbent au#loki loud x reader#loni loud x reader#luke loud x reader#lane loud x reader#linka loud x reader#lynn loud jr x reader#lars loud x reader#leiff loud x reader#lexx loud x reader#levi loud x reader#genderbent loud house x reader
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Can you do a Lane Loud x fem!reader who’s to nice for her own good
(Like someone shoves her on the ground and she’d be like “it ok 😊 not your fault)
I'm gonna tweak this idea a little
Before you started dating, you were the victim of many of Lane's pranks
It was kind of his way to show his love
You just thought he didn't like you
In fact, you kind of thought of him as some kind of bully
He did it out of love, not hate
You don’t trust him… Well, it doesn’t take much convincing for you to trust him again
He likes pranking you
But after one prank, on a bad day, you started to cry- Hard
He was so confused
Why are you crying?
He tried to comfort you, but you push him away and get as far away from him as possible
He finds you and apologizes
He didn’t mean to make you cry. He just wants to have fun with you
“I’m sorry, Y/n. I thought we were having fun. I didnt mean to make you cry- I would never mean to do that.“
You don’t respond and he frowns
“Y/n? Please. I’m really sorry… like really REALLY sorry.”
Doesn’t make one pun/joke when he apologizes
You end up forgiving him and he promises to never pull a prank on you again- At least not ones that could make you cry. He’ll keep it light and fun with you
^ Linka is the one that finds out abt this and uses you to make Lane not prank her
You eventually become close to Lane, after he stops his overwhelming pranks
“You know.. I’ve always had a crush on you.”
You look at Lane confused. “You? Had a crush on me?”
“Yeah. I still do.”
#loud house x reader#lane x reader#lane loud x reader#lane loud#lane#loud house#loud house lane loud#the loud house x reader#the loud house#genderbend loud house#genderbent luan#genderbent luan loud#genderbend luan loud
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Changing the Game
platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader
Oscar Piastri x Reader
Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same
The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.
His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.
He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.
A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.
He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.
As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.
Sponsors.
Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.
He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.
“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.
The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”
“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”
The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”
Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”
“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”
“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.
His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.
But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.
Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.
“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”
Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.
“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”
You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.
“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.
“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.
“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”
“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”
You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.
There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”
“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.
“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”
You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.
“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”
And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.
***
The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.
The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.
“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.
Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”
You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.
“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”
Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.
When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.
“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.
“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.
You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.
“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”
Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”
Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.
The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.
Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.
“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”
You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.
“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”
Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.
“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”
You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”
Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”
Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.
“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”
Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”
You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.
“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.
Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”
You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.
“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”
Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.
“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”
You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.
“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.
Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”
You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.
“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.
Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.
"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."
***
It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.
You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.
“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”
Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”
You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.
As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.
Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”
You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.
“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.
The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.
“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”
“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.
You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.
“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.
“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”
He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”
You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.
The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.
“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”
You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.
Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.
Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”
You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.
Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”
You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.
“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”
You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.
You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”
You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.
Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”
You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”
Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.
“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”
You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.
“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”
There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.
But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.
“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”
Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”
You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.
Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”
***
The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.
Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.
You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.
“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”
Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”
The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”
He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.
You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.
You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.
Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.
Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”
“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”
You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.
“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”
He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”
You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”
Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”
You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”
“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”
There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.
You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”
He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”
The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”
Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”
You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”
He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”
The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.
“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”
You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.
“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”
Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”
There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.
“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”
You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”
You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.
“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”
Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”
You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.
***
The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.
He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.
Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”
You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”
Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.
Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”
“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”
Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”
You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”
Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”
You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.
Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”
You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”
“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”
There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.
The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.
“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”
You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.
He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”
You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”
And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.
As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.
The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.
Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.
Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.
The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.
As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.
“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”
The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.
Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.
When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.
“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”
You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”
Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”
You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.
As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you
***
Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.
To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.
He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.
On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.
Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.
The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.
“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”
Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”
You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”
Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”
You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.
“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”
Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”
Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”
You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”
Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”
Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”
Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.
Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”
Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.
“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”
You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.
“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”
Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”
Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”
You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.
“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”
You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”
Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”
The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.
By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.
As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”
Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”
You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.
Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."
***
The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.
Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.
You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.
As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.
Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.
Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.
You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”
“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”
You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”
Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”
You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”
“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.
Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.
You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”
He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?
Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”
Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”
Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”
You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.
He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”
You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.
“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”
“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”
As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.
And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.
***
The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.
In your rookie season.
The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.
The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.
“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”
A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.
As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.
But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.
You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.
“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.
You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”
He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.
When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.
“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.
He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”
You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”
There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.
Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”
Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.
Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”
For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.
“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”
You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.
“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”
It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …
Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.
“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.
Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”
The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.
You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”
Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”
Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”
You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.
“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.
Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”
As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.
“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.
Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”
The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.
As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.
“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”
He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”
And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.
***
The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.
Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.
He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.
“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”
You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.
“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”
A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.
“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”
He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”
You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.
“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.
Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”
His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.
“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”
You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.
“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.
He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”
He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”
There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.
“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.
Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”
He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”
You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.
“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”
The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.
Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.
“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”
He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.
“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”
He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.
The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.
By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.
As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.
After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”
You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”
He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”
You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”
Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”
His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”
***
The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.
He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.
Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”
You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”
Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”
You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”
Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”
A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.
“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”
“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.
Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”
As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.
“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”
Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.
You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”
Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”
You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.
Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”
You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”
“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”
You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.
He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.
“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”
With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”
You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”
Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.
As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.
He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.
Make them remember your name.
The lights go out, and the race begins.
***
The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.
Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.
You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.
“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”
Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.
“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.
“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”
“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”
“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.
The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.
A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”
You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.
“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”
The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.
The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.
Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”
He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.
Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”
“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.
You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”
Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.
You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.
“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.
But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.
He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.
“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”
“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.
Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”
You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”
“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”
The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.
“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.
The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.
“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”
You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”
Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”
You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.
“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”
“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”
***
Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.
“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”
Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.
“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”
Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.
You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”
Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”
The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.
Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.
“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.
You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”
Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”
“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”
Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”
“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”
You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”
Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”
You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.
But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”
You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.
“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”
You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.
As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.
***
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.
Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.
Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.
As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”
“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”
The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.
“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”
There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.
“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”
Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.
The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.
Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.
The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.
The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.
When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”
For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.
“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”
Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.
“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”
Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”
“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.
As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”
***
The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.
As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.
It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.
He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It’s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.
You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.
“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”
He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.
“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”
You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”
For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.
The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.
“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.
You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”
Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.
“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.
You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”
Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.
“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.
“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”
Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.
“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”
He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”
Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”
You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”
The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.
As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.
Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”
Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”
You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.
This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.
This is his greatest achievement.
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Hi!! I saw that you write for Arcane and had a really cute idea for Vander. I don’t really see a lot of fics where you get to see Vander’s reactions to the reader either playing with the kids or comforting them, so I thought a fic centered around that might be cute? (I think also having a bit of slow burn would be sweet, like both Vander and the reader like each other but don’t do anything about it until getting a little push from the kids because they ship).
ONE LITTLE PUSH
Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!
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Fandom(s): Arcane: League of Legends
Pairing(s): Vander x Reader
Word Count: 1.9k
Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Bit of a Slowburn, Fluff, Getting Together, Reader is Smaller than Vander (but who isn’t?), Sibling Bickering
Notes: VANDER MY FAVORITE
(No, but seriously, contrary to popular belief, he’s my 1st favorite over Viktor)
JUST IN TIME (kind of) FOR SEASON TWO, LETS GOOOOO
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Vander wasn’t quite sure why you stuck around for so long.
In fact, he wasn’t sure why you stuck around in the first place.
But… As Vander watches you with the kids. His kids. He begins to understand why.
You were kind, unyieldingly so. Even as Mylo grew to start picking on Powder, even as they fought, you were kind and patient and offered them the unending gentle love they all so craved.
The love he couldn’t afford to give them because who could be gentle in the Undercity? Especially in the depths of the Lanes?
You could.
Vander was in the middle of pouring a drink when Powder tumbled into The Last Drop. She was covered in bruises and dust from something. Or someone. She barely met his gaze as she clambered to her feet and all but sprinted into the back where they all slept. Vander looked through the multitude of customers and spotted you.
You had obviously seen Powder go bolting, worry twisting your face as you glanced toward the bar and met his stare. You arched an eyebrow, and he shrugged. You rolled your eyes and sighed before smiling in jest and getting up from where you had been tinkering with the jukebox.
Vander finally manages to get away from his chatty clients and makes his way back into the back room nearly fifteen minutes later.
Only to pause by the door.
“—ylo hates me! He does, I swear!” Powder cries, and you hush her gently, dabbing what looks to be some of the antiseptic you have lying around on her cuts and bruises. Disinfectant was hard to come by, especially in the Lanes, but you were seemingly magic in the sense that you always knew who to talk to to get some. It seems you had worked your magic yet again.
“Did Mylo say that he hates you?” You ask gently, whispering a quiet “sorry” under your breath as she flinched with the sting of the antiseptic.
Powder pauses, thinking what had to be her earlier conversation over,
“Well… No…” She mumbles, and you hum,
“Can I give you my honest opinion?” You ask, and she stills, looking up at you with wide eyes before nodding.
“Aren’t you always honest with us?” She asks. You chuckle at that.
“I suppose I am. But I don’t think Mylo hates you. Does he find you a bit annoying? Maybe. But every big brother thinks that about their younger siblings. I know mine did.” You say, and Powder mulls your words over and over and over in her mind.
She always did overthink things.
“I didn't know you had a big brother.” She says eventually, and you let out a loud laugh at that.
“You are a silly girl for focusing on that. But yes, I came from a big family. And guess what? I was the baby of the family. Just. Like. You.” You say, emphasizing your words with a pinch to her side. Powder squeals with laughter and wriggles away to escape your dastardly tickling.
Vander hangs his head with a huff and a smile before turning to head back to the bar counter. He can hear your conversation continue as Powder escapes your grasp.
“Now, where did you get all these bruises from?”
“Um… Vi taught me parkour from Topside down…”
“Powder! You’re like seven!”
“Seven and a half! And she said I was ready!”
Ever since you began to stick around, you had become something of a parent figure to the four little children Vander had come into care for.
To Vi and Powder especially.
So when Mylo burst into The Last Drop with the words of a fistfight on his tongue, you were the first one out the door.
Vander was close behind.
Mylo led you and Vander deep into the Undercity. In fact, it was so far into the Undercity that Vander was worried they were getting into some dark territory.
Like… Really dark territory.
But soon enough, the sounds of a fight were heard, and soon after, you were deep in the throng of a multi-person fistfight. Everyone paused for a second when they saw you and then stopped altogether when they spotted Vander not far behind.
You began to pull people off and shoved them out of the way. You did this again and again, ducking under a few stray punches until you managed to unearth Vi.
She wasn’t looking too hot.
Her face was bruised and swollen, and the fifteen-year-old spat out a wad of blood as she bared her bloody teeth and prepared to fight again.
At least until she saw you.
It was as if the tension had been released from her shoulders.
She all but slumped into your grasp, and you stumbled back a step with the sudden weight. Vander yanked the last person away from you both and scooped up his adoptive daughter. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck and was obviously fighting back tears.
Mylo was hunched over, hands on his knees, and wheezed from all the sprinting.
“Vi? Violet, can you hear me?” You said as soon as you all returned to The Last Drop, and Vander set her down on the couch. Powder and Claggor had been found a block away, fighting off more thugs from whoever sent them after the literal children.
He would've pummeled them to a pulp if Vander hadn’t hung up his gauntlets years before.
Vi’s head lolled from side to side, and you shone a pocket flashlight into her eyes, watching as her pupils dilated and contracted. You were experienced at this, taking care of people, even more so than he thought.
Were you a doctor deep in your past?
As Vander thought about it, he realized he didn’t know practically anything about you. Your past, your likes, dislikes, he knew you were good with machines and medicine and that you came from a big family. But that was it.
And that hurt his heart.
You ended up ushering everyone out of the room while you worked on caring for Vi. Vander closed the bar early and was in the middle of putting chairs on tables when you emerged. Powder, Mylo, and Claggor dropped what they were doing. They scampered to your side, a chorus of “How’s Vi?” erupting from the kids. You offered them a tired smile and patted their heads.
“She’ll be okay. She’s resting right now. You can go in and see her if you’re quiet.”
And then it was the two of you.
Vander set the final chair on top of the table and meandered his way over where you were sitting at the bar, head in your hands.
You looked tired.
“Is she really okay?” He asked, and you grunted, rubbing at your temples.
“She has a broken nose, fractured left arm, some bruised ribs, and a concussion. Which, all things considered, she’s very lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.” You say, and he sighs,
“Did she say why she got into the fight?” He replied, and you shrug,
“She was protecting Powder. Then, more people started showing up until it was an all-out brawl. That’s when we stepped in.” You say, and his shoulders sag.
Vi was going to be okay.
“I don’t think I’ve ever said it. But thank you. For everything you’ve done. Taking care of them and all that.” He says, and you just hum.
“You guys gave me a home after everything. I’m just repaying my debt. Well… that and I love those kids.” You say, and he arches an eyebrow,
“After everything?” He inquires, and you glance up sharply as if not realizing what you had said.
Eventually, your gaze casts downward, and you run a hand over your head and through your hair.
“I was a doctor in Piltover before the rebellion. I was caught trying to help the Undercity before they were officially citizens and cast out.” You say, and his arched eyebrow raises even higher.
“A doctor? Were you any good?” You bark out a dry laugh at that,
“One of the best!” Your voice cracks as you speak, and he feels his heart splinter into pieces.
Vander should’ve known that Claggor and Mylo were up to something when they came in with sneaky grins on their faces.
The Last Drop was all but desolate. It was the wee hours of the morning before the people of the Undercity awoke to begin their day. But the door was unlocked, and the kids were allowed to run in and out as they pleased.
Which they had been doing a lot in the last hour or so.
“Vander!” Mylor clamored for his adopted father’s attention, waving an excited hand as he scampered up to the counter. Claggor hung behind, ever the stoic young man. But there was mischief in their eyes and curling the corners of their mouths.
Vander slung the rag he used to wipe the counters down over his shoulder and leaned on the bar counter.
“What did you do now?” He teased, and Mylo all but squawked.
“When have I ever done anything?!” Vander just stared,
“Do you really want me to answer that?” He asked, and Claggor snickered at Mylo’s deflated expression. Mylo quickly spun on a heel and jabbed a finger at his adopted brother,
“Not a word outta you, Claggor!” He snapped before spinning back as something dawned on him.
“You gotta come with us!” He demanded, and Vander glanced between the two of them.
“Why?” He asked, and Mylo let out an exaggerated groan.
“No questions! Just come on!” He grabbed Vander’s hand and tried tugging him around the counter and toward the front door.
Vander relented, locking the door behind him as he followed the two boys.
Only to realize very quickly what was actually going on.
His first tip-off was hearing Powder and Vi’s voices, yours mixed in as you asked where you were going, why they were taking you, and what they were doing.
Vi answered no questions. Powder just chirped excitedly. “You’ll see! You’ll see!”
The six of you met in the middle of the street, Powder dragging you by your hand as you followed behind patiently. You glanced up from listening to Powder, and your gazes met. Vander felt his heart skip a beat as he took in your appearance. There wasn’t anything particularly new, but you looked like you had cleaned up some. Your hair was pinned neatly back, and your clothes looked ironed.
You looked… Really nice.
“Vander? What’s going on?” You asked, and Vi nudged you with her good arm. Her fractured left one was still healing carefully under your care.
“We’re setting you two up.” She teased, and you stared dumbly.
“Setting us up how?” You asked, and now it was Powder’s turn to blurt out an answer,
“On a date!”
Before the two of you could react, all four kids all but disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust. Leaving you facing Vander and utterly alone.
It was safe to say he was panicking just a little bit.
“Vander? Do you have any idea what they meant?” You asked gently, and he scrubbed a hand down his face.
“My guess is they want us to go on a date.” He said, fully prepared to hear rejection. Because who would want to go on a date with him? A middle-aged man with a stained past. His lungs twisted as he heard you take a step closer.
A smaller hand slipped into his, and he looked down from where he had been staring at Topside.
Your eyes were lit up, not with disgust at the proposition he was proposing.
But they were filled with hope for the future this relationship would bring.
#vander x reader#vander x you#arcane x reader#arcane x you#arcane x y/n#arcane league of legends#arcane: league of legends#arcane vander x reader#fairy writes
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another childhood friends to lovers believer???? YES YES YES!!!! can i please request bakugou and reader moving in together, and reader shows him a memory box she's kept since they were kids...like photos, random trinkets he got her, pressed flowers, birthday cards...and he's like one second away from bursting into tears, because this is 2 decades worth of love (and many more to come) 😭🥹💗 thank you, mwah x 💖
memory box !
you take a trip down memory lane..
a/n : OH. MY GOD. I literally Had to write this this is genuinely adorable anon you are SMACKING. i lub this
cw: literally all fluff, CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TORAGAHAHEHG, katsuki gets emotional quickly and i live by this, lmk if i missed sum !
“oi !” katsuki calls out from behind you “do i throw this out or not ?”
you look back, only to see a little red box in his hands. your little red box.
you shoot up, dropping the clothes you were stacking in your shared dresser. “no, don’t!” you reach out and hold your arms up, katsuki looks even more confused, eyebrows furrowing harder.
he shakes your box around, bringing his ear to it to hear the rattling and clinking of the objects inside. “what the hell is in this thing ?”
“don’t shake it around like that !” you shriek, ripping the box out of your boyfriend hands and leaving him shocked. you smile to yourself, slowly sitting down on the wooden floors of your new apartment. your new apartment with katsuki.
“i never actually showed you this, huh.. ?” you watch as he follows you after a moment of looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, crouching down next to you with eyes fixed on your little shoe box. you remove the lid and immediately a sense of nostalgia shoots through you, you hadn’t looked at this for a while now.
“this is my memory box, i’ve had it for years.. i think since i was..what, seven ?” you wonder out loud, you’d definitely had it for a long, long time. katsuki sits next to you silently while you excitedly look through it.
“oh yeah, definitely seven—look this is the friendship bracelet i made for us !” you exclaim excitedly. it’s definitely more than a bit worn, that was the main reason you put it in this box, it was the first item you’d put in there.
you’d made one for you and one for katsuki, using your precious loom band box set you’d gotten for christmas. you’d used up all of your orange and black for it and worn yours until it started fraying. you almost cried when one of the bands snapped and you’d gotten too big for it, or it had just gotten too little for you. you refused to throw it away and found a random empty shoe box to put it in, and the rest was history.
“oh, and these are left over tickets from when we went to the fair, my keychain you got me from the aquarium—i remember you begged your mom for it.” you laugh, begged was an understatement. you remember how mitsuki pulled him away because he was causing a scene, you didn’t understand why he was so insistent on getting a souvenir, you had a good day as you all walked around looking at fish and katsuki dragging you around by the hand like he built the place himself. you remember how excited he got when you got to the shark exhibit.
you didn’t get it, until he stopped you when you were ready to leave with your own parents, grabbing you by the back of your shirt and avoiding your gaze as he stretched his little arms out and wordlessly offered you a little penguin keychain, mumbling something about how you looked happy when you saw them, ears pink while his mom smirked behind him, his father smiled down at you both kindly.
that was the first present he’d ever bought for you. with his mom’s money of course, you giggle at your own thoughts. but he’d still gotten it for you because he thought it’d make you happy. it was your treasure and you wore it on your bag for years until it started getting dirty, and you’d hid it in your shoebox to keep it safe.
you suddenly realize your boyfriend’s been awfully unlike himself for the past few minutes, silently blinking at the contents of your box and now at your little keychain.
you suddenly feel a bit self conscious, maybe he thought it was weird..
you blink in surprise when he reaches for your penguin chain and you offer it to him. it’s a bit brownish now, having lost its shine over the years. he runs his thumb over the fuzzy faux fur.
“thought you forgot about this..” he mumbles to himself.
your eyes shoot wide. “wha—no way ?!”
“ya stopped wearing it on your bag so i thought you got rid of it.” he doesn’t look angry, simply observing the chain, letting it dangle in the air.
“i just didn’t want it to get any dirtier than it clearly already is” you joked. you’re in deep now, shuffling around for more items in your box. katsuki joins you this time, pulling out an old picture.
“holy shit.” he breathes. you catch a peek at what he’s looking at only to see the both of you.
“woah, we were so small !” you giggle. it was a picture of your grade school entrance ceremony. you remember katsuki stubbornly refusing to take it and it took his mom about ten minutes to get him to stay put and take the shot. you’re all smiles, waving at the camera like you’d been instructed to and gripping katsuki’s hand. said little boy had an angry, angry frown on his face, sticking his tongue out at the camera.
