#if what you will offer is your absence then so be it
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Your number 1 fan (Part 3)
Katsuki Bakugo x reader
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It's Wednesday, and here you are, currently getting dolled up in the makeup room for your upcoming interview with the renowned Tv personality, Uwabami.
Your makeup artist withdraws the make-up brush from your face, offering you a warm smile, gesturing for you to look at your reflection in the mirror in front of you.
"Do you like it?" she inquired, gently moving your hair away from your face, allowing you to admire your reflection in the mirror.
"I do! You definitely need do this look for my upcoming tour" you exclaimed, utterly captivated by your reflection in the mirror. The make up artistry - the perfect eyebrows, the blush - perfect.
You swear you have never felt the prettiest in your entire life.
Right on time, your manager entered the room, looking visibly exhausted, with prominent dark bags under his eyes visible even from a mile away. He looked like he hadn't gotten a decent sleep in days.
"You look like shit"
"I'm aware" Shawn dismissibly replied, making his way towards the empty chair next to yours, collapsing into it with a heavy sigh before proceeding to open his tablet, resuming his work.
You picked up the untouched takeaway coffee on the vanity, and offered it to him. "Here. I think you need this more than me" you said.
He simply nodded and took a sip of the coffee. Time passed by, and before long, one of the production crew members called out to you, signaling that the interview was about to begin.
You patiently waited backstage, engaging in lighthearted conversations with a member of the production crew, passing time until the show started.
As the lights dimmed and the director shouted "action", Uwabami introduced herself, leading into the scripted lines, and as the cue was given, you confidently strode onto the set, ready to take your place on camera.
Talking with Uwabami has been nothing but pleasant. There was a natural, effortless chemistry between you both, as though you were just old friends catching up. There was no pressure or forced interactions, unlike other TV interviews you had experienced. It felt natural and comfortable.
You couldn't help but recall a particularly unpleasant interview where a famous TV host had the audacity to ask you an incredibly insensitive question, forcing you to put on a strained smile and sit there silently, as if he hadn't asked you the most offending question in your life.
"So, for my final question" your thoughts snapped back to reality, focusing on the host in front of you, who's wearing a grin on her face.
"When you were composing the song "Juno", did you perhaps have someone or anyone in mind while writing it?" she asked.
"Ooh, I like that one" you chuckled "I did" you grinned, mirroring hers "though I'll keep his identity a secret" you added with a cheeky giggle.
"What about a clue?"
"Hmm...let me see... Let's just say he's a pro hero"
"Ooh, but there are lots of pro heroes out there!" she laughed, turning towards the camera as though addressing the audience "How about we let them all guess?" She winked at the camera before continuing with the closing lines, bidding farewell to both the viewers and you, signaling the end of the set.
You stayed for a little while, engaging in a lighthearted conversation with Uwabami and other production staff, including the director, before retreating backstage to your make up room. There, both of Kim and Shawn were ready to leave, all packed up and set to go.
"So, who's driving? I don't see Mr. Smith anywhere" you questioned as the three of you reached the parking lot, noticing his absence. It was unusual for him not to accompany your makeup artist in the backstage while waiting for you to finish your shoot, especially as they typically engaged in their casual chatter while drinking take out coffee together.
"I'll be driving. Mr. Smith's daughter was in an accident, so I dismissed him for the day and gave him a whole week's paid leave" Shawn stated as he held open the car door for you.
You looked at him with a raised eyebrow before getting in.
"What?" He asked, looking at you as you make yourself comfortable at the front passenger seat.
"Because I'm currently in a car with a sleep-deprived driver... I just want to get home in one piece" you teased , causing him to groan in surrender before starting the car.
During the ride, you talked about your forthcoming tour with your manager, while Kim informed you that she will be sleeping for the time being.
Thanks to him, all the necessary arrangements had been made, leaving only the security to be handled. While the venue had already provided security, the HPSC requirement was for at least one or two pro heroes to serve as additional guards for enhanced safety.
"I'm just waiting for them to call back and confirm. And don't worry, I specifically asked for him" he said, his gaze fixed on the road.
Shawn's phone rang. He swiftly pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to you, implying that you should answer the call as he was driving. You looked at the screen and it was as if the situation had called for it, the caller ID displayed the hero agency.
"Hello, this is Y/n speaking. My manager passed me the phone since he cannot answer the call at the moment. I presume this is the Hero Agency hired for the upcoming tour, correct?" you asked, awaiting a response from the other end of the line.
Speaking of the devil
You were only met with a long silence from the other line.
"Hello?" you repeated, only to be met with another silence followed by a brief hitch in the callers breathing before they suddenly ended the call.
What the hell?
Main Masterlist
Number 1 fan Masterlist
Note: Guess who answered the phone đ€
Taglist: @v3n7s @yjploum @pikachuzhc @sirenitym @ghostswhoretbh @d1orhaz3 @sachikomwahxx
#szqnxi#bakugou katsuki#bakugou x reader#bnha bakugou#katsuki bakugo mha#katsuki bakugo x reader#katsuki x you#mha bakugo katsuki#mha bakugo x reader#mha bakugou#mha katsuki bakugo#bakugo katsuki x reader#katsuki x reader#bnha bakugo katsuki#my hero academy fanfiction#mha fluff#katsuki fluff#bakugo fluff#bakugo x reader#bakugo x y/n
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could you do Javier Pena x f!reader
you two having lots of fun, then aftercare. Javier was sleeping beside you, you woke up slowly that you need some air as you walk through outside and sit in the bench. You were thinking about your mother. As you look up at the sky. You wish your mother was there with you. Few minutes later, you just go back and see Javier was sitting up to turn around to look for you. you couldnât help it. Just donât say nothing to Javier. Heâll understand and comfort you *fluffiness*
(hope you will write it, thanks and have a good day)
thank you for this great request, anon! âą reqs
javier pena x f!reader, loss of a parent, established relationship.
It was still early morning when you slowly woke up, your body warm and relaxed from the night before. Javier, still asleep, was beside you, his arm draped across your waist. The room was quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of his breathing. You smiled faintly, your heart full of a soft affection for him. But as the sun began to filter in through the window, something shifted in you, a longing for someone else.
You quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and made your way outside. The cool air hit your face as you walked to the bench, taking a seat and letting your legs stretch out. You stared up at the sky, the soft pastel colors of dawn painting the clouds. Your thoughts wandered to your mother. You wished, with every part of you, that she were here with you nowâholding your hand, offering her comfort like she used to when things were hard.
For a moment, you let the weight of that absence settle in your chest. You didnât want to cryânot now, not when everything around you felt so peaceful. But the emptiness was there, quiet and undeniable.
Time passed slowly as you sat there, the world around you waking up. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, and you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in, trying to center yourself. You thought about Javierâabout the way he made you feel so safe, so loved. You smiled through the small ache in your heart, knowing that he would be there when you went back inside.
You stood up from the bench, stretched, and made your way back to the cabin. As you walked through the door, you saw Javier sitting up on the bed, his gaze searching the room for you. His eyes softened when he caught sight of you, his lips curving into a warm smile.
"Hermosa," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep. "There you are."
You didnât say anything at first. Instead, you moved to him, and he opened his arms, a silent invitation. You crawled into his embrace, and he immediately pulled you close, cradling you against his chest. The comfort of his warmth surrounded you, and the steady beat of his heart was a grounding presence.
You let out a soft sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. You didnât have to say anything; he understood. Javierâs hands gently ran through your hair, his touch slow and soothing. He wasnât asking for an explanation, wasnât pushing you to share what was on your mind. Instead, he simply held you, his voice low and gentle.
"You know you can always talk to me, princesa," he said, his tone soft with affection. "Iâm here for you, always."
You just nodded, feeling the tears that had threatened to rise earlier finally ease away. Javier's presence was all the comfort you needed. In his arms, you didnât have to be strong. You could be soft, vulnerable, and know that he would always be there to catch you.
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal smut#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena narcos#javier peña#javier pena x reader
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so there's this professor... - 01 Fractured Equations masterlist
âdo you even know yourself, or are you just another child moulded by the world around us?â
your small eyes search for the voice, a distant echo floating in the cold air. you shuffle closer, yearning for the warmth of the fading memory, but the chilly air of britainâs streets sink into your bones. here, survival isnât merely a skill; itâs a daily battle that leaves you feeling small and utterly alone like a speck of dust
âpromise me you wonât fall into the mouldâ
you look up, your heart aching at the sight of her sad smile painted on like a fragile mask of a porcelain doll, cracking at the edges. behind it lies grief far too vast for a seven-year-old to fathom.
how could you ever comprehend the weight of her sorrow?Â
your tiny hands reach out, desperate for comfort, but all you grasp is emptinessâthe coldness of fingers that once cradled you close, now forever still. cold hands fall on your face as you stare in horror
no word slips from your lips, not even a fragile whisper, just a silent plea from your heart. another reminder that love can vanish, leaving only absence in your already empty void. you want to scream, to shake her from her slumber.
but instead, you sit there. hope became a cruel joke, and the warmth of her embrace is a ghost that taunts you. tears prick as you try your hardest to carve her smile into your memory. in that moment, you realiseÂ
youâre not just searching for her; youâre searching for yourself in the ruins of her despair.Â
âmother..?â
âŠ
âŠ
âŠ
âhold on- let me say goodbye to my mother before we head offâ
you snap back to the present, watching your best friend dash into his motherâs store. you see her happy smile as she leans down, allowing him to plant a small kiss on her cheek before he turns away. youâve always waited for him before heading to class. itâs a cherished tradition: you walk to his house in the morning, and he walks you back after class
âflowers? my mom had extras,â alvin offers, pushing a small bouquet of neatly arranged lavender roses into your hands.
âyou always give me the same kind,â you say, bringing it closer
âblame my mom for growing too many. come on! weâre going to be late!â he insists, pulling you along, not wanting to elaborateÂ
âi miss my mother whenever i see yours,â you mutter softly, the words slipping out before you can catch them
âi miss her too- even though i never met her. which is weird if you think about it,â alvin replies, glancing back at your sad expression
âi canât remember her anymoreâ
you switch off your thoughts for a moment, letting him navigate through the bustling marketplace. you treasure these few minutes, allowing your imagination to roam. daydreaming is another beloved pastime, and alvin provides the perfect escape into your bubble of comfort.
with your bag slung over his shoulder, he takes your hand in his free hand, unwilling to lose you in the crowd.
âi heard we have a new maths professor,â alvin begins again, trying to lift the mood
âheâs supposed to be young and a genius,â he adds, looking at you for a reaction.
âmaths professor? what about mrs aya?â you suddenly remember
âoh, her? thomas said sheâs now in his astronomy class- lucky fella,â alvin groans
you laugh at his silliness. the only reason he liked mrs. aya was for the free snacks she gave out after class. her husband, a wealthy lord, often sent treats during her lessons, accompanied by a signature green note that wished her a great day ahead.Â
âone day, iâm going to find out who her lover is so i can ask if he has a sister! iâve never tasted such wonderful cookies,â alvin reminisces
âi guess you wonât have them anymore,â you pat his back as he sulks at the thought
and just like that, you both walk toward your university building. alvin greets everyone he sees on campus, a habit that leaves you questioning his motives
âno? iâm not friends with security, but everyone deserves a good smile!â he responds cheerily
âyouâre not fully dressed without a smile.â
âdid you just quote haz-â
âstop. robert and his gang.. againâ
with that, alvin moves you behind him, muttering about âstupid rich boysâ as they approach. you clutch the flowers closer, watching him roll his eyes dramatically. a sigh escapes his lips as he stands face-to-face with robert
âhow do you always bump into us? itâs almost like you wait here,â alvin begins
âme? wait for some peasants? do you not know who i am? i am robert smith! the-â
âthe second son of lord smith and the sole heir of the luxury leather manufacturers. we know. youâre a broken record at this point,â alvin interrupts, mimicking him.
âi see [last name] still comes here. have you not found a partner yet? you keep coming to âeducateâ yourself, but whatâs the point? no one would hire a low-class rat,â robert retorts, his friends snickering in the background.
âi told you to leave us alone, right? get lostâ alvin insists, trying to shoo robert away, but he stands firm
âi could propose to spare your lowly life⊠i do need a new piece for my future collection,â robert continues to taunt
âooh, how unfortunate! to me, [name] leroy sounds a lot better than [name] smith- which, by the way, sounds like a shoe polisher,â alvin shoots back as he walks away with you
âyou donât always have to defend me,â you mutter, glancing back at the fuming robert.
âgrow a spine first stupidâ alvin replies, looking at you with his usual smile.
with that, you both reach your first class. mathematics has its own muse, but youâve never understood the supposed muse. while youâre not failing, youâre certainly not a star student either. you settle into your seats in the middle rows as alvin struggles to see the board from far
âglasses arenât such a bad thingâŠâ you comment as you pull out your notebook.
âtrue, but i donât see why i should pay so much just to read the board,â alvin sighs, slouching back with his latest magazine.
âyouâre going to pay attention to the board⊠with a magazine?â you question.
âshush, i donât want to label you as a snitch,â he teases, flipping through the pages.
you let the conversation drop, not wanting to disturb his reading. your gaze drifts around the classroom, where a mix of new faces and familiar ones fills the room. itâs a new semester, and getting into the university was not easy, given the challenging entry requirements.
right on cue, your new professor walks in. his striking blonde hair catches your eye, making him stand out immediately. even his three-piece brown suit looked more expensive than your entire snack budget.
he stands before the board, chalk in hand, neatly writing his name with precision. even his handwriting exudes a sense of perfection. he appears rather young for a mathematics professor, surprising you further.