“you’re cheeks were huge.” you laugh, katsuki sits down properly to nudge your shoulder with a huff. “shaddup,” he says, though there was no real bite to his words. “you weren’t any better than me.” you laugh some more and continue to pull things out. “where’d you even get this ?” he asks.
“your mom gave me a copy.”
“fuckin—of course she did.”
there’s a blurry picture you’d managed to take of katsuki when you’d gotten your first polaroid camera, and some pictures from when you’d convinced him to get in a photo-booth from your first date at the fair. dozens of birthday cards he’d written for you, you’re tempted to read them all right now but you worry katsuki might get embarrassed and actually throw the box out, so you’ll do that later.
the flowers he’d plucked out of the ground one random afternoon at his house, a rock he'd given you because it looked cool, a couple of seashells you found at the beach together, a dried up four leaf clover he claimed would bring you good luck, the container of the lip balm you were wearing when he kissed you for the first time. years worth of memories all in your little shoebox.
“fuck, you really kept all this stuff..” you hear katsuki mutter. you turn to see him still with that elementary school picture in hand, staring at it thoughtfully.
“course i did.” you hum, leaning against his side. “i spent all of my childhood with you suki, that’s unforgettable to me. i wanted to make sure i wouldn’t ever forget how much you mean to me.” katsuki’s eyes fix yours as you continue talking. and you realize how they slowly turn glossier. he realizes when you do and quickly ducks his head, scoffing to himself but a sniffle slips out.
“hey..” he shakes his head, you don’t continue, only reaching to hold him in your palms. he shoves his cheek against one, chuckling to himself.
“shush.” he mutters, voice cracking, his eyes remain shut to not let anything slip. he presses a kiss to your skin, grabbing at your wrist. "you're gonna be the fuckin' end of me, y'know ?" you laugh, rubbing your thumb against his skin, you feel him sigh against your palm.
"love you."
you smile "i love you too" you whisper back. "so, you still wanna throw it out ?" you joke, katsuki's eyebrows furrow.
"fuck, no." he asserts "it's staying here, an' i'll give you more shit to fill it up with."
and you truly couldn't be more excited, starting a new chapter of your life with the boy that had shared it all with you. you want your shoe box to be filled to the brim with more and more memories of you both, all of them just as close to your heart as the last.
"hmm," you hum "can't wait."
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@katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba
@moonshuul @erenstitanweave @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam
@aspiringwriter1111 @sugurusmoon @redvelvetstan1
@niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia
#bakugou katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#bakugo fluff#bakugou imagine#bakugou x reader#katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugou katsuki#bakugo katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugou drabble#katsuki bakugou x you#tysm for this ask im genuinely losing it#katsuki x you#katsuki x y/n#katsuki bakugo x female reader#katsuki bakugo x you#katsuki bakugo x y/n#katsuki bakugou x female reader#bakugo x you#bakugo x reader#bakugo x y/n
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you give good love
pairing. brother’s best friend! idol! dino + fem! reader
summary. as lee chan’s eyes met yours again, he could feel his consciousness slipping away from his soul. god damn, he thought to himself. when did this brat get so hot?
w.c. 5.10K
playlist. kind of based off of you give good love by whitney houston but not really i was just listening to it while writing this
warnings. [PLEASE READ] reader is hoshi’s sister, mentions of freak dino 🫢, smut under the cut, PWP, afab reader, dom/sub dynamics, dom chan, pussy eating from the BACK, uses of pet names, chan has a BIG dick, BULGE KINK, very little dirty talking, slight overstimulation, unprotected sex (don’t do this irl please), creampie duh — 18+ MINORS DNI!
note. pi-cheollin is the reason i live and breathe. also i might write chunsunie x pi-cheollin fics soon 😭 also thank you guys so so so much for 2K notes on the wonwoo fic 🙇♀️ super grateful for all your love, more soon. this is also my first ever long fic, so i hope you like it. enjoy!
“so yeah, those are the dates and timings of the flight. now, check your schedule.”
soonyoung could hear the ruffling of paper as he waited on the phone. the air con blasted in his face, evaporating any signs of sweat from his pores.
“yeah, i think i’ll be able to make it!” your voice chirped. soonyoung couldn’t help the smile on his face. “thank god! also, don’t worry about being lonely, jeonghan hyung’s sister will also be there, and also wonwoo’s sister.”
“i haven’t seen them in so long! wow, a true trip down memory lane,” you sighed, finally setting aside the calendar on your lap. “they ask about you a lot, i told you to exchange contacts with them!” your brother scolded you.
“i may have forgotten… but all that aside, how much do i need to pack?” you nervously bit your lip, contemplating how much shopping you would need to do.
“it’s a summer trip for one week, basically a mini vacation. pack a good amount of shirts and tops and modest shorts. bring your grandma style swimsuits for the pool.”
“grandma style swimsuit? oh please! i didn’t work out all winter to wear a one-piece!” you complained, flexing your biceps in front of the mirror. “i’ll bring what i want to bring.”
“and if i see any of these perverts staring at you, i’ll chop your head off too, yeah?” soonyoung sighed. “yeah yeah, they are the perverts. and you’re the polished lamb of jesus who has never gawked at wonwoo’s sister right?”
your rhetorical question has your brother stunned as he gapes into the abyss, his mouth filling up with the cool air from the air con. “i’m… how did you—” he begins, only to be cut off by the doorbell of his shared apartment.
“that’s the others. look, i’ll leave now, but make sure to pack properly, okay? text me if you need anything. see you soon.”
with that, he hung up. you smiled as you set down your phone, already deciding the outfits in your head.
as you walked over to your closet, your phone interrupted your thought process with a loud notification.
이찬: oi
이찬: did you get the plane tickets?
with a sigh, you texted back your brother’s best friend, who had somehow managed to find out about soonyoung inviting you.
you: ya, i will be coming.
you could see the dots bouncing on the screen, but you chose to ignore them. switching over to a music app, you started to scroll through and pick your random playlist.
your brother’s song, God of Music started to play and you threw your phone on the bed, enjoying the music.
you could text chan back later. he was really annoying, and it’s not like he meant anything to you anyway.
your phone buzzed with his notifications as you sorted through swim suits. “hmm, this makes my ass look fat right?”
as you landed in the jeju international airport, you gathered your luggage and made your way to the gates.
your brother was already waiting outside, clad in a mask and a cap. wonwoo and his sister accompanied him, smiling and waving at you.
“hey guys!” you hugged them, before fixing the crop top that rode up your waist. “i missed you so much!” minji (wonwoo’s sister) squealed.
the four of you got in the car after shoving your luggage in the back. wonwoo sat next to your brother, scrolling through his phone as you and minji chatted their ears off.
soonyoung couldn’t help but peek at the rear view mirror ever so often, catching glances of minji and smiling to himself.
you wanted to call him out, but decided against embarrassing your brother so early into the trip.
within 30 minutes, you had reached the share house. it was a beautiful property, surrounded by greenery. the sounds of waves crashing on the beach wallowed around you as you dragged your suitcase up the ramp.
“eunsok is dying to meet you! we must make a group chat this time, so that we remember to check up on each other, yeah?” minji helped you with your handbag, smiling as you nodded enthusiastically.
in front of the main door, you took in a sharp breath, before pushing the mahogany portico open.
immediately inside, you were greeted by jeonghan, joshua and mingyu lounging about on the couch. however, upon the sound of your entrance, eunseok ran down the stairs, engulfing both you and minji in a bone-crushing hug.
“i missed you!” she screamed, nearly tackling you on the floor. with a giggle, you hugged her back. “me too! its just sad that sophie couldn’t join us.”
muttering agreements under their giggly breath, the two helped you get up, and greet the others.
as you answered jeonghan’s questions about your well-being, you heard heavy footsteps from the stairs.
lee chan’s body appeared downstairs. when his gaze countered yours, you choked on your words.
it had been nearly 5 years since you had seen him in person. and wow, had he changed. dino, as he was famously known as these days, sported much bigger muscles, and a sculpted face. his hairstyle was finally suiting his face, a beautiful contrast to the bowl cuts you had seen him in during childhood.
for the first time in your life, you actually looked at him. and boy, did he look good. the tank top he wore showed off his body as he walked towards you, checking you out silently.
he had to admit, you surprised him. your black crop top, barely there jean shorts, and long brown hair came as a huge shock to chan.
he had remembered you as the snot-faced bratty sister of his best friend. the girl in pigtails who would cry every time he brought up your crush in middle school.
as lee chan’s eyes met yours, he could feel his consciousness slipping away from his soul. god damn, he thought to himself. when did this brat get so hot?
“hi,” chan finally placed himself in front of you, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “hi,” you breathed out, clutching the handle of your suitcase tighter.
“oh, you guys are meeting after so long!” mingyu chuckled, his eyes wandering around the room as he noticed the tension between you and his youngest member.
“yeah,” you smiled, transfixed by chan’s eyes. his plush lips parted as he glanced at your glossy ones, before quickly scanning your face.
“okay, that’s enough of your weird staring contest,” soonyoung placed a hand on chan’s chest, pushing him back to create some distance between you two.
“i’ll help you get to your room,” he turned to you. “you’re lucky, since you get it to yourself, but its comparatively smaller and narrower than the others—”
“wait, weren’t we supposed to buy alcohol and meat from the store on the way back?” wonwoo suddenly remembered, making all the eyes in the room turn to him.
“shit!” minji slapped her forehead, tutting. “we’ll go get them then! you wanna come with?” she smiled at you, eunseok joining in.
“i think i should set up my things first yeah? but take soonyoung in my place,” you shoved your brother forward. “he’d love to go grocery shopping with you.”
minji’s cheeks flared up as she straightened her posture, nodding. “sure yeah.”
within minutes, wonwoo, minji, eunseok, soonyoung and mingyu headed off to the car, ready to buy crates of beer for the evening.
as the door shut behind him, jeonghan threaded his hands through his hair, smirking. “dino-yah,” he cooed. “why don’t you help her with her luggage?”
almost immediately, joshua joined in, egging on the maknae as both of you felt the heat creep up on your neck.
wordlessly, chan snatched your suitcase from your hand, beckoning you upstairs. you bowed at the two elder to you, before running up to chan.
he led you to a small room in the very corner of the second floor, opening the door with his leg as he walked in.
chan cleared his throat as you walked in, placing your hands on your bare waist. “so, this is your room.”
you nodded at him, taking in your space for the rest of the trip. the room was furnished with a queen sized bed, a love-seat in the corner, a small desk and chair and a balcony in the very end.
“this door,” chan walked over to a door that sat perpendicular to the entry. “this is the door to a common bathroom. its a jack and jill one, that connects to the room opposite to you.”
“oh? and who’s in the room opposite to me?” you questioned, raising your eyebrow. with a dramatic sigh, chan leaned against the bathroom door, swinging his head to meet your eyes.
“its me.”
your breath hitched as he gulped. “w-wow,” you stuttered out. “sounds great, chan. looks like we are forced together again,” you smirked, crossing your arms as you stared at him.
he knew what you were referring to.
back when you were kids, and way before the idiot in front of you had signed with Pledis, you and soonyoung had gone to his house for a sleepover. chan’s mother had insisted on having you sleep on the bed, since “the floor is no place for a lady to sleep.” you and chan shared the bed, while soonyoung dozed off on the ground.
you were 14 at that time, and you remember how you skin had heated up when chan inched closer to you. “there’s no one to save you from my tickles now, crybaby!” the 15 year old boy had threatened.
yet, chan could barely focus on the flashback, instead focusing on the way your breasts nearly fell out from the neckline of your top.
you noticed his staring. smirking, you drew closer, tightening the cross of your arms.
“what’s this now, you’re ogling at me?”
you had him cornered. chan’s back was against the wall at you forced yourself into his space, breasts touching his hard torso.
“i—in you dreams!” he lied through his teeth, nervousness oozing out of his soul as he stared down at your tits.
god, the things he would do to slot his dick between those beautiful, gorgeous, one of a kind—
“my eyes are up here, channie,” you stuck your tongue out at him, before backing away and walking up to your suitcase.
dino felt his blood rushing south as you bent over to pick your bag up and place it on the table.
you purposefully wiggled your ass, humming to yourself. “channie,” you called out, voice as sweet as a siren.
“yeah?” dino collected himself, shaking away the filth that plagued his mind. two can play that game, he decided, biting his lip.
“can you come help me put my things in the bathroom? i have too much to unpack.”
with a nod, he walked over to your space, his chest touching your back as he leaned over your shoulder. “why did you pack so much, hm?” he teased you, running his fingers down your smooth arms.
not backing down from the challenge, you pushed your ass against him, whipping your head to meet his eyes. “i just wanted to look good, y’know? in case there was a strong, buff, hot man i wanted to seduce.”
with a hiss at your movements, chan’s hands flew to your hips. “yeah? you’ve grown up so much that you seduce men now?”
“oh, i do a lot more than just seduce,” you giggled, skincare long forgotten on the desk as you turned around, hopping on the wooden platform as your arms loosely slung around his neck.
chan slotted his knee between your legs, the pervert in him alive and breathing at the sight of you. you were driving him insane.
how you had managed to change so much over a few years had him baffled. instead of worrying about soonyoung, chan thought with his dick.
“what do you do then?” he questioned, eyes trained on your lips as you spoke. you pushed your clothed cunt down on his knee, biting back a moan.
“i think i would rather show you what i do than tell you,” you whimpered out, darkened eyes peering into his hazy ones.
chan bent his knee further into you, causing a delicious moan to escape your throat. “getting bold now, aren’t you?”
before you could even comprehend his words, your pussy spoke before you, hips rutting into his knee. however, a sharp knock on the door interrupted your little hump session.
“chan? y/n?” seungcheol’s voice spoke from behind the door. “you guys in there?”
chan quickly separated from you, walking closer to the door to answer. “yeah, i’m just helping her with her stuff. what’s up?”
“well, we were ordering some take out, so if you guys could come down and give your preferences, it would be great.”
“yeah, be there in a second,” chan glanced back at you, your teary eyes meeting his. the fucked out expression on your face made his dick jump to life.
but the heat of the moment had passed, which painted both of your cheek's a deep shade of red. realization hit dino way faster than it hit you. shooting you a tight-lipped smile, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts.
with a sigh, chan left the room and left you breathless, panting as your senses slowly returned. the fire of lust in your stomach had dimmed slightly, as realization dawned on you.
what the fuck just happened? and why did you like it?
nightfall arrived faster than you expected. but the cool air surrounding the beach raised bumps on your skin as you shoved grilled meat down your throat.
seungkwan and mingyu worked on the grill, with vernon filling up everyone’s plates with the expensive store bought items.
you sat on a stool next to seungcheol, sipping on the beer can that was handed to you. when everyone was busy with their own thing, the leader turned to you and smiled.
“so, how have you been? a long time has passed since we spoke right?”
you had always found comfort in seungcheol. he was the leader of the group, a very reliable and trustworthy person. you remember asking him for advice when you got into college.
“i’ve been well, how are you?” you set your can aside. “any luck with the ladies you used to complain about?”
he laughs loudly at that, spooning a mouthful of ramen. “no, i’m still stuck with one-night stands for now. dating is too complicated!”
when chan hears his hyung talking about his love life, he scoots closer to the both of you, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“what about you? get any action?” seungcheol giggled.
you could practically feel dino’s presence beside you like a wavering shadow, and you chose to exploit it. how dare he leave you with an unfinished orgasm?
“oh yeah, plenty!” you smirked. “don’t tell soonyoung, but i’m lowkey addicted to sex? just feels so good to let off some steam, you know? and the dudes around me are so easy… they fall into my hands like domino.”
the harsh truth behind those words were only known to you. you had been on a dry spell for nearly 2 months now. your fingers and toys were not enough, and you were pretty sure you had started to hallucinate about dick.
“wah, kwon hoshi’s sister is all grown up, huh? good for you girl, go get them!” seungcheol cheered you on, clinking his can with yours.
you sneakily turned to look at chan, who had suddenly grown silent in his conversation with seokmin. “dino-yah. are you okay?”
chan’s eyes met yours and he immediately tensed up. you noticed how white his knuckles had turned, just from gripping wooden chopsticks.
“i’m fine,” he smiled, eyes dancing over your body before he returned to his friend. your bralette was doing nothing to hide your slightly tanned skin, black shorts making your perky ass stand out even more.
dino mentally cursed soonyoung for even allowing you to wear that. but then again, his best friend was too preoccupied with his little crush to pay you any attention.
the rest of the mini barbeque was a tough time for him. the poor boy could only think about your tantalizing words to seungcheol, calling a sweet string of cusses to all the men that touched you before he ever could.
you noticed how your plan was working, hiding your smirk behind a colorful can of beer as lee chan suffered in silence.
within a few hours of outdoor activity, jun and minghao said goodnight to everyone first, tired of all the hustle and bustle. a few others followed suit, yawning and sighing.
at the end of the night greetings, you, dino, wonwoo, seungcheol, soonyoung, minji, and joshua remained near the pool. you saw how your brother kept leeching up to minji, cracking idiotic jokes under her brother's watchful eye.
"i... i think i'll head to bed now, good night guys!" you stretched up from your chair. chan's eyes followed the way your skin gleamed under the fairy lights. he gulped loudly as you purposefully swayed your hips while walking inside.
"you can follow her in, chan-ah," wonwoo smiled, shifting his gaze to the youngest momentarily. "i'll keep kwon hoshi here for a while."
"what are you on about?" dino tried to play it off, scoffing as he crunched up a beer can. wonwoo could only roll his eyes.
"it's obvious you like her, and i'm just giving you a chance to work on it. you really should tone down the staring... soonyoung would kill you if he found out, and i am willing to help you for now. so don't be an idiot and go."
smiling toothily at his hyung, dino whispered out an "i love you" before running up the stairs. he reached his room without breaking a sweat and decided to shower before doing anything.
however, when he was about to slide the door to your shared bathroom open, he heard a loud sigh coming from inside. shamelessly, chan pushed his ear against the door, curious as to what you were doing.
your sigh was followed by a small whisper that sounded like "i can't believe i'm doing this." then, chan heard a zipper being opened.
his eyes widened as he realized what you were actually doing. "no way," he mouthed to himself, feeling his boner re-emerging at a sudden squelching noise.
"mhm," you moaned behind the door, and the pervert in the next room could only imagine what you looked like. "f-fuck chan!" you whimpered, and dino felt his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
the towel dropped from his hand, as his fingers sneaked to the hem of his basketball shorts. with a silent groan, chan stroked his chub as his eyes squeezed shut.
he pulled his cock out, swiping at his tip with his thumb. his brain worked overtime to imagine your hand in place of his, pretty eyes staring up at him.
meanwhile, in the bathroom, you leaned against the counter as your fingers stretched open your pussy. "feels so good," you whimpered, pitch increasing as you imagined his veiny hands pumping into you.
unbeknownst to each other, you and chan had cum to the thoughts of one another that night. chan made sure to cum at the same time as you, recognizing your borderline screams as you tipped over the edge.
what a filthy girl, he thought to himself, panting as his release spurted onto the towel he had discarded.
the starting 3 full days of the trip had made you avoid lee chan like he was the plague but personified.
every glance into his eyes had made you remember what you had done on that one night, and guilt seemed to sour your mood.
everyone had decided to go to the beach after having a few afternoon drinks. you spent your time around eunseok and vernon, gossipping about office trolls and work place shenanigans.
chan was simply drinking with seungkwan and minghao, refusing to give you any attention. although he was confused as to why you were ignoring him, he remained silent and decided to give you space.
jihoon suddenly joined into his conversation, hair tied back into a messy ponytail. “dino-ah,” he smirked, snatching a shot glass from the youngest’s hand. “i hear that there’s gonna be loads of girls on the beach today. wanna check some out? we can share if you want.”
as dino downed his shot, he stared back at his hyung with a grin. “don’t you remember what happened the last time we shared a girl? we had to take her to the hospital because she passed out!”
the group laughed, reminiscing the old memory. it wasn’t odd for them to share one-night stands. the boys were family, and they strongly believed in putting each other first.
the large number of giggles near you caught your attention. you and eunseok walked over to the boys, as she queried about their conversation.
“nothing much, it was just a last minute plan in prague… god we almost got arrested,” jihoon snickered, elbowing dino’s side. the youngest could only smirk, pouring himself another shot of soju.
questions flooded your mind as you stared at the man who had you in a chokehold. dino was clad in nothing but swim shorts, his taut muscles on full display for anyone to ogle over.
as the topic changed, your curiosity got the best of you. you staggered over to seungcheol, knowing that the boy would kill to gossip.