âi am william james moriarty,â he introduces himself as he turns to the students. âiâll be teaching mathematics.â
"moriarty...?", alvin mumbles the name and shudders. you look at him strangely but he doesn't seem to care
âi hope you take this class seriously. i remember a quote by albert einstein,â william states.
âpure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.â
âwhat is he even saying?â alvin whispers, and you shrug in response
ânow, some of you might be like mr. leroy here, confused as to why i brought this up,â william continues. âthink of my words as motivation.â
âhe knows my name??â alvin gasps, nearly shouting in your ear
âi am well aware of everyoneâs name, mr. leroy. youâre not as quiet as you presume to be,â he replies, and the class erupts into laughter.Â
you canât help but join in as alvin buries his face in his arms, magazine forgotten on the floor. the rest of the class unfolds normally. your professor teaches, and the time slips away. class had ended before you even finished your notes.Â
âshould we get him a little gift?â you ask as you pack your bag
âa gift?? for him?? after he embarrassed me??â alvin exclaims, his bewildered expression making you laugh
âyour hair is messy again sillyâ, you sighedÂ
a silence falls between you, and you reach out to push the bangs from his forehead. he flinches, feeling your hand before swatting it away to fix his hair himself muttering about how he could do it himselfÂ
âokay, so what are you going to get him, your majesty?â alvin rolls his eyes
âa set of new chalk?â you suggestÂ
âchalk? why? the school provides him with a huge box!â he reasons.
âno, no! i mean the kind used by mathematicians- hagoromo chalk! isnât it nice? i could even knit him a small napkin to clean the board later on!â you continuedÂ
âi donât see you putting this much effort into my giftsâŠâ
© saioratral 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images used are from pinterest
taglist (forgot to post- whoops):
@fishii28 @ayaswrld @eliasorchard @onna-musha-mari @dija200
#william james moriarty#moriarty the patriot#yuukoku no moriarty#mtp#william james moriarty x reader#moriarty the patriot x reader#x reader#william x you#gn! reader#moriarty the patriot x you#ᥣsaioratralâËà§â€â
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"It is my luck that you are not," the weight of Ciri's head against her shoulder was a foreign, new sensation. The touch against her wrist made Orianna shudder involuntary, the sacred wound studded with bones and demurely hidden under the bracelet throbbed, as if opened anew. It was a long time ago since the sun-eyed vampiress trembled before anyone. "...otherwise, you would not tempt me with your powers. And we would not end up in this world of many wonders," warning and chastisement add a sour note to her voice, half-hearted as both were. As she remembered all the foolery that happened tonight, from the moving pictures to the assault of the strange food, still sticky upon her fangs, a short chuckle escaped her lips, a clicking soft sound, similar to a pleased noises of a bat. In her selfish, curious heart the sun-eyed enjoyed the trip and its fruits. "The place you have agreed to take me to..." something in her voice broke, scratched like a blade against an amour. "...it means to me more than I can put into words, in any language under the moon. Yet I do not even know for sure if it really exists. It might as well be a dream." a beautiful dream that the elders of Gharasham suckled the fledglings upon. What if the laws, the rituals, the studies - a sea of parchments buried in the vaults of Tesham Mutna, an unwritten array of sacred rituals tattoed into her very own mind, were nothing but a lie crafted to keep insanity and chaos at bay? The thin, orphaned darkness of that world felt Orianna's open-eyed alarm and pressed closer to her skirts, consoling or preparing to feast upon her mind that was yet to know. Then, shrouded by a lullaby of the metal on the wind, and the scent of the little witcher's skin so wonderfully close, Orianna, Thezanna realized the most terrible revelation. Even if her homeworld was a lie, it was a lie worth of creating. With the little witcher at her side she would hunt along the pathways of the universe, and if they find nothing, if they find a place barren and hostile, let it be. And it is her duty to discover and to know and to keep that knowledge. She shall polish the shards of the broken world and tend to the growth of another. Toussaint was their found home, but home nevertheless. And she longed to return. Just like her orphans longed to return to the walls of La Compassion, under her bright, sun-like eyes. "I would not do to travel lightly, even if we are seeking a dream. It, after all, could turn a nightmare," the cold fingers continued to play with Ciri's hair. How willing was she to run towards the edge of the unknown, the same reckless passion oft wetted Orianna's own fangs, once she discovered a new place in the stepworld, a new fancy of humans. Yet it was not only curiosity that rushed the maiden forward. Her children were the same, possesed the same trait she could not find a name for. Weaker than herself in every aspect, they continued to offer their blood to her with the benevolence of kings as it was flowing away from their bodies, pushing them into another, cold embrace. Instinctively as any wise animal did, little humans knew well what it was that paralyzing breath of death. Yet still they pressed close, asking her to go on. Not for their own gain, but thinking that she needed it to survive! Naturally, young Orianna made a few mistakes at first. That strange willingness to risk destruction confused her and misinformed her. She was also quick to mend her ways, for vain violence did not amuse her. However, that behavior never ceased to tempt her with its terrible absence of constraint and logic.
Cirilla had the same divine benevolence in her, the madness of one offering its death to a deathless one. It was not possible that she, confident in the ways of her power, did not realize all the dangers her agreement brought in its wake. "It is nothing that should be done, if you are unwilling. I am not even sure if it can be done," mused Orianna, brushing the grey-locks and peering into the thin darkness, veiled across the poisonous, bright colours below.
@fallesto
She sat quietly, her eyes never leaving Orianna's, the weight of the vampire's words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. Her heart fluttered like the pages of an old, forgotten book. The sun-eyed's warning was clear; there were dangers in this world she had not yet encountered, dangers that even a witcher with centuries of experience feared. In this world and her own, she knew this and she was not the little girl she had once been, coming to terms and grips with her power, she knew what she was doing, despite maybe, just a little bit, showing off what she can do and trying to impress the vampire, just somewhat, to put behind what they had done.
The thought of being used, manipulated, and her power bent to someone else's will was a horror she had not considered. But she understood the gravity of the situation. She nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. "I shall be careful," she whispered. âI will not do it there then and I will respect that.â As she said to her, she will respect the choices made and what she had asked, that was her land, the land of blood and wine and she will listen to someone who has lived there their entire life, and held it within the palm of their hands.
The second request was more puzzling. Orianna spoke of a world, a place beyond the veil of what she knew. Her curiosity piqued, she leaned in slightly, eager to hear more. "What world is this?" she asked, her voice tentative. Orianna's eyes searched hers, looking for a spark of understanding, a flicker of the same yearning. "I can search for it, but I need a little bit of information," she said finally. "A world that you wish to see, I need information, to find it and take you there without any harm and issues." Ciri felt a strange tug at her heart. The idea of such a place was like a siren's call, beckoning her to a land of safety and belonging.