“oh hey y/n,” he greeted you with a tilt of his beer can, sunglasses perched upon his nose.
“hi,” you settled down next to him, your can of lemon soda forgotten as your lips quivered. “you look like you want to ask me something,” he chuckled, eyes scanning your face.
“you know me so well,” you smiled, twiddling your thumbs. “i can ask you anything right?”
“yeah, sure.”
“no repercussions?”
“no repercussions.”
with a sigh, you turned to face the leader as you took in a breath. “what happened in prague?”
seungcheol nearly choked on his drink, sputtering out flicks of the liquid as he stared at you with his eyes widened behind his shades.
“of everything you could have asked… why that?” he groaned, wiping his mouth. “come on,” you whined. “jihoon said it like it sounded so fun! i just wanna know!”
with a glance around to see if anyone was looking, the leader smiled and leaned in closer to you. “we swore we would never tell this to anyone but us… but you’re family too,” he began, voice merely above a whisper.
as seungcheol tattled on about the shenanigans that the idol group had been up to, you found yourself gasping. the wild story, the borderline illegality of it all— it was too much. you squeezed your thighs together when seungcheol skimmed past the details of the night they spent.
lee chan’s eyes followed the two of you, completely misinterpreting the situation. your shuffling thighs, masked giggles and wide eyes seemed like flirting to him as he clenched his jaw, downing his shot.
why were you making this so hard for him?
it was nearly 1 in the morning when you woke up in cold sweat.
your narrow room greeted you in a greyish hue, curtains pulled back to let the moonlight in. with a sigh, you resorted to calming down, taking deep breaths as you heard the waves crashing on shore. a slight buzzing noise filled your ears. it seemed to be coming from your door, but your mind could barely focus.
your dream had completely ruined your chances of sleep. a ticket to dreamland seemed impossible as seungcheol’s words floated in your head.
i’ve never seen dino go that feral on someone before… he was insatiable.
she squirted so hard when he was done, it was a huge mess. wonwoo’s glasses got drenched-
with a sigh, you take off your sleeping shorts and toss them to the side, fingers dipping down to your core.
your hole was slicked up, a sticky mess from your vivid imagination. your index finger prodded at your entrance, making you let out a sob.
your body was frustrated, in agony. you wanted to feel chan’s touch instead of your own hands, wanted to feel him buried inside you.
you let out another pained moan, pushing your first knuckle inside your fluttering walls. however, you fail to register the sounds you have been making, and that the buzzing from the outside had suddenly stopped.
you spread your legs wider, pumping your digits inside, letting out a hurt whimper. it would never be enough.
suddenly, the door to your shared bathroom opened with a slam, and a concerned chan appeared in your doorway. “are you okay—”
the sound of his voice egged you on further, hole gushing with a fresh serving of arousal. you all but sobbed at his direction, sex induced fog clouding your brain as your fingers fastened.
“chan,” you whimpered. in the doorway, with water drenched all over his face and a can of shaving cream in his hand, lee chan groaned at the sight in front him.
“help me…” you pleaded. “oh baby,” he growled, setting the can on the floor as he walked over to you. his hands parted your thighs even further, eyes examining the mess in between your legs.
with a sharp smack, he swatted your fingers away, licking his lips at the sight of your pussy.
morals be damned. soonyoung be damned.
“look at you,” his eyes stared into your hazed ones, a hand smacking your heat. the friction had your hips bucking.
“so soaked, hmm? what were you thinking of princess?” he bit his lip. “you… always thinking of you.”
“fuck,” he groaned, tilting his head back to compose himself. “y/n,” he sighed, one of his hands cupping your face.
you leaned into his touch, lips jutted out in a pout. “tell me you want this, and it’s not just something you’d forget. tell me you want me, and i’m all yours.”
with a smile, you turn aside to place a kiss on his palm. “i’ve never wanted something more in my life, lee chan.”
that seemed to be all the confirmation he needed as he flipped you over onto your stomach, slotting himself between your legs before he discarded his sweats on the floor.
“you have no idea how patient i have been,” he grunts, manhandling you to arch your back as your ass presses against his torso.
he dips his body down, face to face with your pussy. tantalizing, he licks a stripe up your folds, making your knees buckle on the mattress.
you try to look back to see him, but its impossible to move when his hands grab your ass cheeks, forcing his mouth back on you. dino’s chin brushes against your clit as he licks at your hole with a groan.
“so wet for me already, bet i could just slide in and you’d take it.”
you can only moan his name in return, clutching the bedsheets as he ate it from the back. his tongue fucks into your folds, lapping at the arousal that drips out of you in copious amounts.
“f-fuck channie! i’m—”
before you can finish, chan is moving away from your heat. the sudden lack of his mouth has you moaning and whining like a brat.
“easy doll, i don’t want you to cum on my face right now,” he pats your ass, flipping you over to your back as you finally get a view of him.
his slick covered face dips down to meet your lips. the kiss is searing and filthy as you taste yourself on his tongue.
your hands reach for his hair, pulling him impossibly close as you suck on his tongue. using your neediness as a distraction, he quickly angles his hips and pushes his tip past your folds.
“shit!” you cuss, gasping and pulling away. in the heat of the moment, you never actually registered how obnoxiously big chan’s cock was.
as you look down to where your bodies meet, your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. his fat tip exerts an experimental thrust, and the sheer stretch of his head has you whining.
“shh baby, it’s okay,” he assures you, pressing small kisses along the column of your throat. “just breathe for me?”
you inhale slowly, allowing your tense body to relax and adjust to him. dino’s attempts at distracting you do not go futile as you feel his fingers pinching your nipples. the pain in your chest makes the ache between your legs lose all meaning.
steadily, he pushes himself inside you, inch by inch entering your welcoming walls that spasm around him. when he finally bottoms out, you feel him in your gut.
this was the fullest you had ever felt. chan’s mouth licks the sweat around your breast, savouring in the salty taste.
his arms rest on either side of your head, making you relish the view. when he finally looks up, you pull him in for a kiss.
its sloppy, and his teeth clash into yours, but you could not care less. your pussy clenches around him as you pull away, nodding feverishly. “chan… if you don’t fuck me right now, i might die— hah!”
one languid thrust into you has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. his metal chain dangles on your chin, the coolness contrasting the heat that squelches down there.
chan takes full advantage of his dancer body as he pistons his hips into you. the stretch has you reeling, nails clawing down his broad back as his body leans into you.
dino’s lips find the spot on your neck, licking and sucking till red and purple bloom on your skin. his matted hair sticks to his forehead, as you turn your head to the side— the visuals becoming too much for you to handle.
you’re met with his forearm in your sight, fingers tightly gripping the bedsheets.
without a second thought, you lean forward and bit his skin, making him groan out as his cock twitches inside you.
“fu- you’re killing me baby,” he smirked, licking his lips as he forces you to look at him.
the brute force of his thrusts has your body thrashing, legs shaking with pleasure.
“feels so good channie!” you hiccup, mind cloud. the only thing you could think of was lee chan and his oh so perfect dick that was ravaging your insides.
when chan looks down, his eyes roll to the back of his head. he could see the outline of himself in your stomach, prodding out with every thrust.
a creamy and frothy ring lined the base of his cock, a testament to how your greedy cunt was sucking him in. your warm walls squeezed hard around him when one of his hands dropped down to press the bulge on your stomach.
“feel me in there, don’t ya?” he babbled, hips faltering at your vicious grip. “y-yes!” you cried out, feeling your stomach contracting.
with a loud growl, chan’s lips rest upon yours. “you close baby? can feel your greedy little cunt crying f’me,” he mumbled, licking your bottom lip.
your pathetic nods made him remove his hand from your stomach and find your clit instead, circling the bud as you mewled.
“cum for me baby, show me how much you needed this cock in you,” his eyes fluttered shut, forehead falling against yours.
“i’m cu— oh fuck,” you whimpered, suddenly feeling your orgasm rip through your body. your pussy clamped down on him, gripping his length like a fleshlight.
dino moaned in your ear about how good you felt, thrusts turning sloppy as he pressed kisses on your earlobe.
he continued to move inside you, drawing out your orgasm as he chased after his. overstimulation had tears spilling from your eyes, clawing at his pecs as you sobbed. “ ‘s too much channie! hurts!”
“just a little more baby, clench round me like that aga— FUCK!” he lost himself in you, feeling your walls clamp down on his cock, milking him for all his worth as his orgasm washed over him.
in a desperate attempt, chan’s thrusts turned erratic as he pumped his load inside you. “s-so good,” he whimpered, hips stilling inside you as he softened. you groaned at the warmth, shutting your eyes in ecstasy.
you both were panting, bodies entwined in a soft caress. time seemed to still when lee chan looked into your eyes again, smiling like a lovesick puppy when you kissed him.
your mouth whined pathetically when he pulled out, falling to your side as he sighed. wanting to be close to him, you shuffled near him.
your fingers dropped down to your pussy as you tried to plug his cum inside you, moaning at the sensation of being so incredibly full and warm.
“that was… the best sex i’ve ever had, sheesh,” dino wrapped an arm around you, pulling you impossibly close.
you brought your hand up to place on his sweaty chest, giggling as he kissed the top of your head. “better than prague?” you teased.
lee chan’s pecs tensed under your hold, as his eyes widened, staring at you in the dark. “what— who told you about that!” he exclaimed, ears dusted pink.
“seungcheol’s very easy to gossip with,” you winked, staring up at his pretty face. “wow… i can’t believe this hyung,” he grumbled, hearing you laugh.
“hey! this only happened because i was thinking about everything you did to that poor girl,” you smacked his muscle, hearing him wince. “why were you so feral that night, lee chan?” you voiced your question out loud.
he sucked in a breath as his grip tightened around your shoulder. “you really want to know?”
“i’m dying from curiosity,” you mused. with a sigh, chan turned his head to face you fully, meeting your eyes in the moonlight, before he whispered out an answer.
“she had the same name as you.”
© nachojaehyun, 2024
#dino#dino smut#svt dino#seventeen#svthub#seventeen dino#dino x reader#lee chan#lee chan smut#lee chan fluff#lee chan seventeen#dino fluff#dino fanfic#nachojaehyun#kpop#kpop hard hours#seventeen smut#seventeen smut drabbles#seventeen thoughts#kpop hard thoughts#seventeen x reader#seventeen hard hours#이찬
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Friday Night Lights | Lee Know
ᑉ³pairing; Jock Lee Know x Nerd Reader
ᑉ³genre; Fluff, Smut
ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ,dirty talk, swearing, oral m reciving,
ᑉ³Authors Note; 1k event Commisson giveaway winner Louie <3 (sorry it took so long :((( )
You’re used to staying in your lane.
In college, that means your nights are spent at the library, working on assignments, attending study groups, or listening to the whispers of people about crushes, weekend plans, and sometimes, the star athletes on campus. You don't usually pay much attention to that last one—until the whispers turn to Lee Minho. Lee Minho is… different. Confident, popular, and utterly untouchable. He’s the star of the football team, the guy people can’t stop talking about, but also somehow your friend.
Well, sort of.
You met through Jisung, your mutual friend, who has a way of pulling people together. You’ve spoken a few times—mostly polite hellos and small talk whenever Jisung ropes you into attending his hangouts—but every time you do, you find yourself tripping over your words.
You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s just another guy, after all. But the way your heart races every time his attention flickers to you says otherwise.
“You’re coming to Minho’s game this Friday, right?” Jisung’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
You blink, caught off guard, and turn to face him. “What?”
Jisung leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs like he always does, completely unfazed. “The game. This Friday. You’re coming, right?” He grins, as if your attendance is already a done deal.
“I don’t know...” you trail off, trying to avoid his expectant gaze. Crowds aren’t really your thing, and the idea of sitting through a packed football game is enough to make your stomach churn.
“Oh, come on,” he groans, dropping the chair back onto all four legs with a loud thud. “You’ve been holed up in this library all week. You need a break.”
You frown, shuffling your notebook to pretend like you’re busy. “I don’t really do... games.”
“You don’t have to ‘do games.’ You just have to show up. Cheer a little, look cute, and maybe—just maybe—have fun.” His tone is light, but the sly look he shoots you suggests he’s up to something.
Your suspicion grows. “Why do you care if I go?”
“Because it’s the homecoming game,” he says. “You know, one of the biggest games of the year? Minho’s going to kill me if you don’t show up.”
When you don’t respond, he rolls his eyes. “You know, Minho? Our mutual friend? The guy you can barely form a sentence around?”
“I do not—”
“Yes, you do,” he interrupts with a smile, leaning forward on his elbows. “And I think he’d appreciate the support. He’s been working really hard this season, and besides...”
You tilt your head, confused. “Why would he care if I’m there? I’ve never even been to one of his games.”
“That’s exactly why he’d care!” Jisung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Do you know how many times he’s asked me why you never go? He thinks you hate football or something.”
“I don’t hate football,” you say defensively, though the thought of navigating the chaotic energy of a packed stadium doesn’t exactly fill you with joy. “I’ve just... never really had a reason to go.”
Jisung smirks, leaning forward on his elbows. “Well, now you do.The entire campus is going to be there—students, alumni, even the marching band’s pulling out all the stops. It’s a whole thing. You have to come.”
You hesitate, nibbling on your bottom lip. It’s not like you don’t want to support Minho—he’s always been kind to you in his own aloof, confident way. But showing up at a game, where everyone’s eyes will be on him—and by extension, anyone he cares about—feels overwhelming.
“I don’t know, Ji. Crowds aren’t really my thing.”
“Crowds aren’t the thing,” he says, cutting you off with a sly grin. “Minho is."
Your stomach flips at the thought. You’ve never seen him play before, never witnessed the version of Minho everyone talks about when they say his name with awe. The star athlete, the leader on the field.
“I’ll think about it,” you mumble, quickly shuffling your papers as an excuse to avoid Jisung’s knowing look.
“Uh-huh,” he says, sitting back with an exaggerated shrug. “Just don’t be surprised when I text you the details anyway. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”
So, somehow, you find yourself in the bleachers that Friday night, bundled in your warmest jacket, pretending you’re not scanning the field for one particular player. It doesn’t take long for you to find him. Even among his teammates, Minho stands out, laughing with them, helmet under one arm as he warms up. It’s a little surreal, watching him from here; he’s all focus and intensity, so different from the relaxed, teasing guy you usually see at Jisung’s hangouts. You can’t help feeling your heart race a little faster.
As the game starts, you find yourself getting drawn in, caught up in the energy around you. The team is good, and Minho, even better. It’s not hard to see why he’s the star. Every play he’s part of feels....different. He’s practically flying across the field, tackling opponents, calling shots, making everything look effortless. You can’t keep your eyes off him.
And then it happens.
It’s fast—too fast, really—and at first, you’re not sure what’s wrong.
One second, Minho is sprinting down the field, his face set with determination as he cuts through defenders like they’re nothing. The next, there’s a collision, hard and brutal. The sound of it echoes in the stadium, a collective gasp rising from the crowd.
Your breath catches as you see him go down, gripping his ankle. For a moment, everything else disappears—the noise of the crowd, the whistle from the referee, even Jisung’s voice shouting something beside you. All you can see is Minho on the ground, pain written across his face.
Your heart pounds as players gather around him, the medics rushing onto the field. He tries to get up, but it’s clear he can’t put any weight on his leg. The sight twists something deep in your chest, and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re halfway to your feet.
“Hey,” Jisung says, grabbing your arm and pulling you back down. “He’ll be okay. It’s probably just a sprain or something.”
But Jisung’s words do little to calm the panic bubbling inside you. From this distance, you can’t hear what the medics are saying, but the way Minho shakes his head and slams his fist into the ground tells you it’s bad.
The game pauses as they help him off the field, his arm slung around a teammate’s shoulder, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. Your stomach churns, and for the rest of the game, no matter how loud the crowd gets or how exciting the plays are, you can’t focus. Your eyes keep drifting to the sideline, where Minho sits with his head down, his ankle wrapped in ice.
And all you can think about is how you wish you could do something to help him.
The rest of the game feels like a blur. The energy in the stadium surges back eventually, but not for you. Your eyes keep flicking toward the sideline, where Minho sits with his injured leg propped up, his arms crossed and a stormy expression on his face. Even from a distance, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s forcing himself to stay composed despite the obvious frustration simmering beneath the surface.
Jisung nudges you with his elbow, breaking your trance. “Relax. Minho’s tough. He’ll be fine.”
You nod stiffly, not trusting your voice enough to reply. Jisung’s probably right—Minho is strong, the kind of guy who shrugs off pain like it’s nothing. But something about the way he looked when they carried him off the field makes your chest feel heavy.
When the game finally ends, with your school securing a narrow victory, the crowd erupts in cheers. Students flood the field to celebrate, but you can’t seem to share their enthusiasm. Instead, you find yourself lingering near the bleachers, watching as the team huddles together, Minho still sitting apart, his helmet resting forgotten at his feet.
“Come on,” Jisung says, tugging on your sleeve. “Let’s go check on him.”
Your heart skips. “What? No. He’s probably surrounded by people—he doesn’t need me there.”
Jisung rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re his friend too. Besides, if you don’t come, I’ll just tell him you were too shy to say hi, and then he’ll feel bad.”
You glare at him, but the teasing glint in his eyes leaves you with no room to argue. Before you know it, you’re weaving through the lingering crowd, your pulse quickening with every step closer to the team’s bench.
When you reach him, Minho is leaning back against the bench, his jaw clenched and his eyes distant. His ankle is now heavily wrapped, a crutch resting beside him.
“Minho!” Jisung calls, grinning as if nothing’s out of the ordinary. “You okay, man? That hit looked brutal.”
Minho glances up, his expression softening slightly when he sees Jisung—and then landing on you. His gaze lingers for a moment, and you suddenly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve been better,” he mutters, managing a wry smile. “But I’ll live.”
“You scared the crap out of them,” Jisung says, jerking his thumb in your direction. “They were about to jump the fence and carry you off the field themself.”
“Jisung!” you hiss, smacking his arm, but Minho chuckles, the sound low and warm despite the situation.
“You were worried about me?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at you.
Your cheeks burn, and you scramble for a response that doesn’t make you sound ridiculous. “I mean... you went down pretty hard. Anyone would’ve been worried.”
His smile widens, a hint of his usual confidence returning. “Well, thanks for caring.”
The simplicity of his words, paired with the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, sends your heart into overdrive. You want to say more, to ask if he’s really okay, but the weight of his gaze and the teasing grin tugging at his lips leaves you tongue-tied.
“Anyway,” Jisung cuts in, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air, “you should let them take care of you. They're great at worrying—practically a professional.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands as Minho chuckles again.
“Noted,” he says, his tone lighter now, almost playful. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
And just like that, you realize you might be in deeper than you ever thought.
Over the next two weeks, Minho’s injury changes things. He’s benched for practices, forced to watch from the sidelines while his teammates run drills and scrimmage. The ever-present crutches are a constant reminder of his temporary setback, though he still somehow makes them look effortlessly cool.
The trouble starts when Jisung complains one afternoon, flopping dramatically into the seat next to you in the library.
“I can’t keep babysitting Minho,” he groans. “We don’t even have the same classes, and Coach keeps glaring at me every time I’m late because I’m helping him to practice. You should do it.”
You frown. “Me? Why me?”
Jisung grins slyly, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “You’re the only other person he talks to as much as me. Besides, you’re better at dealing with his diva moments.”
“Diva moments?” you ask, incredulous.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Despite your protests, Jisung isn’t one to take no for an answer, and by the next morning, Minho’s waiting for you outside your lecture hall, leaning on his crutches with an easy grin.
“Hey,” he says casually, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
You blink at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Jisung said you’d help me get to practice,” he replies, his grin widening when he sees the look on your face. “Don’t worry. I’m not that high-maintenance.”
You sigh, already feeling like you’re in over your head. “Fine. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Helping Minho quickly becomes a routine. Every afternoon, you meet him after his last class to walk—well, technically hobble—to the field. At first, it’s awkward, mostly because Minho seems determined to act like his injury isn’t a big deal, even when he’s obviously struggling. But over time, the walks become... easier.
Minho, for all his bravado, is surprisingly easy to talk to. He asks you questions about your classes, your favorite things, even what made you decide to go to the homecoming game. His teasing is still there, but it’s lighter, less guarded, and you find yourself opening up to him in ways you didn’t expect.