The vampire's gaze grew distant, lost in the mists of memory. "Tell me what it is you want and I will take you there." As she looked at the vampire for the moment, her mind raced with questions. Could it be possible? A world where witchers and vampires were not sworn enemies, but rather, allies? A world of vampires, a world of monsters, she only had to say. It was a concept she had never been taught, never even considered. Yet, as she sat there in the chairs at the top of the world, the warmth of the vampire's gaze seemed to offer a glimpse of a brighter future, a promise of something she had never dared to hope for.
âYou would think by now, I would be used to nobles.â Even undead ones like her.
Her hand reached out, touching Orianna's arm gently. "How can I take you there?" she asked, the urgency in her voice betraying her desperation. The vampire's eyes snapped back to the present, a hint of surprise flickering in their depths. "We can leave, in a moment," The witcher murmured, her fingertips brushing her wrist, feeling the pulse of her power. As she leaned into her and rested her head onto her shoulder.
âTwo out of three, your last choice, is something that has not be done before, witchers and monsters, are sworn enemies after all.â
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The thing is, "Nothing" isn't something that can feel the ache of loss or lack I think. Like,,, when you introduce things like "something" - where you can have a positive value - you can also have a negative value. You can have ten dollars, and you can owe someone ten dollars. You can have ten more than nothing, or you can have ten less than nothing. Zero becomes somewhat of a doorway i suppose? You never stop at zero and just rest there. Either you're in debt, or you want more. The only solution is to remove Things, Stuff, Etc from the equation. Can't have or owe anyone ten dollars if there be no dollars
When you choose to stop and sit there, at nothing, in the home of Zero, 'more' and 'less' cease to mean anything. Cease to affect you. To me this is oddly similar to the concept of Being Here Now, in the Present Moment, unconcerned with the hauntings of Yesterday or the threats of Tomorrow. I am Here. I Am. Here. Now. That's it.
Now feels very similar to Nothing. Not because there is an emptiness, but because there is a Radical Refusal to engage with ephemeral potentials and what-could-be's. They don't exist. What Is Here and Now exists.
when asked, "what do you want?" the response "nothing" doesn't mean 'there is nothing that i care to want', it means 'i am accepting of what i have Now, and i ask naught for anything else, lest I be distracted from what is Here'.
"Nothing" is like Radical Acceptance. It says "This is what Life has served me. This is what I'm working with. This is where I will focus my attention. Wishing for More of something Good or wishing for Less of something Bad will only serve to create more suffering within me. I choose instead to attend to the matters at hand. The good, the bad, and the ugly."
"I want nothing." == "I am accepting of what I have Now, and I ask naught for anything else."
"I am nothing." == "There are no titles labeling me Greater or Lesser - they are all false. I simply Am."
"This is nothing." == "There is no specialness that makes what is going on between us more or less than. We simply Are."
Andrew does not want. He will simply Be that which he Is, Here Now, with whomever is with him, and he will take them as they Are. And if what Am and Here and Now equates to is something good, well...
He'll take it.
#basically andrew said#i accept whatever you have to offer#if what you will offer is your absence then so be it#if what you will offer is your presence then so be it#and honestly?#that's very similar to neil#âwhat do you want?â#âwhatever you'll give meâ#ânothingâ#they're the same picture#they match your honor#all for the game#andrew minyard#neil josten#andreil#side note: posts like this are out of contexts statements from thoughts i had to myself#this whole post is the final statement of thirty minutes worth of thoughts#containing references to several years worth of Other Thoughts#my mind is a detectives board covered in red string#and my posts on this blog are blurry polaroids taken of a corner by someone being chased out of the room
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Stress Relief
You convince your husband to take out his anger on you when he comes home very tense.
Warnings: (18+ MDNI) dom!spencer, sub!reader, oral (f), reader in handcuffs so light bondage?, choking, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare and domestic bliss because heâs still our beloved spencer
Words: 5k for 5k milestone celebration! TYSM ILYđđ
A/n: I combined two requests asking for him to get all angry/frustrated because an unsub had a particular thing for winding him up (from anon 1) so he needs some kind of smutty release (from anon 2). You know who you are.
You could tell something was off.Â
A sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach as the front door creaked open, and instead of the usual lively greeting from your husband, you were met with silence. It was as though he was physically there and yet you could sense his absence in the air.Â
"Spence?" You called out, stepping out of the kitchen. When there was no response, you tried again. "Baby, are you okay?"
Your feet guided you down the hallway where you found him standing by the door with his back facing you. Even from behind, you could sense the foul mood he was in. His shoulders seemed more tense than usual, his hair slightly disheveled, and there was an edge to his movements as he closed the door with a loud thud.
"Babe?"
His response was brief, his gaze flickering towards you before quickly darting away, almost as if he were intentionally avoiding your eyes.
"Hey."
"Hey?" you echoed. "That's all I'm getting?"
When his eyes met yours again, you could practically feel the tension radiating from him. It was clear that he was angry, his usual calm demeanor seemed to be replaced by a subtle but palpable edge. There was a tightness in his jaw, a clenched fist by his side, and his usually warm gaze now held a hint of sharpness.
Only one thought crossed your mind whenever he came home like this.
"Bad day at work?"
He slowly nodded.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He shook his head.
"Do you want a hug?"
He hesitated momentarily, his brows furrowing slightly as if debating whether to accept your offer. Then, without a word, he closed the distance between you. His arms enveloped you, pulling you close as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. Your hand instinctively found its way to his hair, fingers gently running through the soft strands.
"Oh, honey, you're so tense," you noted as your other hand trailed along his shoulder. "Is there anything I can help with? A massage? A nice warm bath maybe?"
You felt him shake his head against you, but you persisted, wanting to offer him comfort in any way you could. When your hand smoothed down his back, his hold on you tightened. When your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, you felt his warm breath caress your skin.
Then it happenedâsoft lips brushed against the spot under your ear, tentative at first, before growing more urgent. It wasn't the tender, affectionate kisses you were used to, but a different kind of intimacy that felt almost desperate. His lips nibbled and sucked gently at your skin and it became clear to you what he wanted.
"You want another kind of release, baby? Is that what you want?"
His lips momentarily paused against your neck, his arms loosening their grip around you before he rested his hands on your hips. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"Â
"Becauseââ he stopped, his grip on your body tightening. âBecause I don't feel like myself right now."
You grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him away just enough to see his face. "What makes you say that?"
Spencer held your gaze. How could he explain to you that he was on the verge of acting out his frustration? That he was so close to losing control?Â
He knew how difficult he could be when anger took hold of him. In his younger days, he wouldn't hesitate to fire off sassy remarks and snarky comments, letting his emotions dictate his behavior. However, as he matured, he learned better to hide those emotions behind a composed facade.
But tonight felt different. Despite his best attempts to maintain his control, he could feel his anger slipping away, and it was unfair to burden you with it. Especially when you were offering yourself to him, so sweet and so pretty, when he knew love wasn't exactly what he could offer you right now.Â
So he decided to release you, his grip loosening as he stepped back.