One afternoon, as you’re walking back from practice, Minho turns to you suddenly.
“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
He gestures to his crutches, his expression unusually serious. “Helping me. I know it’s a hassle.”
You stop walking, frowning at him. “It’s not a hassle, Minho. I don’t mind.”
He looks at you for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he smiles—soft and genuine, the kind that makes your heart skip.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
You’re about to keep walking when he doesn’t move, shifting his weight awkwardly on his crutches. His expression tightens like he’s debating something with himself, and before you can ask, he speaks again.
“You know... I'm not kidding,” he says, his voice lower now.
“Kidding about what?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“About this being a hassle,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “But not for the reasons you think.”
You tilt your head, frowning. “Minho, that doesn’t even make sense.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound more nervous than amused. “What I mean is... it’s a hassle because I’m trying really hard not to screw this up.”
Your heart skips. “Screw what up?”
“This,” he says, his dark eyes locking on yours. “Us. Whatever this is. Because, honestly? I like you.”
The words hit you like a wave, and you’re left standing there, staring at him as your brain scrambles to catch up.
“You… like me?” you echo, your voice barely above a whisper.
Minho nods, shifting his grip on his crutches as if they’re the only thing grounding him. “Yeah, I do. I’ve been trying not to make it obvious, but these past couple of weeks? Spending time with you, talking to you... it’s just made it harder to ignore.”
Your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. “Minho, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same, I... I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t care about you like this.”
The raw honesty in his voice takes you by surprise, and before you can second-guess yourself, the words tumble out.
“I do feel the same,” you admit, your cheeks burning as you look at him. “I just didn’t think you would.”
Minho blinks, clearly startled, before his lips curve into a slow, disbelieving smile. “You mean that?”
You nod, unable to stop the small smile creeping onto your face. “Yeah, I do.”
For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression soft and full of something you can’t quite name. Then, he exhales a laugh, shaking his head.
“Well, that’s a relief,” he says, his grin widening. “I was starting to think Jisung would kill me if I didn’t say something.”
You laugh, the tension between you melting away. “He probably would.”
Minho straightens up, his confidence sliding back into place. “So, does this mean I can keep making you carry my stuff to practice? You know, since you like me and all.”
You roll your eyes, already regretting this. “Don’t push your luck, Minho.”
The days blend together, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize you’ve started looking forward to your time with him. The walks, the conversations, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—it’s all so much more than you ever thought it could be.
But today feels different.
When you show up to meet Minho after practice, the field is empty. His crutches aren’t propped up by the bench where he usually waits, and there’s no sign of his teammates. You glance around, your chest tightening with a mix of confusion and unease.
“Minho?” you call out, but the only answer is the faint hum of fluorescent lights from the building nearby.
Frowning, you decide to check inside. The locker room is usually bustling after practice, but as you step in, it’s eerily quiet. The air smells faintly of sweat and detergent, and the echo of your footsteps makes the space feel even emptier.
You turn a corner, and that’s when you see him.
Minho is sitting on one of the benches, his crutches leaning against the wall beside him. His head is bowed, his hair falling into his face as he stares at the ground. There’s a tension in his posture, his shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
“Minho?” you say softly, stepping closer.
He doesn’t look up right away, but you see the subtle way his shoulders relax at the sound of your voice. “Hey,” he mutters, his tone lacking its usual spark.
You sit down beside him, your knee brushing against his. “What’s going on? I thought we were meeting outside.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just... needed a minute.”
You wait, giving him the space to speak. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are shadowed with something you don’t see often—uncertainty.
“I hate this,” he admits quietly, gesturing to the crutches beside him. “Sitting out, watching everyone else practice, knowing I can’t do anything. It’s... frustrating.”
Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice. “Minho, it’s okay to feel that way,” you say gently. “But this is temporary. You’ll be back out there before you know it.”
He scoffs, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What if I’m not? What if I come back and I’m not as good? Or worse, what if I get hurt again?”
“Then you deal with it,” you say firmly, surprising even yourself. “Because you’re Minho. You don’t let anything stop you. And besides...” You hesitate, your voice softening. “You’re more than just football. At least, to me you are.”
He blinks, his eyes searching yours. “You really mean that?”
You nod, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “Of course I do. You’re amazing, Minho, even when you’re not on the field.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm as they curl around yours.
Minho’s thumb traces over your knuckles in gentle circles, and he looks down at your intertwined hands with a soft, almost shy smile.
There’s something unspoken hanging in the air between you, a feeling that’s been growing with every passing day, but now, in the quiet of the locker room, it’s impossible to ignore.
You feel it too—the shift, the tension, the undeniable pull drawing you closer. His gaze lifts from your hands to your face, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the stillness of the locker room, the soft sound of his breath mingling with yours.
“You know,” Minho starts, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”
Your heart beats faster, your pulse quickening. “Do what?” you whisper, even though you already know.
Minho doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he leans in slowly, his face inching closer to yours, his lips barely brushing against the air between you. His hand moves to your cheek, his fingers warm and gentle against your skin.
And then, without another word, his lips are on yours.
It’s tentative at first, soft and uncertain, as if he’s waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. You tilt your head, your free hand reaching up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. When you kiss him back, it’s like everything clicks into place—like this was always meant to happen.
The kiss deepens, slow and explorative, as if you’re both savoring the moment. His lips are soft, warm, and he smells like freshly cut grass and the faintest trace of cologne. His hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your other hand finding its way to his waist, holding him against you.
For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, lost in the feeling of something new and exciting, something neither of you ever expected. And when you finally pull away, breathless and slightly dazed, Minho rests his forehead against yours, his smile lazy but full of warmth.
“I think,” he murmurs, his voice low, “I could get used to this.”
You smile, feeling a quiet thrill at the thought. “Then I guess we’ll have to make it happen.”
Minho's grin softens, his hand still warm against your cheek, and he leans in once more.
This time, the kiss is different—deeper, more certain. There’s no hesitation, no wondering if this is okay. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space between you. His lips move against yours, gentle yet deliberate, as if he’s making up for all the times he’d held back.
You respond, feeling braver now, your fingers finding their way to his collar, tugging him just a bit closer. The locker room is completely forgotten; it’s just you and Minho, the world melting away around you.
You wanted him, of this you were sure.
"Darling, why don't you let me help you forget about it all?" You purred, as your hands made their way down his chest stopping at his waist. You pulled him towards you and kissed him harder, your need for him overpowering any doubt that was left in your mind.
You knelt between his legs, the anticipation building between you. You place both of your hands on his legs and slowly began to push them apart, allowing yourself to slide in between.
"Y/n…" he said, placing his hand on top of yours, almost as if to stop you. His fingers lingered, trembling slightly. "A-Are you sure? " he said "I don't want to pressure you"
"Shh... let me," you replied softly, as you began to unbuckle his belt, your eyes never leaving his. "I want you, Minho. I want this."
He groaned as you palmed him through his boxers. You could feel him getting harder under your hands.
"Y-you don't have to, baby" He said through his moans. You slowly pulled down his boxers, his erection springing free. "We can take it slo-OH," You leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his pink tip.
You continued by placing a trail of kisses down his cock, keeping eye contact with him. You licked your way back up to the tip and took him in your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, tasting his pre-cum as it seeped from the top.
He couldn't help but throw his head back and lean further onto the bench. His breath caught in his throat as his ears began to turn a shade of red. You bobbed your head up and down, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock.
The only thing heard in the locker room is the lewd sounds coming from your mouth along with his whimpers.
Minho moaned loudly, his hips bucking involuntarily. You took him deeper into your mouth and sucking harder than before. You reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your fingers as you continued to pleasure him.
"Fuck, Y/N," He moaned. "That feels so good. You're so good."
You responded with a low growl, taking him even deeper, his tip kissing the back of your throat.
Your lips were locked around his shaft. You choked slightly around his cock, tears beginning to fall from your eyes as his tip hit the back of your throat continuously.
He whined for more, almost sobbing when you completely removed yourself from around him, removing your lips from him with a pop.
You lick your way up his cock, once again paying extra attention to his swollen tip. His gaze locked onto yours, he began to thrust his hips forward, his thick, hard cock pressing against your lips. You parted them slightly, allowing him to slide inside once again.
He began to fuck your mouth roughly, his cock sliding in and out of your throat with each thrust. You could feel the saliva dripping down your chin, but you didn't care - the only thing that mattered was pleasing him.
"I'm go-gonna.... fuck.. gonna cum." he said, his thrusts beginning to slow down.
You feel the familiar slip of your glasses down the bridge of your nose, threatening to fall off completely.
Before you can react, Minho’s hand gently brushes against your nose, and with a soft chuckle, he reaches up, pushing your glasses back into place. His fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary, his touch warm against your skin. You felt his cock twitch in your mouth, your glasses sliding sending him overboard, and his cum paints your throat. You swallowed, your eyes never leaving his as you sucked him dry.
He pulled his cock out, and you pressed your thumb down onto his dripping red tip.
The lower half of your face glistens, your features wet with your his cum.
"Fuck you're pretty" he said hold your chin with his hand. “I didn’t know you knew how to do that," his voice a mix of amusement and admiration. “You’ve always seemed like the super nerdy type—guess I was wrong.”
You laugh, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. “Well, I do have my moments of... unexpected skills.”
Minho’s smile softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” you reply, a grin tugging at your lips. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out more.”
He chuckles, leaning in again, and you both fall back into the moment, the world outside fading away once more.
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may I ask for a oneshot with jinx like introducing her girlfriend, fem!reader to vander/warwick? and for a while he's like just sniffing and eyeing her suspiciously or whatever until he sees her and jinx in a super like intimate and sincerely loving moment?
also! may I be 🫀 anon? :3
Hi! Yes you absolutely may! i loved this request, and I hope you love what I wrote based off of it!
'How I met your grandfather'
pairing: Jinx X Fem!Reader
genre: fluff, maybe a hint of hurt/comfort
Wc: 2835
You sigh as you enter Jinx’s hideout, shoulders sore and the bags under your eyes growing heavier and heavier. You'd been out with Sevika keeping the lanes in check after the Stillwater breakout, and it was tireless. Enforces had been down your throats the entire time, and balancing keeping the enforcers from beating angry zaunites while also wanting to beat the shit out of them yourself had taken its toll.
The lanes have been a never-ending job since Silco died.
You felt horrible for leaving jinx alone after the attack, but she understood. You worked for Silco when he was here, and now sevika. She knew what your job entailed and was used to you being gone for days at a time.
Stepping onto the still wings of the fan, you were confused by the noise or lack thereof. Her hideout was never quiet, always the sound of her tinkering, or having dance parties and bug-boxing matches mixed with Ishas giggles.
“I’m home! Anybody here?” you call out into the air. The only response is the echo of your own voice. “Isha? Jinx?” you call out once more. Confused, you walk up to her workstation, cluttered and disorganized as always. You're met with a note on her desk, your name in her distinctive scribbly handwriting on the front page.
‘Hey trinket, we found Vander. Took him to some mystery healer on the edge of Zaun. Meet us there if we aren't back before you.
Love ya’
Your eyes widen as you scan the letter once more, her lack of detail slightly worrying. Questions flooded your brain as you flipped her vague note to find directions on the back.
Scurrying to get your things together as quickly as possible, you take off in the direction of this ‘mystery healer’, your heavy boots loud as you run to find your girlfriend and her back from the dead dad
________________________________________________________________________
You're slightly panting as you reach the gates she directed you to, having sprinted half the way there, and jogged the other half. Pausing for a moment as you catch your breath, you make eye contact with a man standing in front of the gates.
His eyes are white, and he's covered in these bubbly pearlescent patterns, donned in the strangest clothes you've seen. You manage to mutter “The fuck…” before he’d beckoning you closer.
You slowly stand up straighter, distrust evident in your features as you begin to approach him.
Deciding that you in fact, do not want to open the can of worms that is the freaky-looking man with a blank expression, you attempt to walk straight past him, eyes set on the entrance in front of you, searching for any sign of wild blue hair or large semi robot beast.
You're stopped by Mr. Freaky before you can waltz past, his thin frame swerving in front of you. “I must ask that you turn in any weapons before entering,” he says, an odd cadence in his voice that you've never heard from a zaunite. You scoff at this request, “yeah, no thanks” you reply before attempting to shove past once more.
You stopped once again, his tone firmer this time. “I must insist, as it is the policy of the Machine Herald”. You consider just socking the guy in the face and making a run for it but decide that you don't know what kind of crazy superpowers this guy might have, and to be quite honest you don't want to find out.
“Look, not gonna happen. Not sure who this ‘machine herald’ is, but I'm looking for someone else. Just let me pass, i’ll be on my merry way and you can keep doing whatever…. This is” the annoyance shameless drips from your voice now, you have places to be and this guy is single-handedly keeping you from said places.
He once again denies you access, and you lose your shit. You're now (loudly) in a full-blown argument with this guy, neither of you budging. His voice is only starting to rile you up more, and you're an inch away from executing your hit-and-run plan from earlier when you hear the raspy voice of your lover calling your name.
You freeze immediately, fist pausing mid-air as your eyes dart behind the man to see Jinx, leaning against the entrance, arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face.
“Stand down, sergeant. No beating the greeter.” her voice is sarcastic and teasing, and you sigh in defeat. Arms dropping and face annoyed as you reluctantly hand the man your pistol and several pocket knives that you keep strapped to you in various places.
Once unarmed, the man simply smiles and steps aside, and you make sure to knock him in the shoulder before stomping over to your girlfriend.
Your annoyance subsides as you see her smiling face, your arms immediately wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close. You feel her relax into your embrace, strong arms circling your waist and giving you a good squeeze before pulling back.
“What the hell is this place, and why did that fish-man never change his facial expression once?” you question your voice laced with confusion and slight concern.
She simply shrugs her shoulders and turns to start guiding you through the odd community full of tents and more people with white eyes and pearlescent patterns. “Vi said she knew of a healer here in the lanes. Said he was performing some miracles or some magic bullshit.” she spins on her heel to look at you while continuing to walk backward. “Personally I think he's just some weird purple fortune teller, but Vi trusts him and Vanders actually getting better, so..” her voice softens during the last part of her sentence, voice trailing off as her eyes cast slightly downward.
You pause in your tracks, shock evident on your features. “Wait, Vi’s here?” not even attempting to hide the surprise in your voice at the mention of her estranged sister.
She sighs, once again avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I mean, it's her dad too. Didn't feel right not letting her know that he's alive, at least.” you slowly nod as you come to terms with her reasoning.
“Anywho! Now we're here at this weird commune run by a metal fortune cookie that can read minds and I dead honestly think this place is a cult. Everyone here is weird. And the only good food is the fruit. The only snacks are trail mix and it's all eighty percent raisins,” her lip curls in disgust, shaking her head slightly before continuing. “I fucking hate raisins. Just give me a grape, I don't want its juiceless corpse as an alternative.”
You snort at her wording, but can't help yourself agreeing. Raisins suck and it's a crime to ruin perfectly good snacks with them.
You continue to follow her, passing tents all full of people dressed similarly to the first man you met. Some were in tents that looked more like workshops, cooking, and sewing, and some in tents that looked more like homes, full of pillows and blankets and small furniture pieces.
She continues to ramble about this place, she mentions that Isha is off in a tent somewhere helping a group of women weave a blanket (boring), how the healer (who you figured out is the machine herald from earlier) somehow knew her childhood name, and how Vi had turned into some emo looking alcoholic and lost another fight to jinx in an underground tunnel.
Finally, her walking begins to slow as you both reach a greenhouse near the middle of the village. It's a dome made of detailed stained glass, and you can vaguely make out the shape of the massive frame of Vander inside. You spot Vi sitting on the edge of what seems to be a water well, and Jinx’s description isn't too off. You make a mental note of the poorly done hair job and vow to make fun of her for it later.
When Vi looks up and spots you, she sends you a nasty glare before stomping away with an excuse of finding Isha. You roll your eyes, so what if you've tried to kill each other a couple of times? No big deal, honestly.
Jinx also rolled her eyes and dismissed her sister with a wave of her hand. “She’ll get over it, don't worry. She was just as dramatic when I went to find her.”
She simply crossed her arms, leading you to a bench outside the greenhouse. Once sat, she slumps into your side, shoulder pressing against yours and head leaning against the side of your own.
“It's weird, you know? It's him, he remembers me and Vi but… he’s also part of this beast he's trapped in. Vi keeps asking for my opinion on… All of this, but I have no clue. I think I'm still in shock from when I realized it was him.” She shakes her head, letting her voice trail off. You sit in silence for a moment, letting her words marinate in your brain.
You weren't sure how to respond, for Christ's sake, you barely even knew your own parents. What the hell do you say to someone who killed two of her dads, and then found out the first one is actually alive but trapped in the body of a hostile science experiment?
Deciding that there was nobody on the planet who could find the words to comfort someone in this situation, you simply grab her hand instead and allow her to rest against you. She knew what your body language meant when words failed you. She always did.
You sat like that for a while, enjoying each other's company and the quiet. It wasn't often that there was peaceful silence in Zaun, as silence usually meant danger. You both relished the feeling of letting your guard down for the first time in years.
Eventually, a man… or.. Robot? You weren't sure, steps out of the greenhouse. His body is a mix of purples and blues, looking like a painted night sky, and he is adorned in a cloak similar to those worn by the others on the commune. He approaches the both of you, still sitting on the bench, an aura of confidence and peace to him. His accent is thick when he finally addresses Jinx.
“I've decided to end our session today. Your father's condition is improving slowly but I can see him growing tired, and I fear pushing him too far may bear consequences.” he nods his head at you in a greeting as he finishes his sentence, before turning and walking away.
Jinx grumbles a response, something of a ‘thank you’ mixed with some sarcastic remarks, and you think you hear an ‘aluminum psychic’ mixed in there, but before you can think too hard she grabs your hand pulling you towards the greenhouse.
You stumble slightly, but follow her as she impatiently hops towards the door. Pushing the large door open, she drops your hand and runs inside. You're met with the smell of fresh plants and herbs as you follow her inside, slowly looking around the room and taking everything in as she runs over and wraps her arms around her father, asking how he's feeling.
His eyes immediately snap to you, a look of distrust and unease in his eyes as he stares you down. Jinx notices, and slowly steps back from her hug. She keeps her eyes on vander as she backs towards you, grabbing your hand before speaking.
“Vander, this is my girlfriend.” her voice is soft as she begins to slowly walk towards him, hand still locked in yours.
Fuck, you were not prepared for the whole “meeting the dad” part of all of this. Sure, you've met one of her dads before, but that's because you worked for him, so the stereotypical introduction wasn't necessary at the time.
Attempting to calm your nerves and make a good impression, you clear your throat and lift your hand as an offering for a handshake. “Hi- um, hello. Nice to meet you, sir. Big fan of your work. Both the daughter and the, uh, other stuff.” your voice shakes as you attempt a joke to try and relieve some of the tension growing in the small greenhouse.
Your introduction is met with silence, and then more silence, as Vander just stares at you, occasionally glancing between you and Jinx.
Finally, your girlfriend decides she's seen enough to rescue the situation, stepping between the two of you before breaking the screaming silence. “Well, this has been wonderful. We’ll let you get some rest for now, though.” she grabs your hand again, speedily leading you out of the greenhouse back into the peaceful village of tents.
Once outside you feel her drop your hand and pause, looking over to see her with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised, amusement causing the corners of her lips to curl up. “Nice one! Real smooth, babe.” she teases. You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek and resting your hands on your hips. “I don't wanna talk about it.”
_____________________________________________________________
Vander glances around at the smiling faces surrounding him. Sat at a small picnic table outside the greenhouse sat his family. His eldest daughter to his right, and the miniature Powder to his left. A feast of fruits, salads, and roasted vegetables covered the table. A dinner cooked by a group of people on the commune.
Across from him sat grownup Powder and her… girlfriend.
Vander was already struggling to come to terms with the fact that his daughters were now grown. It felt like no time had passed in his mind, but the years had left their mark on the girls nonetheless, and now he has to come to terms with his youngest daughter being out in the world of romance. His little girl, all grown up and dating women he'd never even met before.
He continues to stare at the two of you, giggling and talking with the others at the table, shoulders occasionally brushing together. His eyes were weary as he watched you two, despite the fact that Powder seems to trust you with everything, nothing changes his distrust and distaste towards seeing his little girl all grown up.
He continues this internal battle in his mind, struggling with the growing protectiveness only amplified by the traces of the beast still in his mind. Even the tiny powder trying to get him to eat and offering him water couldn't help distract him from the affection being shown from across the table.