"Forget it," he muttered under his breath before turning towards your shared bedroom. Your brow furrowed as he walked away, leaving you standing there with your mouth slightly agape, bewildered by his sudden withdrawal.
"Spencer Reid," you called after him, your voice laced with a hint of irritation as you followed him. "I wasn't done talking to you."
He paused, his hand halfway to his tie before he loosened it with a sharp tug. You leaned against the bedroom doorway, crossing your arms as you continued to study him. His lack of response only fueled your growing annoyance, but you knew better than to escalate the situation into a fight.
Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you spoke up, your voice steady but tinged with frustration. "Honey, I can't help you if you're acting this way."
"What makes you think I need help?"
"The way you're wrestling with your tie gives it away," you replied, your words laced with a hint of sarcasm.
He shot you a pointed look, clearly unimpressed by your remark. "I don't need your help."
Your frown deepened. "Seriously? You're just going to shut me out like this?"
"I'm not shutting you out," he countered, moving around the room. "I just need some space."
"Well you're doing a pretty damn good job of it," you shot back, your patience wearing thin as you pushed yourself off the doorway. His jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his actions focused on undoing the button on his wrist now. You scoffed at his lack of response again.
"Oh, so now you're giving me the silent treatment?" When it seemed evident he was trying to ignore you, you pressed on. "Fine, keep your silence, let me do the talking."
His eyes flickered momentarily at you before he turned around, undoing the button of his shirt. You watched him quietly as he continued to avoid your gaze.Â
"Spencer," you began, your voice softer now. "I know your job can be hard, and I know you're going through a lot right now, but shutting me out won't make it any easier."
âI've already told you, I'm not trying to shut you out."
"Then what are you doing?" you pressed. "I tried offering you help when you didn't want to talk about it. And the one thing I can help you with, the one thing I'm sure will help you relax, you refused."Â
You let out a frustrated sigh, hating how much your voice wavered now.
"Spence... youâyou didn't even want to have sex with me."
His shoulders stiffened at your words, finally turning to face you. "You think I don't want to have sex with you?"
You swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in your throat. "I don't know what to think anymore," you admitted. "You're giving me the cold shoulder, itâs hard not to take it personally."
The room seemed to close in around you, suffocating in its silence. Then, you watched as he began to walk towards you. One step. Two steps. Until his presence loomed over you, casting a shadow that suddenly made you feel small and vulnerable.
"I'm refusing to have sex with you right now not because I don't want to," he said, his voice dangerously low. "I'm refusing because I'm trying to protect you."
You frowned, confusion furrowing your brow. "Protect me from what?"
There was a moment of silence before he replied, âFrom myself."
You felt a knot tightening in your stomach, goosebumps forming on your skin as you struggled to comprehend what he was trying to say.
âI⊠I don't understand."
"I don't want to risk it. I'm afraid that if we... if we cross that line, I might hurt you."
"Spencer," you whispered in disbelief, as if his words were the most absurd thing you'd ever heard. "You would never hurt me."
He shook his head. "You wouldn't be so sure if you knew half of the thought in my head right now."
You faltered for a moment, taken aback by his words. Then your gaze involuntarily flickered down his body, tracing the lines of his open shirt and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze moved lower, taking in the way his pants hung low on his hips, and the trail of soft hair leading downwards.
You swallowed hard.
"Tell me then," you challenged, your voice trembling slightly as you met his gaze again. "Tell me how you'd hurt me."
He studied you, assessing, calculating. "You won't like it," he warned.
"And what if I do?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flashing across his features. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"I know what I want."
He regarded you for a long moment, weighing your words carefully. Finally, he stepped closer, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, "You really want to know what I'd like to do to you?"
You held his gaze. "Yes," you replied. "Tell me."
His lips curved into a faint, almost rueful smile. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and traced a finger along the curve of your jaw. "I want to use you," he murmured. "I want to feel you, to taste you. I want to make you scream."
You could feel the heat traveling through your body, a heady mixture of desire and anticipation flooding your senses. You reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed against his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin.
"I want to control you," he continued, his gaze darkening. "I want to tie you up leave you bruises, mark your skin. I want you helpless, begging for mercy."
He tilted your chin up, his eyes locking with yours.
"I want to see how far you'll go for me."
Your breath caught in your throat as you drank in his words, and you couldn't deny the heat spreading between your legs. "And what if I want that too?"
A tense silence settled between you. Then slowly, almost as if testing the waters, he wrapped his fingers around your throat, simply holding you there. "You don't mean that."
"Try me," you dared, holding his gaze. "Put your hand between my thighs and see just how much I mean it."
His grip around your throat tightened ever so slightly while his other hand hovered at the waistband of your cotton pants. You felt a jolt of anticipation as he slipped his hand inside, your breath hitching as the pad of his calloused fingers dipped inside your panties.
A soft hum of approval escaped his lips when the slickness of your arousal coated his skin.
"Would you look at that? Barely even touched you and you're already this wet?" A low gasp fell between your lips as he found your clit. "You really want this, don't you?"
You could only manage a whimper in response, your breath coming in ragged gasps.Â
"Tell me," he insisted, his breath hot against your skin. "Do you want me to stop?"
Your heart pounded in your chest as you struggled to find your voice. "No," you finally managed to gasp.
With deliberate slowness, he trailed his fingertips lower, teasingly circling your entrance. He started with gentle strokes, keeping his fingers only on the outer side as you tried to bite back a moan that threatened to slip out.
âYou dirty girl,â he muttered, and you feel yourself getting wetter as his finger continued to touch you teasingly. Then slowly, the grip on your throat loosened before his hand moved to cup your cheek.
âI need you to be sure," he whispered, "Because once we cross that line, there's no going back."
Your eyelids dropped lower as you chewed on your bottom lip, feeling the weight of his desire hanging in the air. It was a heady mix of uncertainty and anticipation, but one thing was clearâyou wanted him.
You wanted him to use your body.
âUse me however you like,â you confessed. "I-Iâm all yours.â
His lips were on yours in an instant. There was no mercy in his kiss, only raw desire and urgency. He kissed you as if he needed to breathe in your air, his lips moving desperately against yours, his tongue seeking entrance to taste you.
His hand then left your pants to cradle your face, holding you gently yet firmly as he explored every inch of your mouth, leaving you breathless and wanting more. Finally, he pulled away, his chest rising and falling heavily as he caught his breath.Â
He looked down at you, his gaze intense, and saw the dazed expression in your eyes. Your touch, taste, and scent clouded his vision as you trembled in his arms, the soft sounds of your labored breath sang in his ears.
Mine, mine, mine.
"Now listen to me," he said, his voice low and commanding. "I'm going to leave you for a while, and when I come back, I expect to see you lying on the bed naked with your legs spread apart."
You swallowed hard, eyes slightly going wide. You felt his hand gripping your jaw.
"Do I make myself clear?"
You quickly nodded. "Y-Yes."
His grip tightened momentarily before he released you, his gaze piercing as he held your eyes for a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room.Â
With trembling hands, you began to undress, each piece of clothing dropping to the floor until you stood bare before the bed. The cool air prickled against your skin as you slowly climbed onto the bed.
You brought your feet onto the bed before spreading your knees apart. It felt weird, you had never felt so exposed and vulnerable, yet you couldn't deny the arousal pooling between your thighs. And then you heard him, his footsteps gradually coming closer and your heart pounded in your chest as you gripped onto the bed sheets.
His tall frame filled the doorway as he took in the sight before him, his eyes lingering between your legs. He watched your chest rise and fall, watched the way your legs fell apart even more as if you were offering yourself to him. Without a word, he approached the bed and stripped off his shirt.Â
Before you could catch your breath, he stood over the bed beside you. "Put your arms above your head."
You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of his gaze, but then slowly, almost instinctively, you complied, raising your arms above your head as instructed. You watched as he reached behind his back, and your heart raced as you glimpsed the glint of metal in his hand.
He didn't say a word as he reached for your wrists, securing them above your head with the cold metal of the handcuff, restraining you to the bed. The click of the cuffs echoed in the room before he stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a predatory gleam as if he was admiring his handiwork.
Your pulse quickened as you lay there, exposed and at his mercy and you couldn't help but squirm under his gaze. He moved closer, his fingers trailing lightly along your skin, and you shivered, both from the chill of the metal and the warmth of his touch.
"You look so pretty like this," he murmured. "So helpless, yet so willing."
Your eyes followed his movement as his fingers moved to unbutton his pants. Then he was completely naked, and even though you had seen him like this countless times, the sight of his cock never failed to make your cunt clench in anticipation. He was thick and hard, with veins pulsing along its length and droplets of wetness glistening at the tip.
The bed sank under his weight as he positioned himself between your legs. You gasped when he leaned forward, the underside of his cock teasingly brushing against your wet folds as his lips met your collarbone. You bit down on your bottom lip as he kissed lower, stopping at your left breast, where he suckled on the supple skin just above your nipple.
His mouth latched onto your skin after taking a moment to try and keep himself from rushing into things. But he was a simple man. His lips worked precisely and diligently, and you watched as he left marks on your breasts, his teeth gently sinking into your flesh here and there, his warm saliva coating the faint markings.
The kisses left on your sensitive skin resulted in you whining for more. Spencer felt a rush of satisfaction like no other, his touches growing more urgent with each sound that escaped your lips. His tongue glided over your plump breasts, teasing and tantalizing, until finally, his mouth enveloped your nipple.
You squealed, squirming underneath him, and he smiled against your skin, his lips forming a knowing smirk as he continued to suck while his thumb flicked the nipple he wasn't focusing on. There was no doubt you would be left with bruises tomorrow morning.
Your eyes drifted downward just as he looked up, his gaze meeting yours, and you couldn't help but whine when the tip of his tongue circled your nipple teasingly. You reached out, craving the sensation of your fingers in his hair, only to feel the metal of the handcuffs digging into your skin.
"It's torture, isn't it? Not being able to do anything," he taunted with a laugh, shifting his attention to your other nipple. "But I guess that's the fun part.â
You whimpered as he softly bit your sensitive bud, and your back arched off the bed in response. He leaned back, admiring the marks he'd left on your skin.
"God, look at you," he murmured as his gaze lingered on your flushed skin, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with each breath. "I could do this all night."
Slowly, he lowered himself back down, his lips tracing a path from your chest down to your stomach. You squirmed, anticipation coiling tightly in your belly as his warm breath ghosted lower. His hair tickled your legs, and he took the opportunity to turn his head slightly to the side, immediately pressing a hot open-mouthed kiss against your inner thigh.Â
You gasped as he sucked your skin into his mouth, teeth grazing over the flesh as if he was intent on marking every inch of your body. His lips continued to trail along your thighs but never quite reaching the place you craved him the most.
For someone with pent-up emotions, his movements were agonizingly slow. It was frustrating, the way he toyed with you, drawing out the anticipation until you couldn't bear it any longer.
"Please," you whimpered, the chains rattling softly against the headboard as you continued to squirm beneath him.
He paused, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he looked up at you. "Please what?"Â
"Pl-Please touch me."
He kissed over your mound as he hooked an arm under your leg. His other hand reached for the heat radiating between your thighs before two of his fingers brushed along your outer lips, dragging your arousal along your skin. "Like this?"
You groaned as he kept on teasing you, stroking you with featherlight touches. âMore," you pleaded desperately, almost pathetically. "Please."
His fingers stretched your folds, his gaze fixed on the glistening wetness, on the way your cunt clenched around nothing. "You're so pretty, you know that?"
"Spence..." you breathed out, feeling his breath achingly close to your heat.
He didn't respond with words. Instead, he lowered his head, his breath hot against your flesh. The minute his tongue touched you, you were already a writhing, whimpering mess. Your head began spinning, nerves and pleasure swooping into one big fuzzy mess in your mind as his tongue teased up and down your slit.Â
"Oh my god," you whined the moment his mouth circled your clit before sucking on it, sending waves of pleasure along your body. And then, just as you thought you couldn't take it anymore, you felt his finger at your entrance, and without warning, he pushed in his digit, sending your head tilting back with a desperate gasp falling from your lips.
His groan reverberated against your skin as your walls clenched around him. He pushed his finger deeper, curling it inside of you as his tongue lapped at your dripping folds. With each movement, he pressed his face even further into you, relishing the sensation of your wetness coating his jaw.
Your eyes drifted downwards at the same time he looked up, locking gazes with him, and you let out the most filthy cry of pleasure. He held your gaze as his tongue quickened its pace, sucking your clit even harder as he added another finger inside you.Â
Your mouth gaped open as you felt the delicious stretch, and you couldn't help but buck your hips towards his face. Spencer always had a fixation on pleasuring you, but not like thisâit was never like this. He seemed desperate, almost possessive, as if he couldn't get enough of your taste.
He continued his relentless assault, his fingers pumping inside you with a steady rhythm while his tongue worked tirelessly on your swollen clit. The squelching sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of your dripping walla was so lewd that it made his cock stir against the bed.
You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within you, the heat spreading like wildfire through your veins. Before you knew it, your climax hit you hard, without warning, without mercy, and you were gasping his name over and over.
You shivered and trembled beneath him, tossing your head back even farther, squeezing your walls around his fingers and your legs around his head. But he didn't stop or even slow down. Instead, he pulled his fingers out of you, only to push your thighs apart even when your legs were shaking uncontrollably.
"Stop moving," he ordered as he leaned in, tasting you all over again. He didn't care that you were a complete mess, that you were still reeling in from your climax, that you were trying to move back away from him. All he cared about was giving you the best pleasure imaginable, and he was intent on seeing it through.