He could tell you knew he didn't trust you, as every time you made eye contact your eyes would dart away, face casting downwards.
Eventually, the sun sets, and the conversation at the table begins to slow as the food in front of him is quickly destroyed by the hungry teens accompanying him, miniature powder having fallen asleep against his leg not too long after.
He watches as Powder begins to grow tired next to you, her eyes drooping and shoulders slowly slouching as she tries to keep herself awake. You notice, and gently nudge her before deciding it's time to call it a night. You stand, and pull Powder up from the bench she's sat on.
“C'mon, sleepyhead,” you grumble as you turn around and lean over. She turns around and throws herself onto your back, her legs going around your waist as you catch her and lift her until she's snuggly pressed into your back, her head leaning into your neck as her eyes close once more.
His eyes soften as he watches you make your way to his side of the table to pick up the miniature powder from his lap and lift her to your front, one arm wrapped around her keeping her small frame firmly against your chest, the other arm still hooked under one of Powders knees to keep her balanced against your back.
The act reminds him of when Powder and Vi were young and would fall asleep on the couch or at the barstools while he cleaned up the bar after a long night. The memories caused a pang in his heart, chest contracting at the memories of when they were young, reminding him of all the years he must have missed.
As you slowly begin to walk away towards the tent Vi directed them to, he speaks up before you're too far away.
His gravelly and deep voice calls out behind you, “It was nice meeting you too..” you pause in your steps, turning your head to look at the man behind you to confirm you weren't hearing things. Upon seeing your face, he glances down before continuing, “You seem like a good kid, you're, uh, good for Powder.”
Your face slowly splits into a grin, simply nodding your head at him once, before turning and continuing your trek into the night.
Meet the future father-in-law: check.
____________________________________
A/N: ahhh first one shot let's go! hope you guys enjoy this one :3 luv my girl jinx that's my wife fr
#fanfic#fanfiction#arcane fanfic#arcane#arcane x reader#jinx arcane#jinx x reader#jinx#league of legends#jinx and isha#vander#warwick
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⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚ Bad Blood
♥ masterlist | request rules | based on this request
♥ pairing: franco colapinto x fem!driver!reader
♥ synopsis: tensions started rising in the williams garage when bad strategies pitted you and your teammate, franco against each other. after spotting him in a bar the night of a race the two of you bonded over your shared bad result.
♥ one-shot - wc: 1.6k
♥ as always none of the pictures are mine <3
♥ warnings: swearing, drinking, and vaguely suggestive !!!
♥ a/n: rivals to lovers + forced proximity, go nuts babe. btw there’s some salty team vibes so i just wanna say i love williams (except james) this is purely for the plot lol
“Plan B, Y/n. Plan B,” you engineer said on the radio of your car.
”Is Franco undercutting me?” you asked, shifting down into a corner.
“We think this is the best decision point-wise.”
“You’re joking.”
“Y/n stick to the strategy, you’ll get your time eventually.” they responded.
“No this is bullshit. What advantage are you giving him? He can’t chase down Kmag any better than I can—at least he doesn’t have the pace right now. I don’t see why you’re making him the priority.”
You reached the end of the main straight watching as your teammate exited the pit lane in front of you.
He was on hard tires, an extremely odd choice for the end of this race. You were trying to complete the last 20 laps on softs while your teammate tried to make up positions on the opposite compound. Wait why the fuck would they put him on those tires? If they were aiming for an undercut, they were certainly going to fail with this strategy.
You dove down into the apex and collided with Franco, who was turning in front of you. You both spun out into the gravel, ending your race.
It was always like this. Somehow you always found yourself competing against Franco no matter where you went.
“Fuck,” you yelled on the radio as you threw your HANS device outside of the car.
“Are you okay?” your engineer questioned.
“Yup, yeah I’m fine.” you responded.
The Williams team could hear faint breathing from Franco.
“Is she ok?” he asked.
“Yes, are you?”
“Yeah, I am.”
-
You scrolled through your phone in your driver's room, coming across a couple of posts about the situation.
@fcswife “is she okay?” FRANCO THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 😭❤️
@charlesgf16 she really has zero respect for franco huh?
@francodefender1 how could anyone hate him? 😩
You rolled your eyes and clicked off the device, throwing it onto a different cushion on the couch. You were going to need a drink.
-
Later that night you retreated to a bar you were unfamiliar with. A couple of F2 drivers in your circle mentioned it in passing and considering you couldn't fluently speak the language of the country you were visiting, you hoped to run into a few people you knew.
The room was dark, loud, and packed. You could hear music playing over the sound of dozens of drunk voices. You pushed your way through the crowd of people towards the front of the bar in order to get a drink.
You spotted a familiar face when you arrived. To your dismay it was the only person you wished not to talk to at that moment. His brown curls were immediately identifiable and if that wasn't enough, the fluorescent lighting illuminated his face, drawing your eyes towards the small mole on his cheek.
You looked around for a place to avoid him, but all the booths were taken and the only open bar stool was the one next to Franco.
Because of course it was.
You sighed and took the seat next to him, trying your hardest to avoid eye contact.
"A bottle of Dom Perignon please," you asked, causing Franco to snort.
“What?” you shifted your gaze towards him.
“Champagne is for winners,” he said, looking you straight in the eye.
It wasn’t like he was incorrect. Champagne was for the podium—but you had a long day and it was time to treat yourself. Regardless, you rolled your eyes at the man’s comment.
Franco waved over the bartender to get a glass and help himself to the bottle of alcohol.
“You can venmo me,” you said only half joking as he poured himself some champagne.
A small tv in the corner of the bar had a replay of the race and press.
”There were a lot of emotions definitely, uhm I think the decisions tire wise for the strategy weren’t great. It’s frustrating to see the prioritization of your teammate but I guess I have no input on whether that goes to me or Franco each race. We had a rough week overall as a team but I hope we can bounce back.”
“As much as I hate to agree with you… you were right. Both our strategies were fucked.” he said referencing your post race interview, “They screwed us both.”
The two of you never really got along, but at least neither blamed each other for the crash. It was just a racing incident and it didn’t have to prevent you from finally having a civil conversation with Franco.
“To screwing us both,” you smiled while raising your glass of champagne, eliciting a chuckle out of him.
He clinked his cup to yours with a smirk and took a small sip.
From that point on your distaste for him slowly started to die down and you began to have a mutual understanding.
-
The next race went over far smoother than the last. Franco ended up in P5 with you right behind him in P6; an incredible result for the two of you and the team.
You jumped out of your car and strolled your way over to his. The camera picked up on you patting his helmet and mumbling something.
Of course this was going to be all your media feed would show for the next few days.
-
That night you found yourself at a far more tame pub than the last.
“From the gentleman across the bar,” a server said, causing you to look up from your phone and towards the direction he was pointing.
Franco was leaning against the counter with a grin. He raised his eyebrows quickly and waved.
You took a sip of the cold blue drink in front of you and waved back. His eyes stayed locked on you as you pulled out your phone and unblocked a number.
You
is there red bull in this?
+1800******
yea
You got a text back immediately, prompting you to change the contact name.
You
i think that’s a sin
Franco
oh?
You
yea if i can’t drive it i shouldn’t be drinking it
Franco
i guess it’s too bad williams doesn’t make energy drinks
You
come sit with me
-
Tensions were still high on track between the two of you but the minute race weekend was over it was like someone flipped a switch.
A few weeks flew by and people started to notice your behavior towards Franco. By now there were probably dozens of pictures of you looking very cozy together at parties, but not getting along at the circuits or simply ignoring each other in the paddock.
Of course people were getting suspicious. Maybe this was a ruse to keep your relationship a secret? Maybe it was all staged for Netflix. Or maybe—you two didn’t really know what you were.
-
“Che,” a voice called out to you in spanish, instantly grabbing your attention.
You spotted Franco in a booth at the back of the club. It was far darker in that corner, but with the flashing lights and loud music you were glad he picked a more secluded area.
The building was full with the familiar faces of drivers and team members.
”Look at you,” he said, impressed.
You laughed and did a small spin, showing off your dress. You knew he’d liked it and by the memory you had earlier this evening, it seemed as though a lot of people would.
”Another date with Franco, huh?” Kika smirked while putting on some dangly earrings. “It’s not a date,” you protested. She spun her body around to face you. “This,” she gestured to your outfit. “Is for a date.”
You slid into the booth next to him, setting your black clutch purse beside you.
Franco’s hand firmly grabbed your thigh to steady himself as he shifted closer towards you. Your eyes darted down to the action but he didn’t seem to notice. His grip loosened as he settled and he started rubbing small circles with the pad of his thumb.
A small hum escaped your lips, barely audible over the music and voices, but there was no way in hell your soft noises wouldn’t catch his attention.
”¿Esto está bien?” (is this ok?) he asked in a whisper, causing you to only nod.
His face moved closer to yours, and you wasted no time cupping his cheeks in your hands, and connecting your lips.
You melted into the kiss knowing damn well you daydreamed about this an embarrassing amount.
His tongue swiped over your bottom lip, tasting the gloss you applied earlier. You opened your mouth to allow him entrance and he dragged his fingertips further up the inside of your thigh.
Franco moved down to your neck leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses. His index and middle fingers brushed the lace of your lingerie, causing him to smirk against you.
“Stand up,” he demanded. He slipped out of the booth and pulled you onto your feet. You grabbed your clutch as he guided you through the crowd, hand-in-hand.
He opened the chiming door and the two of you stepped onto the wet cobblestone. Your heels clicked on the ground as he guided you to his car in the rain.
He pulled open the passenger seat door for you.
“Wow, we weren’t even in there a couple of minutes,” you stated.
“I think we’ve had enough time to talk… quiero llevarte a casa…” (i want to take you home) he leaned down and mumbled to you.
“O en este caso mi hotel,” (or in this case my hotel) “unless you’d rather go back inside..” he trailed off.
You shook your head in protest to his last works and a light chuckle slipped through his lips.
”Alright then,” he smirked, getting into the drivers seat.
#𝒍𝒊𝒗'𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 ౨ৎ#franco colapinto#franco colapinto x reader#franco colapinto x you#franco colapinto x y/n#franco colapinto fanfic#franco colapinto imagine#f1 x you#f1 x reader#f1 x y/n#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#formula 1 fic#fornula one fic#formula one fanfic#f1 one shot
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Morning Glory
Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader
Summary - It’s the morning after you and Bruce confessed your love for one another and there’s only one thing on his mind.
Warnings - 18+ ONLY. Established Relationship, Age Gap, Older Man/Younger Woman, Explicit Sexual Content, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Multiple Orgasms, Morning Sex, Fluff, Bruce's POV
A/N - Part of the same 'verse as Sippin' on Sunshine but both fics are complete standalones from each other so you don't have to read that one first.
Word Count - 2.7k
When Bruce wakes up, he finds you already wide awake. You’re sitting up in bed, scrolling through your phone like he might read the newspaper at the kitchen table. He lays there for a moment, simply admiring your sleepy, dishevelled state. You’ll resist him if he ever says it outloud, insisting that you don’t because how can you when your hair is a mess and you have no makeup on, but he thinks you look absolutely radiant.
“We made the front page again,” you tell him. Not even bothering to look up from the screen in front of you.
He sighs as he rolls onto his back and stretches, which is followed by a series of loud cracks and pops from his back and joints. It’s just another reminder of his age and all of the damage he’s done to his body over the years. As he shifts in the bed to sit up, he becomes aware of how tight his pyjama pants feel.
“What did we do this time?” he asks, settling his back against the headboard. You hand him your phone so that he can see the article. It’s a picture of the two of you from late last night. You’re straddling his lap in the car and kissing him. It’s right after you told him that you loved him for the first time. His brow furrows. Even in the middle of the night, where the streets are devoid of life, neither of you can get any privacy outside of him locking you away in a bedroom.
The headline reads: “Way more than a PR stunt.” As soon as he sees the writer, he relaxes a little. Lois Lane. Though he knows he can trust her, he still skims through the article to see what she’s written. The entire article is written in defence of your relationship and even goes as far to debunk some of the things other articles have said. He’s going to have to send her a gift basket. A big one at that.
“At least it’s the Daily Planet and not the Gazette,” he says.
“Oh no, they posted an article as well,” you reply.
Bruce huffs. “Let me guess, Vicki?”
“No, it was Ryder this time.”
He huffs again. “Of course it was,” he mutters. He’s really starting to get sick and tired of all of them.
He sets your phone down onto the nightstand, switching it to silent and placing it screen down. Before you can ask him what he’s doing, in one fluid movement, he’s dragging you down the bed and pinning you to it, fingers entwinning with yours as he holds your hands above your head.
“I’ll call my lawyers later. For now though, I have something else on my mind.”
Bruce rolls his hips, letting you feel his morning wood press up against you. You gasp as your hips buck, creating friction that has his breath stuttering. Apparently he’s not the only one who’s woken up with a problem that needs addressing.
“Last night you were fretting about your age, yet here you are. Ready to ravage me and you’ve barely been awake five minutes,” you laugh softly.
Bruce hums as he nuzzles his face against you, just under your jaw before starting to press soft kisses to your neck. “How can I resist when I’m waking up to such a beautiful woman?”
He pulls away and you look at him like you don’t quite believe him. Before you can try and argue against him, he’s pressing his lips against yours. Any protest of his compliment dies on your tongue as you moan into the kiss. As you two kiss, you hook one of your legs over his hip and pull him more flush against you, grinding your groin against his.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, his cock twitching in his pyjama pants.
“I’m hoping we will,” you reply, breathlessly.
“Oh, we’re not leaving this room today.”
He untwines his fingers from yours so that he can pull your shirt off. In reality it’s actually one of his shirts, but you love to steal them from him and he’s not complaining. You look damn good in his clothes, though you look even better with nothing, but some expensive jewellery on. He chucks it to the side, not caring where it falls, and his head ducks down and his mouth is already closing around one of your nipples. He swirls his tongue around the hardened bud before gently tugging on it with his teeth. The action has you gasping as your fingers run through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. He groans again, enjoying the feeling of your nails.
He litters your chest with lovebites before repeating his actions with your other breast. You won’t be wearing anything super revealing for a while. Or maybe you still will. Show off to the world who you belong to. If he ever lets you out of this bed ever again.
Bruce loves the way that you respond to him. Back arching into his touch, fingers buried in his hair, tugging ever so slightly as the softest gasps and moans leave you. Those sweet noises of yours will only grow with his head buried between your legs. That thought has him releasing your nipple and trailing kisses down your body.
When he reaches you underwear, he smiles. The growing, dark, wet patch on the crotch evidence of how aroused you are. He inhales your scent deeply before licking a bold stripe against your clothed cunt. The taste of you soaked into the fabric has his cock throbbing with the need to be buried deep inside of you.
Ignoring your protests, he rips your underwear off of you and discards the ruined material somewhere off to the side. You get over the ruined garment pretty quickly, spreading your legs wider and showing off your glistening pussy. Bruce swallows thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing. He settles between your legs, hands coming up to hold your hips, getting ready to dive in and devour you. He’ll have you screaming his name in no time.
A knock at the door stops him right before his mouth comes into contact with you. Irritation flares through him and glares over his shoulder, at the door. At least, whoever it is, has the decency to knock and wait.
“What is it?” he calls, his voice sharp as he refuses to hide his irritation at being interrupted.
“Mr Kent is here. He says it’s important,” Alfred’s voice calls through the door. “And I’m afraid he isn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Bruce sighs. He’s been ignoring every text and call from him all weekend so he could be with– he had promised no interruptions– so he probably should have expected this. Still, if it’s not his public persona ruining things, it’s his mask. Sitting up, you cup his face and bring him close to you, your lips just barely brushing against his own.
“Ten minutes?” you ask.
It’s not the morning, or day, he imagined the two of you having, but it’s better than leaving you both wound up all day. He’s still going to be making it up to you later though and he already has plenty of ideas on how.
“I’ll be down in fifteen,” he calls back.
“Of course, sir. I’ll let him know.”
As Alfred’s steps retreat and eventually fade into nothing, Bruce pins you to the bed again. As he kisses you, you’re shifting beneath him. Your legs coming up to either side of his hips and your toes hooking into the waistband of his pyjamas so that you can shove them down. Finally freeing his cock from its clothed prison. He helps you get rid of them the rest of the way and then he’s spreading your legs further. He grips the base of his cock and rubs the head through your folds, coating himself in your slick. Even going as far as to tease your clit which has you sharply inhaling. Then he’s burying himself inside of you, right down to the hilt in a single thrust. The moan that leaves you is loud. Loud enough that Bruce is sure that it could be heard from well beyond the confines of the bedroom, even without super hearing.
It takes everything within him not to immediately start moving. His mind focused on giving you the time you need to adjust to his size. No matter how many times you take him, he’s still a lot for you and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you. You have other ideas though. You’re too impatient to wait for him this morning so you roll your hips, doing your best to fuck yourself on his cock. It makes holding himself back almost impossible.
“Brucie, please move,” you whine softly. Slowly getting frustrated with his lack of movement.
You always ask him so sweetly. Even without a time limit, how could he ever refuse you? The pace he sets to start with is a slow one. Dragging his cock along the inside of your sensitive walls, relishing in the way they flutter around him as a now quiet moan leaves your parted lips. That moan grows a little louder when he pushes back in.
His pace grows a little bit each time that he pushes back in. Low groans leaving him, matching your moans. Your hot, wet cunt feels amazing wrapped around him, turning his brain to mush. Not enough though that he’s completely lost himself in the feeling of you. Well, not yet anyway. Give it some time and he’s sure he will.
Soon enough the sounds of skin against skin fill the room, alongside the squelching of your pussy every time he roughly thrusts back inside, growing louder and louder. You mewl beneath him, your cunt squeezing him tighter than before, drawing deep, throaty groans from him, desperately trying to stop him from leaving your warmth. With the way that you’re gripping him like a vice, he knows that he’s not going to last much longer.
“Fuck,” Bruce growls. He pulls away so he can hike your legs up onto his shoulders. The new angle has your eyes rolling into the back of your head as his cock reaches impossible deeper inside of you; turning you into a babbling mess.
He knows that you’re getting close to coming undone. After all, he knows your body like the back of his hand and he can see, and feel, all the telltale signs. The stuttering of your breathing, the tensing of your muscles, the way that your pussy squeezes him more and more, making it harder for him to pull out each time. All you need now is a little push over the edge that you’re teetering on. His thumb presses against your puffy clit, doing his best to rub it in time with his thrusts.
His name leaves you in a sob as your body clamps down on him, your cunt gushing around his cock as your orgasm soaks the sheets beneath you. The sight awakens something inside of him. Something almost primal. His pace slows only for a moment as his eyes become glued to your pussy, taking in the sight of your how your lower lips now glisten with your squirt.
That moment ends as quickly as it started. As soon as his eyes break away from your pussy and come up to see the half lidded, fucked out expression on your face, he snaps out of his trance. His pace comes back tenfold, starting to fuck you harder and deeper than you would have thought possible. Not even giving you a chance to recover from your first orgasm as he has you headed straight toward the next one.
You’re a ball of oversensitivity, your back arching off of the bed and tears spilling from your eyes as you mewl his name. Whilst Bruce knows that he is completely and utterly pussydrunk. He’s known it for a while, how deep he is under your spell. His pace has completely lost whatever rhythm it once had. Uncoordinated and sloppy as he ruts into you, his cock growing harder and his balls getting tighter, ready to fill you to the brim.
He has half a mind to stay right here. Ignore Clark and spend the day doing what he had intended to begin with. Which involves him staying buried inside of you, keeping you stuffed with his cock and cum. If the previous weekend is anything to go by, it’s certainly something that you would not only enjoy, but deep down crave. Honestly, he craves it as well.
His thumb stays pressed against your clit as he moves forward, almost folding you in half, so that he can kiss you. The kiss is supposed to be passionate, but ends up being sloppy and messy. It’s all tongue and teeth, but both of you are too far gone to actually care.
Your orgasm takes you both by surprise. Your moans are swallowed by Bruce as the feeling of your cunt clenching around his cock, doing it’s best to milk him of every drop he has to offer, sends him over the edge with you. His own moan is deep and guttural as he keeps thrusting, pushing his cum deeper inside of you, like he’s trying to make sure it takes.
Just as it starts to become painful for him, Bruce slumps against you, letting your legs fall off of his shoulders and back down by his side; his head coming to rest against your chest. The only sound now in the bedroom is yours and Bruce’s heavy breathing as you both come down from your highs.