"Spenceââ you gasped when his nose brushed your clit. âI-I can'tâ"
He gently held your fragile body in place to prevent you from running away from his mouth. "Hold still and give me another one."Â
How could you not relent when he treated you like this, so considerate yet so rough? You groaned, your eyes meeting the ceiling as you felt his mouth continue its relentless assault on your cunt. The sensation was overwhelming, yet despite your protests, you couldn't deny the building pressure.
Your muscles tensed. Your breathing hitched. You gasped for air. And just as the waves of pleasure threatened to consume you once more, you surrendered, letting out a pathetic cry as your body convulsed with the force of your climax.
His tongue lingered over your sensitive skin, savoring the taste of your release, before he finally withdrew, allowing you a moment to catch your breath. He then lifted his head, your juices glistening on his lips as he watched your heaving chest.
Spencer had never been so thankful for his eidetic memory. He took in the sight of your hands, bound above your head, the rise and fall of your chest as you panted, the tousled strands of hair framing your face. His gaze lingered on the way your legs willingly parted for him, your skin flushed and pussy swollen, all because of him.
It was a sight he wanted to etch into his memory forever.
You bit your bottom lip as his gaze lingered on you, feeling your body flush under his scrutiny. Then, as if something within him shifted, he reached for you, urging your body to turn until you were facing sideways, the chains rattling softly as you moved.
He settled behind you, and your heart quickened as you felt him grab your leg, lifting it in the air. With one hand gripping your thigh firmly, he positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your slick folds.Â
You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against your back, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned in closer. With a deep, guttural moan, he eased himself into you, every inch of him sliding effortlessly into your wetness. You couldn't help but arch your back in response to the sensation of being filled so completely.
"Fuck," he murmured, the curse slipping past his lips in a breathy whisper. It sounded foreign coming from him and yet it only encouraged you more. You pushed your hips back into him, meeting his slow, deliberate thrusts.
"Needed this so much," he confessed, his breath coming out in ragged pants against the nape of your neck. "You have no idea how much I've wanted you like this for so long."
Your head fell back onto his chest, completely enveloped in himâthe scent of his skin, the warmth of his touch, the rhythmic movement of his cock thrusting inside you.
"Thought it was wrong of me to take control of you," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. "But you're enjoying this as much, aren't you?"
You whimpered, unable to form words as the pleasure consumed you and you felt him picking up his pace. The room was filled with lewd noises of your wetness along with the sound of skin slapping against skin.
"You like being helpless like this? You like it when I fuck you while being cuffed to the bed?"
Your breath hitched at his words. His hand left your thigh, but only momentarily. The crack of sound pierced the air, followed by a surge of sensation coursing up your leg. The realization hit you like a bolt of lightningâhe spanked you.Â
And you liked it.
"Answer. Me," he demanded, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his thrusts.
"Yes," you managed to gasp out. "I-I love being helpless."
He let out a sound of pleasure as he released your thigh, only to tease your clit with his fingers. You gasped, your head thrown back as he applied just the right amount of pressure, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You felt the intensity building, the familiar coil tightening in your stomach as he continued to pump into you, his fingers moving fast against your clit.
You tried to speak and warn him about your upcoming orgasm but you couldn't even think properly. The squelch of his cock driving into you roughly rang in your ears and with a sharp inhale, you felt the tension within you reach its peak. Your muscles tensed, your breath caught in your throat, and then, with an explosive release, you cried out his name.
He groaned as he felt you pulsating around him, your walls gripping him tightly. He continued to move within you, riding out your orgasm as his thrusts grew harder, more urgent until he couldn't hold back any longer.
"I need to see you," he breathed as he pulled out of you. Then he flipped you onto your back, guiding one of your legs over his shoulder as he settled between your thighs once more. The change in position brought you closer, the heat of your bodies mingling as you met his gaze.
Without a word, he pushed himself back into you, the slick heat of your cunt enveloping him. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling your body growing sticky, every inch of you glistening with sweat, but his gaze remained fixated on you, unwavering and intense.
"So pretty," he murmured, his hand finding your face and cupping your cheek, absorbing your features in the dim lighting of the room. "My beautiful wife."
You whimpered as he dragged his hand down your skin, thumb brushing over your lips as he felt your hot breath on his fingertip. He watched your eyes switch between widening and fluttering half shut while he began pumping into you.
Spencer couldn't keep his eyes off of you as you took his cock eagerly, your breasts bouncing each time he thrust forward, your mouth hanging open with your tongue slipping out of your mouth. A whine followed through as his hand moved down to your neck, practically holding you in place as his hips collided against your own.
He gave a slight pressure around your throat, and your head began to loll against the mattress, chin pointed in the air in pleasure. The squeezing sensation was now beginning to take over your body, spreading from across your cheeks, to your ears, and up to your eyes, tears pooling right at the corner. The feeling even reached your stomach, tightening and coiling with the signal of your impending orgasm.
Was this your fourth orgasm? Your fifth? You couldn't keep track; all you knew was the overwhelming sensation prickling your skin. The bed below you felt as if it was on fire. The metal digging around your wrist burned with absolute pleasure.
His thrusts grew more intense, each movement raw and unrestrained, as if he was pouring all his pent-up emotions into you. He seemed to lose himself in the moment, his grip on your neck firm but not painful, but it was enough to make you gasp, your body trembling with pleasure, eyes rolling at the back of your head.
You were instantly gone.
A filthy cry fell between your lips as another orgasm crashed over you, more intense than the last. At some point you were gasping for air, feeling your body going limp but he didnât stop. His hips had a mind of their own. You could feel them beginning to move like they were possessed, with no regard for your pleasure, and in a way, no regard for his.Â
âOh godâfuck!â You cried, arching your back as much in this position.
He groaned and leaned in, his arms pressing against the bed on either side of you as he pushed your leg up to your shoulder. He tried to kiss you, but the force of his movements made it hard. Instead, his lips hovered just above yours, both of you breathing heavily and moaning into each other's mouths.
Eyelids drooped a bit too low as your mouth went completely ajar, exhaling weakly. It didnât take long for another wave of pleasure to rush through your body. You convulsed beneath him, thighs quivering violently as you tried to angle your body away from him, the pleasure almost unbearable now.
Through the haze of your orgasm, you caught a glimpse of him throwing back his head with his eyes screwed shut. Then he finally groanedâhis movements slowing, breath sputtering from his lungs as he exploded, pumping once, twice, three times all before coming to a halt, cock twitching inside you.
You watched the sweat bead down his forehead as you both worked silently to relax your bodies, pulses pounding in ruthless rhythm. With a deep, contented sigh he finally slid himself out of you before going through his discarded pants on the floor.Â
After a moment, he returned to you and unlocked the handcuff from your wrist, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in the room. The chains fell onto the bed with a soft thud as he gently took hold of your hands.
âAre you okay?"
You nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. "I'm okay."
He pressed a tender kiss to both of your wrists, his lips lingering over your pulse for a moment. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked anxiously, his eyes raking over your body. "Was I too rough? Did Iâ""
"Spencer, relax," you whispered, you took his hand in yours. "I'm good. I promise."