You run your fingers through his hair as he presses soft kisses down the valley of your breasts and underneath them. He sighs softly, enjoying the feeling of your nails gently scratching his scalp.
Slowly, and gently, he pulls out of you and rolls off of your body, to lay down by your side. Bruce’s fingers entwin with your own once more and he brings your hand up to his mouth so that he can press a kiss to the back of it.
His reluctance to leave has you giggling. The sound brings a smile to his face. He is being rather childish in the way that he’s dragging this out. Acting like he might never see you again once he leaves this room. Which, honestly, could be true depending on what Clark has come here to discuss. He shoves the thought away, deciding he doesn’t want to think about that right now.
“I’ll still be here when you get back,” you tell him. You free your hand from his grasp so that you can roll onto your front. Draping a leg over his body, you lean up to kiss him. It’s gentle and sweet, just like you are. When you pull away, he chases after your lips, which has you giggling again.
“Go and save the world and when you come back–” you move forward more and press your lips to his ear– “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Bruce chuckles as his hand comes down to playfully swat you ass. You gasp and playfully hit his chest. It only encourages him as he gives your ass a squeeze as he rubs his nose against your own.
“You should be careful making such promises, princess,” he says, his voice low. “It might come back to bite you.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” you reply cheekily.
Bruce hums as he makes a move to kiss you again. In that exact moment there is a series of knocks at the bedroom door. These ones are louder and rougher. If they were a little bit harder they might forcibly remove the door from its hinges. He grumbles as you pull away and move off of him.
“You should probably go before your friend breaks the door down.”
“If he does that he can pay for it,” Bruce mutters, glaring at the door. He turns his attention back to you. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
He’s already running through the different ways that he can do that in his head. At the top of the list is another getaway, but perhaps for a week instead of just a weekend. He just needs to find someone to look after the city while he’s gone.
#bruce wayne x reader#batman x reader#bruce wayne x fem!reader#batman x fem!reader#bruce wayne x you#batman x you#age gap verse#dc x reader#fem!reader#bruce wayne imagine#batman imagine#dc x you#bruce wayne smut#batman smut#my writing
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yapper
part two - part one here
barcelona femeni x reader requested
summary: the girls stick up for you during an interview
a week after the locker room moment, you feel better.
alexia’s words, esmee’s hug, and the love from your teammates reminded you that you belonged here, loud voice and all. but still, the memory of the online comments lingered. so, when you found out about the team interview, a little knot of anxiety formed in your stomach.
“just don’t overtalk,” you whispered to yourself in the mirror that morning.
“let alexia speak. everyone loves alexia.”
the studio is bright, with a camera crew buzzing around as you, alexia, ingrid, aitana, mapi, and esmee take your seats in front of a large barça logo. everyone is wearing their kits, and the energy is playful as you adjust your boots for the camera.
alexia sits to your left, esmee to your right.
“okay, everyone ready?” the interviewer asks with a cheerful tone, and you all nod.
“first question: who on the team is most likely to get a red card?”
everyone bursts into laughter before mapi speaks up.
“irene.”
“cata,” aitana adds, grinning.
“definitely cata,” ingrid agrees, nodding.
you laugh along with them, keeping your comment short.
“yeah, those two for sure.”
the interviewer smiles, moving to the next question.
“who on the team is most likely to be late to training?”
“ona,” aitana says immediately.
“no, no,” mapi protests, “it’s salma.”
“keira?” ingrid adds thoughtfully.
“oh, keira, yeah,” alexia agrees.
you can’t help but chuckle.
“we’re just exposing everyone right now.”
the conversation bounces back and forth before the interviewer jumps in again.
“who on the team is most likely to score a bicycle kick?”
“kika,” everyone says in unison.
you frown dramatically, pretending to sulk.
“i miss oshoala, she scored an amazing one last season.”
everyone laughs, nodding in agreement.
“we all miss her,” alexia says with a small smile, her voice softening.
the interview moves quickly, and you focus on staying in your lane, letting others speak. but then the question comes.
“who on the team is most likely to give a 20-minute speech on a random topic?”
before you can even react, mapi jumps out of her seat, raising her hand.
“me!”
everyone laughs, including you, but then you hear alexia.
“it’s not you. it’s y/n.”
your eyes widen, and before you can even respond, she continues.
“but don’t worry, because everyone on the team would sit for those 20 minutes and listen happily.”
esmee wraps her arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a hug.
“period,” she says, earning more laughter from the group.
mapi leans forward, looking straight at the camera. “los que odian deberían estar agradecidos de escuchar tu voz.” (haters should be grateful to hear your voice.)
you can’t help it—you laugh, covering your face with your hands for a second. the moment is too much, too kind.
the interviewer grins, clearly enjoying the dynamic.
“okay, next question. who is most likely to have the most screen time on their phones?”
everyone looks around, unsure.
“esmee,” you say, pointing at her without hesitation.
she nods solemnly, admitting defeat.
“yeah, it’s me.”
the room erupts in laughter.
“who is most likely to cancel plans at the last moment?”
“caroline,” mapi says, almost immediately.
“and marta,” ingrid adds with a laugh.
“yeah, those two,” alexia agrees, shaking her head fondly.
“who is most likely to have 500 contacts in their phone?”
you don’t even hesitate.
“alexia.”
she gasps, turning to you with mock outrage.
“me? no way. it’s you.”
you shake your head, laughing.
“alexia, you know everyone!”
“and you don’t? all that time in england? don’t act innocent.”
the back-and-forth makes everyone laugh, and you feel a small swell of pride.
“who is most likely to know all the new tiktok trends and dances?”
“vicky,” you say without thinking.
“100%,” esmee mumbles.
“she does it in the locker room a lot.”
ingrid giggles. “it’s true. she’s always dancing.”
“who is most likely to get a terrible tattoo?”
your eyes shift to mapi, and everyone follows your gaze.
“none of your tattoos are terrible,” you clarify quickly,
“but you’re most likely to get a bad one since you have the most tattoos, if that makes sense?”
aitana nods.
“no, that makes sense.”
mapi shrugs, clearly unbothered.
“fair.”
“who is most likely to get a yellow card?”
“y/n,” they all say in unison.
you groan, throwing your head back.
“i hate that i can’t even argue that.”
the final question is the easiest.
“who is most likely to win the 24/25 women’s champions league?”
“barcelona!” everyone shouts and yells, and you jump up, running to the camera.
pointing to the badge on your chest, you grin.
“vammoossss!!!”
the interview ends with laughter and smiles, and as you walk off the set, alexia drapes an arm around your shoulder.
“see?” she says softly.
“no one’s annoyed by you. they love you. we all do.”
you nod, the warmth of her words settling deep in your chest. you’d never forget it.
masterlist
#barcelona femeni#woso fanfics#woso community#woso x reader#fc barcelona#esmee brugts#alexia putellas#ingrid engen#mapi leon#aitana bonmati
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Need. (Male luan) Lane x reader headcannons… I’m deprived of my favourite boy… can the reader be a fairly quiet person who likes art and genuinely laughs at his jokes.. please. I am on my knees 😔😔
Aren't we all :(
You and Lane could not be more different, which is why it's so weird that you are dating
You're quiet, antisocial, and kind of a loner, while Lane loves being around people and making them laugh
While he wants you to go out with him, he understands that you would rather not
Well, at first he didn't and couldn't wrap his head around wanting to be alone
He met you when you went to one of his shows. He was bombing pretty hard, but you were laughing at all his stupid jokes, which inturned caused him to direct his attention towards you. He quickly gained his confidence back when people staring laughing again
He uses you as his guinea pig and tells you his new jokes and his newer acts to see if they were good or if they should be thrown out of the routine
He wants to include you in April Fools, but if you were to cry because he goes to far [Which he tends to do] he'll quickly stop and wouldn't do it again
^When the family realizes this, they'll invite you over on April Fools, which causes Lane to quickly take down all his pranks
He would never make a joke at your expense and he would get upset if someone did make such a joke
He adores you and even though you have very different personalities, he's so glad he found you
#loud house x reader#lane x reader#lane loud x reader#lane loud#lane#loud house#loud house lane loud#the loud house x reader#the loud house#genderbend loud house#genderbent luan#genderbent luan loud#genderbend luan loud
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1405 Peach Tree Lane
Pairing: Older!Neighbor!Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: You like to watch your older, tatted shirtless neighbor now his lawn. He likes to watch you laying by your parents’ pool in those swimsuits that make his mouth water. Eventually, the inevitable happens when he invites you across the street for a drink.
Word Count: 8.2K
Tags: 🔥SMUT, modern au, age gap (Eddie 40s, Reader 20s), daddy kink, praise kink, degradation kink, slight breeding kink, spitting, light dom/sub, unprotected sex (reader has an iud), oral sex, p in v sex, shower sex, masturbation in a hot tub
(A/N: This is some of the filthiest shit I think I've ever written. You're welcome. Also I was very quick with the proofread, so if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, no you don't.)
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Everyone in the posh gated community of Forest Hills knew about 1405 Peach Tree Lane.
The house was beautiful, as were all the houses in the upper-crust neighborhood- but the house wasn’t what people paid attention to.
Every housewife in the neighborhood knew that if they were lucky and timed their morning jog just right, they’d catch a glimpse of the toned, inked-up adonis who lived there while he shirtlessly mowed his lush green lawn.
You might not have done much speaking with the housewives in your parents’ neighborhood, but you knew about 1405 Peach Tree Lane- you had a perfect view of its front lawn from your lounge chair by the pool in your parents’ backyard. Luckily for you, all that separated your backyard from 1405 was a short wrought iron fence and a narrow stretch of road.
You didn’t mind living with your parents during the summers you spent home from college; they gave you plenty of freedom and while they were at work during the day, you got to spend the afternoon lounging by the pool, reading a book and soaking up the sun.
As well as soaking up the view of the way that same sunlight glinted off Mr. 1405’s sweaty, ink-riddled skin.
You didn’t speak to him- what would you even say? “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, my favorite part of the day is guessing what your tattoos mean.”? Or maybe, “Hey there neighbor, mind if I count the freckles on your shoulders? It’s for science.”
Eventually, the inevitable happened- he caught you staring.
He didn’t make it awkward, though. In fact, from the way he simply smiled and waved at you, you wondered if he thought your eyes meeting him had just been a coincidence, and you hadn’t been ogling him for the past thirty minutes and some change. You’d smiled back, thankful for your huge sunglasses that hid the way your eyes had widened under his attention, and waved in return.
An even bigger surprise had been that he spoke to you this time.
“That book any good?”
His voice, heavy with labored breathing under the exhaustion from finishing up his lawn work, had caught you completely off guard. You’d laughed nervously, sticking your bookmark between the pages and pushing yourself up from your face-down position on the flattened lounge chair.
“Oh! Ah-ha, uhm, yeah!” you shifted your weight back until you were sitting on spread knees and looking up at the source of the voice. On the other side of your parents’ fence stood Mr. 1405 Peach Tree Lane, sweaty and slightly sunburned on the tops of his shoulders. His curly brown hair had been piled into a messy knot atop his head, and you took note of the details that you hadn’t noticed from far away- a smattering of silver studs that decorated his ears, along with one on his nose. Five o’clock shadow that dusted his jawline. A more detailed view of his tattoos, some of which looked older than others but all of which looked very, very sexy on this man who had so much sex appeal already.
The crinkling of his plastic water bottle as he squeezed about half of it into his mouth filled the silence between you. After a loud gulp he piped up again.
“What’s it about?”
Your brow wrinkled confusedly before you remembered that he had just asked you about your book. “Oh!” you replied dumbly, looking down at the book as if you had completely forgotten that books even existed- looking at him had taken up your entire mental capacity, apparently. “It’s, uh, it’s a memoir! It’s this cool old lady’s life story, she does not hold back, so the narration is pretty hilarious a lot of the time.”
The inked-up Greek god smiled and nodded, eyebrows raising in interest. “That does sound good.” he mused, and his voice took on a slyer tone when he added, “What’s your definition of old, like thirty-five?” He chuckled as if he’d just told a funny joke, but your smile had all but fallen from your face.
“That’s not old,” you replied, not taking the joke, “This author was in her late seventies when she published this book, but even with that being said, this book is just told through such a youthful spirit- it’s easy to forget how old the author is when looking at her words.” You gripped the paperback a little tighter in your sweaty hands. “Plus, old people definitely don’t have the energy to mow their own lawns, and I have a feeling you’re not thirty-five.”
That seemed to catch him off-guard. A surprised laugh escaped him, exploding from his lips before they formed an intrigued grin and his arms crossed over his tattooed chest.
“Oh yeah? How old do I look, then?”
You grinned back, making a show of removing your sunglasses so that you could peer at him with greater focus. “Hmmmmmm…thirty-six?”
Another laugh, this one heartier than the last. “You flatter me, sweetheart.”
God, his voice is like brown sugar.
You tried again. “Forty, then.”
“Older.”
“No way.”
His grin became a smirk. “Are you patronizing me right now?”
You threw up a girl scout salute. “Scout’s honor, I would never.”
He chuckled. “Well, girl scout, I’ll be forty-five next month.”
“I’ll be sure to warn my parents about the rager you’ll be throwing.”
He peered up at your house behind you, like he just now noticed its- and your parents’- existence. “Nah,” he said, “No ragers for me, that ship sailed when I was your age.”
You smiled sweetly, placing your sunglasses atop your head. “At least let me bake you a cake, then, wouldn’t be neighborly to let you have a boring birthday.”
“You’d bake a cake for ‘lil old me, sweetheart?” His tattooed hand splayed over his heart, sweaty and shining in the blaring afternoon sun.
You giggled. You could get used to Mr. 1405 calling you ‘sweetheart’.
“Sure thing, just tell me what name to write in between ‘happy birthday’ and ‘forever young’.”
A flash of dazzling white teeth replied, “Eddie. Eddie Munson.”
That was when you rose a step above the housewives of Forest Hills- to them, he was still Mr. 1405, but to you? He was Eddie Munson.
You entertained yourselves with little conversations here and there whenever Eddie worked out on his lawn. You, always in a swimsuit and him, never wearing a shirt. You would ask him about his tattoos- what they symbolized, which ones he’d drawn himself before they were replicated on his flesh. He would ask you about what you were reading- it was always changing. Sometimes nonfiction, sometimes romance, fantasy, lit fic… he seemed impressed by your insatiable reading habits.
One day, however, he’d been particularly interested in a book whose cover bore a bare-chested gentleman and particularly busty woman in a corset.
“What’s today’s read, girl scout?” Eddie had greeted you with a nod toward the obviously risque reading material and a knowing smirk as he let his arms dangle over the black bars of your fence.
You looked up, glowing from the sweat that’s gathered on your dewy summer skin and smiled tightly. “Oh, just a period romance. Ball gowns, forbidden love, the scandalous touching of hands without gloves on- things like that.”
“From the looks of that cover, I don’t think their hands are the only naked body parts touching in that story.”
You laughed, glancing at the cover as Eddie waggled his eyebrows. “You’re probably right, but who knows? I’m only on the second chapter. I’ll keep you posted though.” you punctuated that last part with a wink.
“Oh please do, princess,” Eddie said with a wolfish grin. “I love a good smutty romance novel.”
You gawked. “No way you read this shit, you’re bluffing.”
Eddie raised a hand as if swearing on a bible. “Scout’s honor.” he said, mimicking your swear from the day you’d met.
You shook your head, smiling ear to ear. “You must be the first man I’ve met who openly admits to reading smut, and I respect that.”
Eddie shrugged. “Easiest way to know what women want- they’re literally writing me an instruction manual. It’d be stupid not to read them.”
You bit your bottom lip before you could stop yourself, making a mental note of that little tidbit of information. “And you enjoy them?”
“It’s porn, sweetheart,” he said, gazing at you incredulously. “Who wouldn’t enjoy it?”
“It’s porn with a plot.”
“I’m a sucker for a good plot, especially if the plot involves sucking.”
You barked out a laugh. “And one could also argue that it’s more emotional porn than physical.”
“Are you insinuating that I don’t have a heart? Because I’ve got one, princess, and it bleeds, it yearns-”
Eddie pantomimed grasping at his own heart in his chest, putting on a fucking one-man show as he hung onto the fence for dear life as if his heart were truly bleeding out. You laughed- that was something that seemed to happen more when Eddie was around- you laughed more than usual, so much that you found your cheeks aching whenever he walked away.
This time, something else ached as you watched him return to his lawn. As you continued to read, you were acutely aware of the heat between your thighs, the wetness that accumulated as you pictured corseted girls and muscled viscounts making eyes at each other across a sea of dancing courtiers. You imagined yourself, cornered in a rich rose garden bathed in moonlight, struggling to stifle your moans as a man in a tailcoat left a mark on your neck. You felt his hand hiking up your layers of petticoats until it reached your thigh, the only thing separating skin from skin being the white fabric of his gloves. You pictured his eyes, brown and bottomless as he moaned at the feeling of your hands tangled and tugging on his soft brown curls-
Uh oh.
You took a deep breath, bookmarked your page, and slipped into the cold water of the pool. You sincerely hoped that Eddie hadn’t been serious about an update on the smut in your novel; you didn’t exactly want to let slip that at some point, you’d stopped picturing the viscount and started picturing him.
But would he mind? Would he be upset to know that you’d pictured his hands on you, his lips on your pulse, your fingers in his hair?
You weren’t sure he would.
In fact, you had a feeling he might actually picture you in situations that weren’t too different. After all, you weren’t blind- you’d noticed the way his eyes would flit down from your face when the two of you were talking. He didn’t seem to put much effort into hiding his once-overs, his raking gaze that seemed more than pleased by the way your swimsuits hugged your curves, pulled your cleavage together, cut higher on your hip than your shorts ever would. Whenever you pulled yourself up from lying on your stomach, you’d seen how his eyes followed your ass hungrily as it left his line of sight.
That was the moment that you realized- Eddie Munson, more than likely, wanted to fuck you.
And you definitely wanted to fuck him.
So the next time he came over to see you after mowing his lawn, you offered him a beer.
“I’m already halfway through mine,” you said, leaning back to give him a full view of the way the sweat on your breasts shone in the hot sun. “don’t make me day drink alone.”
A salacious grin curled on his plush pink lips. “I could be tempted,” Eddie peered at the cooler beside you. “What are you drinking, sweetheart?”
You opened the cooler so that he could see the six pack of light lagers in shiny green bottles. Eddie wrinkled his nose distastefully. “Alright, young padawan,” he sighed, unlatching the gate to your backyard. “It’s time you learned your first lesson from Master Munson.” He didn’t enter the backyard, simply opened the gate and waited for you to join him outside your parents’ property.
You quirked an eyebrow; this was new territory. That wrought iron fence had always served as a sort of barrier between the two of you, never occupying the same space and keeping each other at arm’s length- flirty banter, but with boundaries.
Now, you smiled shrewdly as you slipped on your flip flops and crossed the threshold into Eddie’s space, following him across the narrow street to his driveway.
“Oh so I’m your student now, Master?” you quipped, launching him into a dark chuckle and a shake of his curls.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath low enough that he probably thought you hadn’t heard- but you did. “Well, your college friends are obviously shitty teachers if your drink of choice is a basic ass bottle you can grab at the goddamn gas station.”
You scoffed, “Oh, what- are you trying to say you’re one of those pretentious beer snobs who only drinks micro-brewed IPA’s named after bad puns?”
Eddie laughed out loud, smiling ear to ear at you over his shoulder. “Oh that’s exactly what I am, princess!” The harsh sunlight finally relented as the two of you crossed into Eddie’s garage, and you followed him in a beeline to the old refrigerator in the corner opposite from his impressive-looking toolbench.
You nearly moaned with relief when the cool air from the fridge hit you as Eddie opened the door and grabbed a couple of unmarked silver cans from the middle shelf. You eyed them cautiously, which Eddie saw and snorted at when he saw your expression. “Not poisoning you, sweetheart, no need to worry.” He opened a door beside the fridge that you guessed- judging by what you could see past the doorway- led to his kitchen. “A friend of mine is a home-brewer, he gives these to me and the guys for free. Way better than any cookie-cutter shit you’ll find at a college party.” He held the door open for you, nodding his head toward the doorway. “You coming inside? It’s hot as hell out here.”
You hadn’t expected him to invite you into his home; it occurred to you suddenly that you were still only wearing your swimsuit. Smiling shyly, you stepped through the doorway, the chill of the air conditioning rolling goosebumps over your damp skin. Eddie stepped into the kitchen and immediately began opening the cans, handing one to you.
You eyed the can cautiously, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do I want to know what I’m about to drink?’
He smiled mischievously, inclining his head toward you as he held his can aloft. “First lesson, padawan- trust your master.” He tilted the can in your direction, to which you sighed and tapped your can to his.
Your eyes widened in surprise when the cold, bubbly liquid hit your lips. It wasn’t anything like you were expecting- instead of the tepid wheaty taste that you were used to. At first the drink was tart, but after a second it faded into a fruity dryness that reminded you of white wine. Its flavor was so light that you couldn’t even tell you were drinking beer.
“This is beer?”
Eddie chuckled. “Technically it’s a sour, but yes- it’s a type of beer. Dustin said it was a champagne sour, so if you like wine then hopefully this’d be up your alley.”
You smiled as you took your second sip. “I do like wine.” you murmured, testing the flavors on your tongue. “Like this, too. Your friend ever think about selling what he brews?”
“Dustin?” Eddie asked, laughing as if the question were something funny. “Oh I have no doubt he’ll try to sell it one day, but he’s not going to even think about it until he knows he’s perfected his recipe.”
As you took another sip of the cold drink, you felt another wave of goosebumps run through you. Coincidentally, this was the moment that Eddie fell perfectly silent. You peered over your can- his eyes were fixed on your chest. You became acutely aware that the goosebumps had resulted in your nipples growing so hard, you thought if something-anything- were to accidentally brush against them, you might moan from the sensitivity.
Stifling a smirk, you shivered and hugged your upper arms. “Brrrrr it’s cold in here!” you said coyly, “I guess my body temperature got a little too used to the heat.”
Eddie’s chest heaved slightly at the way your tits bounced and squeezed together when you shivered. He cleared his throat, looking down at the beer can in his hand for a moment. “I’ve got a hot tub, you know,” He spoke up, peering at you to gauge your reaction. “Downstairs. You’re welcome to it.”
You took another sip. “Only if you join me.”
His dark eyes snapped up to yours, lips curling up at one corner. “Yes ma’am.” he said, his voice lowered an octave and a bit huskier than before. You held his eye contact, mirroring his lopsided grin with a charged, heavy-lidded gaze.
Eddie led you to a staircase down the hall and said he’d be right back with a towel for you after he changed into swim trunks.
“Aw, no speedo?” you smirked. Eddie appeared unphased. “Mental note,” he murmured to himself, “the princess is eager to see my thighs.”
You giggled, “There might be more tattoos there I haven’t seen yet,” you countered, “How am I supposed to keep figuring you out if I don’t know the meaning of each and every one?”
Eddie placed his forearm above your head on the wall, leaning into it until he was close enough for you to feel his breath on your hairline. “You know, you seem to spend a lot of time staring at my body, kid-” You bristled at his blatant omission of the nicknames you liked. “-I’m starting to feel objectified.”
You forced the smile from your face, looking up at him defiantly. “I could say the same thing about you, Mr. Munson,” you replied, “-and I’m not a ‘kid’.”
His position didn’t change as his eyes raked over your nearly naked body, drifting from your eyes to your lips and catching on your cleavage. “Don’t I know it, sweetheart.” he whispered, before pushing off the wall. “Hot tub’s already heated, just push off the cover and hit the green button. I’ll be down in a sec.”
And then he was walking down the hall to what you could only assume was his bedroom. For a moment, you thought about following him… but if you were honest with yourself, you were actually pretty curious about this hot tub. So down the stairs you went, carrying a silver can of sour in each hand.
Eddie’s basement was cozy, but he had utilized the space to its full potential. The majority had been filled with workout equipment to create a home gym, the walls lined with floor to ceiling mirrors that created the illusion of a larger space than it actually was. Sitting on stylish wooden slats was the hot tub, topped with a brown leather cover. To the right of the hot tub was a door with a small window that was just at your eye level. Upon closer inspection… yep, that was a sauna. Eddie had a sauna.
Shaking your head in disbelief, you made a mental note to ask Eddie what he did for a living- as far as you could tell, he was the only one who lived here. How did a single guy in his forties have so much money to burn?
Placing yours and Eddie’s drinks down on a nearby surface, you removed the cover from the hot tub and pressed the green button as Eddie had instructed, and settled into the hot, bubbling water. God, it was relaxing. Just then, you heard footsteps descending the stairs.
Eddie appeared, his hair let down from his normal messy bun so that it fell in dark chocolate curls that cascaded over his shoulders. His swim trunks, simple and black with little white skulls lining the cuffs above his knees, hugged his thighs in a way that made you salivate. Tattoos you'd become all too familiar with danced across his skin, and you suddenly felt the need to taste them.
Eddie smirked when he saw you getting an eyeful without even trying to hide it. “How’s the water?”
You hummed, relaxing further into jets against your back. “Sooooooo nice.” You sighed.
Eddie climbed into the hot tub to join you, making you squeal as he practically fell into the water, splashing you as he submerged his head just enough to wet his hair and shake it out like a golden retriever.
You giggled, doing your best to ensure that your hair wasn’t wet enough to make you look like a wet rat. “I’m starting to think you’re a teenage boy trapped in the body of a middle-aged man.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes at you, tattooed arms stretching out over the edges of the tub as he relaxed into the seat across from you. “Hey now,” he said, voice laced with warning. “Careful with the term middle-aged there, kiddo.”
You matched his gaze, challenging. “Kiddo?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Eddie’s gaze was heavy, cocky as he looked down his nose at you. “Practically a baby.”
You grinned. “That one, I don’t mind.”
Eddie’s smile grew in tandem. “Oh, she likes to be ‘baby’, but not ‘kiddo’, huh?”
You leaned back into the water, looking up at the ceiling with a smug smile on your lips. “That’s right, grandpa.”
Suddenly, you felt a tug on your ankle and you were underwater. You emerged, spitting chlorine out of your mouth, struggling to force it from your nose as Eddie’s cackling rang in your ears. You gasped, sputtering in shock as you tried to catch your breath.
“You are a child!” you squealed as he tugged your ankle again- you hadn’t noticed his hold still grasping tightly- not forceful enough to bring you back under the surface but enough to remind you that he could.
“So not a grandpa, then?” Eddie teased, stroking the curve of your ankle with his thumb.
You gritted your teeth together, strategizing. “No, that would be too kind. You’ve got the maturity of a teenager. Luckily for me-”
Using Eddie’s grip on your ankle as leverage, you forcefully pulled yourself forward by your leg and launched yourself right into his lap, bending your knees so that a second later, you were straddling him.
You watched triumphantly as Eddie’s eyes widened, looking up at you with breath that hitched in his throat as you finished your sentence.
“-I know how boys like you think.”
The humor between the two of you dissipated in that instant, Eddie’s eyes blown wide and dark as he watched the way the water in your hair dripped down your neck and between your breasts, which were now inches from his face. If he leaned forward, he could catch that bead of water with his tongue. If he reached up, he could hold your tits in his hands, test their weight. Press them up, squish them together, squeeze…
You felt him growing hard beneath you, and smirked triumphantly. “See?” You said smugly, grinding against him teasingly. “Right on schedule.”
Eddie chuckled, his breathing strained as he shook his head exasperatedly. “Got me all figured out, do you princess?”
You nodded, finding your rhythm as you continued to grind against his hardening cock through his swim trunks. “I think I’m starting to.”
You shivered despite the warmth as Eddie trailed his hand from your ankle up your leg, your hip, your waist…finally resting at the apex of your sternum to splay across your neck. You hadn’t been expecting that- you faltered, breath hitching as he tested out a gentle squeeze and hummed to himself.
“Mmmmm…” He looked you over with passive attention, taking account of the way your eyes widened and your pulse quickened under his thumb. “...you know, I’m starting to figure you out too.” His other hand cupped your hip, pulling you to sit directly on his erection and holding you in place so you couldn’t grind. “You’re used to getting away with shit you know you shouldn’t do, isn’t that right, baby?” You sighed softly in response, pinned into place by his lust-blown eyes. You balanced on a precipice- on one side, obedience, which you knew would satisfy him. On the other, eventual obedience with a little bit more fight; more of a gamble, but you were willing to bet that he would enjoy that best.
“You really thought you could eye-fuck me every damn afternoon,” Eddie said, his hand on your neck moving lower to fondle one of your breasts over your swimsuit. “-and there wouldn’t be consequences?”
You breathed heavily, chest rising and falling under his hand. “I mean…” you drawled, still smiling smugly despite his authoritative tone of voice. “...I was kinda hoping for consequences.” you brought both hands out of the water, gesturing vaguely to the room around you. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
A second passed before Eddie’s hands suddenly grabbed both of your wrists, forcing them behind your back. You gasped, cheeks hot from the water and the position you were in, straddling his lap with both shoulders shoved back to force your breasts front and center. He saw the look in your eyes and leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“I can get rough sometimes, baby.” he said, voice low and husky. “Tell me it’s too much at any point and I’ll stop, okay?” You nodded, a shy little mm-hm escaping your bitten lips. Eddie crossed your wrists over each other, holding them behind your back with one hand as his newly free one reached up to caress your cheek.
“Fucking Christ, you’re cute.” he mumbled. “Cute little baby, all alone in her parents’ big house all day, so bored she had to go and be a slut for the neighbor. That right, baby?”
Your eyes were wide and wet, mouth opened in a slight pout as you ground your freed hips on his hard cock once again, whimpering needily. You nodded your head up and down, eager to hear more filthy words tumble from his lips.
Eddie wasn’t satisfied with that. A hand came up to grasp your hair at the base of your neck, tugging on it firmly but not painfully to force your head to nod up and down emphatically. “Use your words, baby, say ‘yes, daddy, I was a slut.’”
You gasped, surprised. You’d never called anyone daddy besides your actual father, and you’d certainly never called anyone that in the bedroom- or a hot tub, for that matter. However, his brazen demand that you call him that while you straddled him like this sent rolling waves of pleasure straight to the apex of your thighs.
“Y-yes… daddy…” You struggled against your instinct to be embarrassed, arching your back against your restrained hands and looking down shyly at your cleavage. “...I was a slut.”
“Look at me.”
Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and obedient. He was smiling at you, beaming with pride and adoration. His hand slid from your hair to the back of your neck, pulling your face to his. “Good girl, baby.” he praised, “I’m gonna kiss you, is that okay?”
You nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!”
That earned you a chuckle. “So polite, baby girl, good job.”
Eddie’s lips felt like the most comforting thing that a person could feel on their skin. His kiss felt like fresh sheets still warm from the dryer. His tongue was like a strawberry that was perfectly ripe, sweet and wet and a rush of relief. He explored you, he learned you, his lips devoured all they could reach and whenever they couldn’t reach, his tongue took over to fill in the blanks.
As you whimpered and squirmed in his lap, Eddie cooed, “What’s the matter, baby, something wrong with your legs?”
You shook your head, moaning into his mouth. “I need something on my clit, Eddie.”
“Something? You’ll just take anything on that clit baby? Is that what you're saying?”
You panted, straining against his rock hard dick for some kind of friction. He was right, you would take anything. “Yes, please touch me, Eddie.”
He made no move to do so, only looking at you pointedly with his eyebrows raised. When you realized your mistake, you corrected, “Please touch me, daddy.”
He smiled smugly, a cat watching a mouse. “Good girl,” he praised, “but I’m not sure you’ve earned that.”
Your face fell, eyes going wide as your lips formed a full-on pout. “But-” you began to stutter, but Eddie wasn’t finished.
He let go of you, pushing you gently off you and guiding you under the water to one of the seats in the corner of the tub. The jets coming off it were strong, nearly too much on your back as you turned to sit, but Eddie stopped you before you could settle into the seat.
“Princess, I want you to keep your knees open and ride your pussy on that jet stream until you cum.”
Your jaw dropped open. Whipping your chin over your shoulder to look at him in his seat opposite you, you stared and waited for him to specify or maybe apologize for misspeaking- there’s no way you heard him right. But then he repeated himself, and you realized that yes, you had.
“Press your pussy up against that jet stream under the water, and make yourself cum. Don’t use your hands. Don’t rush. I want you to fall apart in my hot tub, and I’m going to stroke my dick while I watch you do it. That okay, sweetheart?”
You were learning a lot of new information about your neighbor today.
You smiled devilishly over your shoulder at him, taking in the sight of him lounging in the opposite corner of the tub as he took in the sight of you. “You’re a kinky motherfucker, aren’t you?”
Eddie reached across the tub and wound an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a quick but heated kiss. “Yeah, I am.” he murmured into your lips before pushing you back toward the jets. “Now make yourself cum, I want you tight.”
He laughed at the pathetic little whimper that you let slip involuntarily as you situated yourself against the jet stream. You balanced your weight on your knees, spreading your legs enough to open your pussy further inside your swimsuit. Once the pulsing stream of water made contact with your clit, your automatic impulse was to flinch away; the stream was strong, almost too strong. However, with a little shifting and repositioning, you eventually found an angle that pulled a moan from your mouth that sounded almost pornographic.
“That’s it, baby girl,” you heard Eddie’s rough voice behind you, and you couldn’t help but sneak a peak over your shoulder at him. Eddie sat with legs spread open and one arm slung over the lip of the tub, his other hand palming the erection you knew was only growing harder over his swim trunks. This told you he was a patient man, a man who liked to be teased a little before taking what he wanted. A man who liked to play with his food before he ate it.
You could play, too.
You pulled your eyebrows together, pouting your lips the way you’d seen him react to earlier. “Am I doing it right for you, daddy?” You moved your hips up and down against the jet, putting on a little show for him.
Eddie raised a brow, amused. “I don’t think I can answer that question for you, sweetheart.” he said, sighing heavily with pleasure as he tilted his head this way and that to take you in from every angle. “Don’t worry about me, baby, just make yourself feel good.”
You smiled shyly, nodding in response and turning your attention back to the jets. You maneuvered your hips against them, grinding on the strong jetstream as it hit your clit at angles that you didn’t even know existed. You lost yourself in the sensation, letting your eyes fall closed and humming little sounds to yourself as your heart rate picked up, that familiar pleasure bubbling up in your lower belly as your movements grew faster and more desperate.
Eager to see if Eddie was enjoying himself as much as you were, you glanced over your shoulder to look at him. What you saw was breathtaking- Eddie, his wet curls clinging to his dewy skin, muscles flexing under his tattoos as he fisted his cock underwater. You couldn’t see it clearly due to the raging bubbles, but the flesh-colored underwater blur was enough for you to know exactly what he was doing. You had known he would jack off to you- he’d outright told you he planned to- but seeing it was enough to turn you on so much that it became the thing that pushed you over the edge.
“Daddy, I’m cumming!”
You moaned, mouth hanging open as you rode out your orgasm against the harsh stream of the jets, overwhelmed and overstimulated by the physical feeling and the intense eye contact that you held with Eddie the entire time as your body gyrated and spasmed. He watched you with hungry eyes, lapping up the scene in its entirety and committing every second to memory.
“Good girl, good fucking girl, keep fucking that jet, baby.”
You whimpered, hips jerking away from the stream as it hit your clit at an angle that was a little too intense, and your limp, still-needy body floated over to Eddie. He chuckled, still stroking his cock lightly in the warm water. “Aw, I’m sorry baby, was that too much?”
You shook your head, still eager for him- he’d barely even touched you, and yet you were so desperate for this man. “No, I can take more.”
His eyes had a darkness to them that made your breath hitch. “How much can you take, sweetheart?”
You moved to straddle your knees on either side of one of his thighs, not close enough to grind against his cock, but certainly in a perfect position to rub your pussy along his leg, teasing him. “I’ll take whatever you wanna give me, daddy.”
A low groan sounded from deep in Eddie’s chest. “You might regret saying that one, babe.”
You couldn’t resist matching his warning with a challenge. “Bring it on.” you said sweetly, and it incited a little chuckle in him. He reached back and pressed a button on the hot tub, causing all of the bubbles to stop.
“Get out, dry off.” he said, nodding to the neatly folded towels he’d placed beside the hot tub. “You look like you could use a shower.”
You stayed put, confused. “You… but…”
He cut you off, cupping his wet hands against your face. You could feel the pads of his fingers on your cheeks, wrinkled from prolonged time under the water’s surface. “Sorry, sweetheart, I forgot you don’t like following instructions unless you know you’re getting something out of it.” You scoffed at his condescending tone, but all he did was smile. “What I meant to say was- get out. Dry off. I’m going to fuck you in my shower. Mmkay?”
Your eyes widened, excited by his words and elated by a strange submissive, post-orgasmic euphoria. “Okay.” you replied, but when you saw his testy look in response you quickly amended, “Okay daddy.”
“Good girl.”
The two of you dried off before heading back upstairs. Eddie let you down the hall to his bedroom, which you were sure was filled with so many interesting mementos on the walls that you were sure it would take you hours to study all of it. The first thing to catch your eye was the golden record, framed and mounted beside his dresser. When Eddie saw you looking at it, he supplied an answer without waiting for you to ask.
“Ever heard of a band called Corroded Coffin?”
You searched your brain but came up empty. “No, I don’t think I have.”
Eddie chuckled to himself, like you’d just participated in a joke you weren’t in on. “Most people haven’t. But I bet you’ve heard the song Upside Down on the radio, yeah?” He hummed a couple bars of the chorus, which you recognized instantly.
“Oh yeah! I love that song!”
Eddie grinned. “‘Preciate it, babe.”
Shocked, you glanced up at the record and back to him. “Wait, you wrote that song?”
He shrugged as if to brush it off, but you could tell he was proud. “It was a group effort, my band and I wrote and recorded it together. After that, though, when the offers for record deals and tours and shit started pouring in, it became clear to most of the band members that this wasn’t what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives- band broke up on good terms, we just had some differences when it came to future plans.” He reached up and stroked the frame affectionately with his thumb. “But one-hit-wonder money was still enough to get my name out there, make some smart investments. I’m a music producer now.”
So that’s how he made all this money. The big empty house made sense now. “That’s pretty cool, actually.” you said, smiling at Eddie. You relished the sensation of his hands as they slid around your waist.
“You wanna see something even cooler?”
Before you could answer, Eddie was scooping you up into his arms and tossing you over his shoulder. You squealed, laughing as his palm hit your ass cheek with a loud smack! He carried you into his bathroom, placing you on his vanity counter before kissing the laughing smile right off your face. You felt his hands as they worked your bathing suit off you, freeing your breasts from the confines of the damp fabric. Eddie wasted no time, pulling one of your tits into his hand and encircling your nipple with his mouth, sucking sensually. You moaned, hands fisting into his hair. He only left your skin to turn around and turn on the shower, giving the water a chance to heat up.
Once the bathroom had sufficiently filled with steam, Eddie picked you up from the counter, pulling your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. You kissed him greedily, wetly, and hungrily as he walked the two of you into his spacious tiled shower, which was larger than your dorm room closet back at school.
You relaxed your legs around him in a silent ask for Eddie to put you down, which he obliged. The moment your feet hit the wet tiled floor, you began to sink to your knees until…
You snorted.
“Why do you still have your swim trunks on?”
Eddie had taken the time to take off your bathing suit, but you hadn’t even realized that even after carrying you into the shower, he hadn’t even taken a second to undress himself.
He looked down, noticing this for the first time, same as you. “I, uh… I don’t know. I was-” he flashed you a smirk that was equal parts embarrassed and sexy. “-preoccupied, I guess.”
You couldn’t help but laugh as you knelt before him, now eye-level with the drawstring of his swim trunks. “Well let me fix that, then.” you said softly, working your delicate fingers into the waistband and pulling his trunks down until they hit the floor.
God. He was a sight to behold. And you were right, he did have thigh tattoos. They were large, twisting images of hellish creatures, undoubtedly older but still in good shape since- judging by the paleness of the skin they decorated- they probably never saw the light of day.
You reached up, lightly tracing them as you turned your gaze to his cock. It was at full mast, eager and waiting for your mouth to encircle it and, hopefully, make Eddie moan your name.
Which he did.
The way your lips covered the head of his cock, the way your tongue generously licked the shaft under, over, around, the way your hands were warm and welcoming as they lightly played with his balls- all of it made him moan, gasp, groan your name. He called you baby, called you princess, moaned and pulled your hair as he fucked your mouth, and you just about burst into flames when he shoved his cock so far down your throat that you swallowed on it accidentally, pulling a growled “Goddamnit, sweetheart, fuck-” from his lips.
When he pulled you off his dick by your hair, his eyes were humorless and hungry. He crouched down, leveling your eyes under the hot water from the showerhead.
“Are you on birth control, sweet girl?” he asked.
You nodded, “I have an IUD.”
He kissed your forehead firmly, one hand still fisted in your hair. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Now I can grab a condom, they’re right over there in the cabinet under my sink.” he continued, nodding vaguely in the sink’s direction. “But baby, I have been fantasizing about the way your pussy’s gonna feel for a long ass time and I hate to ask you this, and you’re allowed to say no, but-”
“Fuck me raw Eddie.” You wanted it. You needed it. You needed him. “I fantasize about it too. I think about it every day, I touch myself to you before going to sleep and wake up wishing your cock was the thing waking me up. When I’m lying by the pool reading those stupid smutty novels and some lord is fucking a lady in waiting up against a wall, I can’t focus on it! I can’t because I want it to be you and I want to feel your cock inside me, and I want it to be your cum that drips down my thighs and your lips on my-”
He cut you off there, splaying his free hand on your neck and kissing you until you were laid horizontally on the hot, wet floor. He climbed on top of you, and in a moment your mouth fell open at the sensation of his hard cock splitting you open from the inside. He didn’t spend a moment waiting for you to adjust to his size or murmuring praises into your ear- he knew you wanted all of him, and you knew he wanted all of you, and that was all you needed. You moaned, you practically screamed, and above all you clutched him for dear life.
“Dirty girl,” Eddie growled into your ear, thrusting into you deep and hard. “Dirty books, dirty mind-”
He leaned back so that his face was directly above yours and grabbed your cheeks, squeezing to force your mouth open. Your lips parted, and Eddie spat harshly into your mouth before shoving your mouth closed around it. His eyes were feral, wild with lust and dominance. “Swallow.” he commanded, you obeyed in an instant. He felt your throat moving against his hand and smiled deviously. “Dirty mouth, too.”
He picked up his pace, spearing into you at a pace so relentless that you couldn’t even keep track of the noises coming out of your mouth- an incoherent stream of sounds and swear that would have made a sailor blush. He matched your dirty noises with his own, all the while dicking you down into his shower floor as your brain went haywire at the lewd noises of skin slapping against skin that echoed through the bathroom.
“God, this pussy is so fucking tight,” Eddie groaned, “good girl, cumming so hard for daddy back there. You gonna cum on my cock this time?”
You moaned, “Need something on my clit, daddy.”
Eddie pecked your lips with his own, and the way it made your heart skip a beat was like a reward. “Good girl, always tell me what you need, okay?”
You nodded, smiling giddily from the sudden subby euphoria. “Okay, daddy.” You made a mental note that kissing Eddie Munson while his cock was inside you gave you your new favorite kind of high.
Eddie reached down and began drawing small, soft circles with his fingertip on your clit. The richly gentle sensation was decadent, pulling deeper, louder moans from you as Eddie continued to fuck you. “Oh I feel you getting tighter, baby girl, that feel good?”
“Yes!” you practically yelled it.
“Yes what?” He taunted.
“Yes daddy!” you cried, arching your back against the tile. He was fucking you ruthlessly, ravaging you mentally, and the way his dirty words melted into you made your brain go so hazy that you weren’t sure if your vision was clouding or if it was just the steam in the air.
Your release was growing closer, that heat in your core coiling tighter and tighter, ready to burst with pleasure. “I’m gonna cum soon, daddy.” you whined.
Eddie’s dick hit you in that perfect spot inside over and over, and you leaned your face against his hand as he cupped your cheek affectionately. “Yeah? You gonna make a mess all over daddy’s dick?” You pouted, nodding ‘yes’ in response. Eddie smiled at the way you could be so cute and so filthy at the same time- he fucking loved it. “That’s probably gonna make me cum, sweetheart, you want that? That pussy’s gonna grip my cock so tight that it fills you with cum, huh?”
You were whimpering and pouting and letting the sluttiest little sobs fall from you now. “Yes, daddy, fill me with cum, please!”
“You want me to fill you with cum? Fuck all that cum inside you?”
“Yes!”
“Yes what, sweetheart, gotta tell me whose dick you’re cumming on-”
“Daddy!” you cried, “Daddy’s dick, I’m cumming on daddy’s dick!”
“Fuuuck, yes, cum on daddy’s dick you little slut-”
Eddie’s filthy words tumbled from his lips as your pussy pulsed around him, fluttering walls squeezing him tight from the aching pleasure that shot through you. His cum filled you, and the size of his load reflected just how long it had been since he’d cum into anything that wasn’t his own hand. When he finally pulled out, a stream of both your releases oozed out of your hole and onto the floor. Eddie stared at it, fascinated, and he silently used his finger to catch the milky liquid and push it back into your hole. You whimpered, overly sensitive and puffy, your pussy lips inflamed and screaming, but Eddie was gentle as he sheathed his finger completely inside you, ensuring that his seed stayed exactly where he’d put it in the first place.
He pulled you up to a sitting position, smiling gently. “Hi.” he whispered, placing a soft kiss on your temple.
“Hi.” you giggled, a giant smile stretching out across your face, blissed-out and more than satisfied.
Eddie stroked your wet hair out of your face, gazing down at you adoringly. “I’m sorry if that was a little… much,” he winced. “I may have gotten carried away, usually I would talk to you to see if that kind of stuff would be okay, but I was just so fired up-”
“Eddie,” you interrupted softly. “I loved it.”
He grinned, grateful and relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie pulled you against him, your body fitting itself nicely against his naked chest as water poured over the two of you from above while you sat holding each other on the floor of his shower. He sighed, completely and utterly content. “Yeah.”
***
The rest of the summer days in your parents’ neighborhood went like this:
Wake up imagining what you and Eddie would do today. Touch yourself when necessary.
Do whatever chores needed doing around the house, sometimes making batches of lemonade for Eddie when you knew he would be working on his lawn that day.
Lounge by your pool and read a book- this part hadn’t changed.
Spend the rest of the afternoon at Eddie’s. These afternoons usually consisted of activities like discussing the whatever book you were reading, drinking whatever strange new beer Dustin had come up with, and fucking each other’s brains out.
The next month, Eddie celebrated his birthday. He didn’t throw a rager (true to his word) but he did have a little get-together. To your surprise, he invited you.
You got to meet his friends, their kids, their dogs- and see the way Eddie smiled for hours without reprieve when they were around. This whole summer, you’d been figuring this man out bit by bit, but it wasn’t until that night that you truly felt like you knew him.
You baked him a cake, as promised. Three layers of funfetti sponge, vanilla frosting and decorated with oreo crumbs and rainbow letters that spelled out “Happy birthday, Eddie, forever young”.
He wasn’t this way with the rest of the neighbors. To them, he would always be Mr. 1405 Peach Tree Lane, but with these people? With his friends? He was Eddie Munson. Now, you were included in that group of people who were allowed to know him, and how wonderful he really was.
You felt so incredibly lucky that you were a part of that.
#eddie munson x reader#older!eddie munson#neighbor!eddie#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson#eddie stranger things#stranger things fic#modern au
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Could it be real?
Vander x reader
Words: 0.5k
Warnings: -
Summary: You must face a fact that seems impossible, but it’s right there before your eyes—it’s just a matter of believing it.
Note: It's been over two years since the last time I posted something here. I hope you enjoy this piece, and that the translation is correct since I'm not very good at English. <3
He was there, just a few meters away, but he didn’t seem like himself. He didn’t look like him, didn’t sound like him, and didn’t even smell the same. He was simply unrecognizable.
Vi’s heavy hand rested on your shoulder, pulling you out of your thoughts. You looked at her, searching for answers, but she only stared at the massive creature lying on the ground.
“Are you sure it’s…”
“Completely.” Vi didn’t let you finish your question. She released your shoulder and approached the giant, who lay asleep a few meters away. She gently touched its back. The beast stirred uncomfortably, but upon seeing the young woman, it relaxed. “I have no doubt.”
You stepped closer, slowly, afraid your approach might alert the massive being, but it kept its back turned.
“Just look at him, and you’ll understand.”
The creature hunched over, trying to appear smaller (an impossible feat), and took a cautious step forward. You stepped back, which made him freeze in place.
Finally, the immense creature turned, and you saw him. He wasn’t how you remembered. He didn’t look like the man you’d fallen in love with in the Lanes, the one you’d shared most of your life with, built a family with. But without a doubt, it was him.
“Vander?”
Your mind raced, struggling to comprehend everything that was happening—how your husband, the man who had died years ago, was now back in a body that wasn’t his own.
You remained silent, unable to respond. Your brain kept trying to process everything, but no answer came. Vi, still enraged, was about to say something else when a loud snort stopped her.
Seeing that you wouldn’t come closer, Vi stepped in again.
“I know he looks different, but I swear, this is Vander. He remembers us.”
“How is this possible?”
“We’re not sure, but you have to trust me.”
“I searched for his body for months. I didn’t… I didn’t find anything—”
“That doesn’t matter anymore!” Vi snapped, furious. “He’s here now. We can help him; we can bring Vander back! How can you not be happy?”
The massive creature that had once been your husband took another step in your direction, but this time, you didn’t back away, so he kept advancing. Panic gripped your chest with every step he took, the fear that touching him would wake you up in your apartment, drenched in tears.
When he finally reached you, he lifted one of his enormous hands and gently brushed your cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to stream uncontrollably.
“Is this real?” You looked into his eyes. “Please,” you begged. “I don’t want to wake up.”
Vander didn’t dare touch you again, fearing you might run away, but you couldn’t stand it any longer. You buried yourself in his chest. He hesitated for a moment but finally wrapped one massive arm around you, lowering his face to your head and inhaling deeply.
“You’re real,” you murmured through your sobs, unable to believe it.
“I’m here,” he said in a deep voice, squeezing you gently with the arm that held you close.
#vander arcane#arcane x reader#arcane league of legends#arcane series#arcane netflix#arcane#vander x reader#vander and vi#warwick#arcane season 2#arcane x#arcane s2#vander s2
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For the yandere! Justice League x assistant reader, how would they react if they had Deadpool as a friend? Like he randomly shows up. They would try to keep the reader as far away from him as possible, but it's Deadpool. Lol. How would Yandere Justice League feel if the reader liked Deadpool because he's funny and makes the reader laugh even if in a tense situation, randomly just talking about nonsense and/or making funny jabs at some of Justice League members? Not only that, but he would just annoy them for his and the reader's amusement. I can also imagine Wonder Woman or Superman trying to kill/critically injure him but finding out he has a super healing ability. LOL. I can imagine the scene where Deadpool punches Colossus, but his hand breaks, then he tries again while saying, "Cock shot!" but his other hand breaks. Instead, he does it to Superman and says, "Oh, your poor Lois Lane!" I feel like that would make the reader laugh out loud.
I finally saw the Deadpool & Wolverine movie, and I loved it! So now I want to see more content about Deadpool. I forget how funny he can be. I would like you to add a Deadpool & Wolverine, but I don't know if you have seen the movie yet. But I recommend you go and watch the movie.
A Day in Life: Best Friends Forever
Synopsis: A day in your life where a visit from your friend ends up in Deadpool losing his thumbs and re-attaching them back.
Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Gn!Assistant!Reader; Platonic!Deadpool
Tw: 18+; No spoilers from the movie; Some violence; Light gore descriptions (not really); Some sexual comments (it's Deadpool); English is my 2nd language.
Word count: 830
Requested? Yes.
Extra notes: I loved this request, saw the movie on like the same week it came out, sorry this took so long</3
General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist
— So that's what happens when I’m not around, huh?! — Hal Jordan snarked, faking amusement by the sight in front of him, but being very much not amused.
How? Was the question going through everyone's minds, as they watched their dear assistant (Y/N), in the middle of Hall of Justice, chatting away with a very infamous criminal known all around the hero-villain underground, who every single soul despised, and yet, there you were, choking your laughter and in tears with Deadpool, acting as if you've been friends all your life.
Diana was the first one to approach, followed by the rest of the Justice League.
— (Y/N), is this man bothering you? — She squared up and stared directly on Deadpool’s blank white lenses. That grounded you and helped you come back from the stories your friend was telling you.
— B-Bothering me? — Your laughter slowly died down, and you wiped your tears. — No, we’re just talking. — You shrugged and sniffled, so happy that a genuine smiled was fixed on your face, hypnotizing all the heroes for a moment.
— Wonder Woman! — Deadpool gave little fangirl jumps. Diana swallowed a groan. — It’s amazing to see you again! I’m even wearing my fanciest anal plug and thinking about you, all in your honor. — Diana couldn't control the disgusted and astounded expression on her face, while Wade saluted her. You bite your lips to not giggle.
— Don't be silly, Pool. Not everyone understands your humor. — You lightly slapped his shoulder and he sighed.
— I know! That's why I'm so introverted and depressed! — He shook his head. — That's why Disney sold me to DC, they couldn't handle my deep and complex character. Let's hope James Gunn knows what he's doing now. — Everyone, including you, furrowed their eyebrows, but no one decided to question what the hell he was talking about, since the mercenary was known for being insane. — And just after my third movie with Wolvie came out! Unbelievable. — He threw his hands in the air and shook his head while looking at an empty space as if there was someone there. He did that sometimes.
— You seem… Close. W-When did that happen, (N/N)? — Flash looked between you and Deadpool, biting his lower lip, slightly anxious. You blinked.
— Oh, well. Like, a few months ago? He sent his curriculum because he wanted to be part of the Justice League. There were no records of him in the system so I Interviewed him. Obviously he didn't pass, but we became good friends! — You shrugged with an easy smile.
— That's… Great, (N/N). — You narrowed your eyes on Hal Jordan.
— Hey… — Deadpool's mask gave the slightest hint that he was furrowing his eyebrows, and he pointed at Green Lantern. — (Y/N) told me about you. I don't like you. — He took his guns out of the holsters and pointed at the brunette. You gasped and stepped back, slightly regretting having told Wade about that. — STEP BACK WORST RYAN REYNOLDS SUPERHERO MOVIE OR I’M GONNA BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT IN 4K R-RATED! — Hal raised his arms. He was already on thin ice with you, and beating your bestie would probably be a bad idea to start over.
Batman grunted for someone to cover your eyes and threw two batarangs that disarmed Deadpool before he could react. Deadpool gasped and looked at the ground wide eyed. His thumbs had been chumped off in the ordeal (Batman was jealous and also knew he would just regenerate).
— WHAT? WHAT’S HAPPENING? — You blindly yelled, since Superman had zoomed to just behind you and was covering your eyes.
— HE CASTRATED ME! — Deadpool cried, reaching back for his swords, but since he didn't have thumbs anymore, he couldn't even hold them, making him just cry more from frustration. — THE DADDY ISSUES JUST GET WORSE! AND JUST BECAUSE I WAS READY TO BE ADOPTED BY YOU! — Batman furrowed his eyebrows at the mention of him having more than just one kid.
— Guys, we should all just calm down. — Flash tried to play the pacifist, standing in the middle of the chaos with his hands up, but Wade’s cries were covering his voice.
— WHAT'S HAPPENING? — You tried to tug Superman’s hands off, but he didn't let up, and started trying to sooth you.
Deadpool got to his knees and pathetically tried to push one of his thumbs into place, trying to accelerate his healing process, and after 30 seconds of chaos, he perked up when the thumb got attached again. He did the same to the other one.
— The sight is gross, (Y/N). You do not want to see it… — Wonder Woman mumbled, eyes fixed on the scene, feeling a mix of grossed out and impressed.
— Gross? This is natural. Like the birth of a little naked newborn baby. You wanna know what's real gross? My roommate Blind Al’s stink! She might as well be dead at this point… Uh, oh… — Wade slowly got up. — (Y/N)... Call me an Uber. I need to check on someone.
Like, comment and reblog 🥰
#dc comics#yandere dc#yandere bruce wayne x reader#cw yandere#masterlist#yandere diana prince x reader#yandere barry allen x reader#yandere hal jordan x reader#wade wilson x reader#platonic wade wilson x reader#deapool#platonic deadpool#bruce wayne x reader#yandere clark kent x reader#clark kent x reader#diana prince x reader#barry allen x reader#hal jordan x reader#marvel dc crossover#marvel x dc#tw yandere#tw violence#yandere justice league x reader#justice league x reader#justice league#justice league x deadpool#deadpool x justice league#deadpool x reader#yandere justice league x assistant reader#justice league x assistant reader
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Mesaytara
Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader
Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way
You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.
“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.
As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.
Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”
Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.
Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.
But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.
“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.
Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”
A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.
Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.
And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.
For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.
When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.
“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”
The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.
But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”
Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.
All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.
“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”
His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”
You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.
The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.
Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”
The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.
“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”
You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.
“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”
The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.
“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”
His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.
“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”
Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.
“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”
***
The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.
As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.
“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.
Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.
You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.
The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.
“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”
As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.
“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”
You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.
When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...
“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”
“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”
You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.
“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.
Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.
“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”
You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.
“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”
You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.
“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”
The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.
“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”
You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.
As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.
“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”
A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.
But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.
“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”
A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.
But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.
“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”
You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.
“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”
A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.
“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”
His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.
When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.
“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”
You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.
When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.
“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”
A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”
The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.
As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.
When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.
Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.
You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.
You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.
You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.
***
The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.
This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.
You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.
To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.
This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.
You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.
A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.
“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.
Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.
You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.
Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.
For a price, of course.
“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”
“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”
The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.
“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”
Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.
“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”
He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.
“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”
The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.
You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.
For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.
Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.
“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”
He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.
“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”
“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”
Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.
When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.
“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”
He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”
A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.
“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”
Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.
Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.
“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”
The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.
It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”
“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”
He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.
“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”
His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.
“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”
A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.
Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.
“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”
Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.
There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.
There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.
You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.
“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”
It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.
Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.
Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.
“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”
Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.
Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.
“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”
The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.
Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.
Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.
The only thing left is for you to drive.
***
“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”
Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.
You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.
“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.
Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.
“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”
“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”
He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.
Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.
“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”
You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”
Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.
“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.
“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.
“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”
“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”
You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.
“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”
Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.
“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”
“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.
Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.
“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”
“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.
You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.
More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?
Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...
“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”
From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.
“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”
Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.
At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.
“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”
She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.
“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”
You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.
“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”
Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.
With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”
The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.
At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.
“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”
Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.
“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”
“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”
“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”
The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.
Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.
And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.
But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.
As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.
“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”
Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.
So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.
“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”
His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.
An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.
***
The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.
Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.
Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.
This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.
The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.
You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.
Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.
This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.
The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.
“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”
You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.
“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.
“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”
A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.
The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.
You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.
“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”
The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.
For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.
Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.
“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”
Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.
You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?
“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.
“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”
Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.
But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.
“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”
Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.
“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.
Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.
“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”
You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.
“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”
A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.
From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.
By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.
You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.
“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”
The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.
“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”
Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”
He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.
“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”
You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.
“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”
Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.
“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”
He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.
“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”
A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.
“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”
A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.
“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”
He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.
“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”
Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.
“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”
The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.
“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.
You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.
“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”
Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.
You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.
And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...
“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”
You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?
So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.
“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”
For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.
“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”
You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.
Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.
***
The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.
Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.
“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”
“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.
“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "
“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”
Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”
One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.
Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.
“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.
He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.
“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”
“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”
Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.
“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”
Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.
“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”
You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.
“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”
Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.
By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.
“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”
You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.
“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”
With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.
“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.
Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.
“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”
The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?
This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.
With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:
SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season
Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.
This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.
This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...
An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.
You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.
It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.
Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.
The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.
Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.
Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.
You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.
This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.
The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.
“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.
Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.
“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.
“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”
You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...
… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.
“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.
“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”
The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?
You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.
Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.
Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.
This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.
You will become a legend.
Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.
When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.
“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.
“This is only the beginning ...”
***
The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.
“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.
“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”
“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.
This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.
“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”
You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.
“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”
Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”
“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”
“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”
You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”
Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”
“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”
Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”
“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.
“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.
You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”
“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”
Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”
Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”
You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”
Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”
You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”
He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”
You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”
There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”
“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”
Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”
“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”
“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”
“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.
You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”
Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.
“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”
You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.
“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”
Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...
“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”
“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”
“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”
“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”
When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.
“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”
It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”
“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”
“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”
“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.
“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”
You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.
“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.
Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.
A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-
“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”
Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.
“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”
With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.
***
Two Years Later
You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.
A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.
“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”
He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.
Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.
A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.
“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.
“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”
You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.
“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”
Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.
The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.
“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”
Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.
“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”
A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”
Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”
You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.
“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”
Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.
Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.
You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.
“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.
And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.
You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...
“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.
You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”
You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.
“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”
Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.
“What?” You ask self-consciously.
“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”
It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...
“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.
Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”
Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.
“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.
There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.
“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.
You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”
Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”
“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.
He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.
You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.
Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.
The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.
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