"You sure?" he asked, his face still tight with concern.
"Yes, more than good. Just come cuddle with me?"
He hesitated, his eyes scanning over your body for a few seconds longer. After he seemed satisfied you really were okay, he lowered onto the bed beside you and you drew his head to your chest. Your fingers gently played with his hair, watching as he slowly relaxed into you, throwing one of his arms across your stomach.Â
"Thank you," he whispered. "I... I think I needed that."
Your attention shifted to his face, happy to see his expression finally somewhat peaceful as he lay just above your breasts. His eyes were closed, the tension you'd noticed on his face when he'd arrived entirely gone now.
Gently running your fingers through his hair, you whispered, "Of course, baby. Anytime you need me, I'm here."
His lips curved into a small, contented smile as he nestled closer to you. "I love you."
A surge of warmth filled your chest at his words. "I love you too," you whispered back. "But are you okay? Do you want to talk about what happened at work?"
You felt him shift as he shook his head. "Maybe later. I just want to hold you right now."
You gently kissed the crown of his head before pulling him closer. Spencer sighed happily as he snuggled closer to you, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against your chest. He then reached over your breasts, his thumb trailing over the marks he had left on your skin.Â
"I didn't realize you enjoyed that so much."
You shrugged the shoulder beside his head. "It's hard not to. I mean, I think I've always liked it when you're in control, and that doesn't only apply to sex."
He leaned back to look at you. "Really?"
You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. Remember the first time we started dating and someone broke into my apartment?"
"How could I forget?" he replied, a frown tugging at his brows as he recalled the memory. âThat was one of the scariest moments in my life.â
"Right. You thought some serial killer was targeting me when it was just a random robbery. But the way you handled the situation..." you continued, your voice softening. "When you took charge and made sure I was safe, I realized how much I trusted you. And I remember thinking, 'Damn, my boyfriend's pretty cool.'"
His frown melted away, replaced by a warm smile at your words. "You thought I was cool?"Â
You chuckled, nodding as you met his gaze. "You're cool, smart, and hot at the same time," you teased. "What I'm trying to say is, I like it when you're in control because I like to depend on you. You make me feel safe and cared for."
His expression softened even further, a tender warmth filling his eyes. "I like it when you depend on me too," he confessed softly. With a gentle tug, he sat up, bringing you along. "Come on then, let me care for you now."
You looked up at him. "Yeah? What do you have in mind?"
"I think we both need that nice warm bath."
You smiled, already feeling the tension in your muscles ease at the thought of a soothing bath with him. "Will you wash my hair too?"
He pushed a strand of hair off your face, his heart swelling with affection at the look in your eyes. How could he resist when you looked at him like he hung up the moon for you?Â
"Of course," he replied without hesitation. "I'll do whatever you want me to do."
#spencer reid#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#gifwriting#spencer reid x reader smut#dr spencer reid#spencer reid x y/n
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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.
Heâs 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 â no, more than just young â 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, sheâd crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.
Heâd seen talent before, of course. Itâs part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. Thereâs a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose thatâs rare. He wonders where youâve 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. Youâre standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. Thereâs 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 whoâs just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesnât make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.
He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone heâs vaguely familiar with â 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.
âWhoâs the girl?â Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesnât really need to. Youâre the only one who fits the description.
The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. âY/N Y/L/N. Sheâs been turning heads all season.â
âNot enough, apparently.â Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear heâs talking about the lack of sponsorship. âWhatâs going on there?â
The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no oneâs listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. âSheâs good, real good. But, you know ⊠sheâs a girl.â
Fernandoâs eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. âSo?â
âSo,â the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, âsponsors and academies, theyâre ⊠cautious. Not sure if sheâs got the staying power. And you know how it is, theyâre more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.â
âThe mold,â Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. Itâs 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldnât surprise him, but somehow, it does.
His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. Thereâs 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 â itâs the same one heâs carried in himself for years.
But thereâs more than just frustration in your eyes. Thereâs something else â determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something thatâs been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. Itâs the one you get when youâre tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because thereâs no other choice.
Fernandoâs decision is made in an instant. He doesnât overthink it; he never has. Thatâs not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence thatâs defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until heâs close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.
â... couldâve pushed harder into turn four,â youâre saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. âBut the grip just wasnât there.â
Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.
âGripâs one thing,â he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, âbut timingâs everything.â
You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize whoâs standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.
âFernando Alonso,â you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.
âIn the flesh,â he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. âNice drive today.â
âThanks.â The word comes out clipped, like youâre not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell youâre used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernandoâs not here to judge.
âThird place,â he continues, as if heâs thinking out loud. âBut you had the pace for second.â
Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. âYeah, I did. But things donât always go as planned.â
âNo,â he agrees, âthey donât. But youâve got talent. Real talent.â
You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. âThanks,â you say again, but this time itâs softer, more genuine.
Thereâs 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 â advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But heâs never been one to do things by the book.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. âDo you like ice cream?â
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. âWhat?â
âIce cream,â he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. âDo you like it?â
âUh ⊠yeah?â You sound more confused than anything, but thereâs a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.
âGreat,â Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. âLetâs go get some. My treat.â
You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if heâs serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you canât help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.
âOkay,â you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. âWhy not?â
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 thatâs hosting the weekendâs race. Itâs 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.
âCan I help you?â She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though itâs clear sheâs a little starstruck.
Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. âLadies first.â
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.
âTwo scoops of that, please,â you say, and then, after a beat, âwith as many toppings as will fit.â
Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesnât 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 â 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, itâs practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence thatâs almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.
âI can pay for mine,â you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.
âItâs on me,â he insists, his tone making it clear thereâs no room for argument.
You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. Thereâs 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.
âFine,â you mutter, though thereâs no real annoyance in your voice. âBut Iâm getting you back for this.â
Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. âWeâll see about that.â
Once heâs paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. Itâs 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, itâs easy to forget about everything else â the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. Thereâs 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 doesnât rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.
âSo,â he says, breaking the quiet, âtell me about your situation.â
You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. Thereâs something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isnât just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.
âItâs ⊠complicated,â 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. âI mean, Iâm doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But itâs like ⊠itâs like none of that matters.â
Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. Thereâs no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.
âEvery race, Iâm out there giving it everything Iâve got,â you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. âIâm right up there with the best of them â sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and theyâve got major sponsors backing them. Theyâre signed to F1 teamsâ academies, theyâve got a clear path to the top. And me? Iâve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.â
You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. âItâs not like I havenât tried. My teamâs tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing â âYouâre good, but weâre just not sure if youâre what weâre looking for.â Which is just code for âYouâre a girl, and weâre not willing to bet on you.ââ
Fernando doesnât interrupt, letting you vent. Heâs 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 youâre facing are still all too real.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. âItâs so frustrating, you know? Iâm out there proving myself every single weekend, but itâs like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, itâs not enough. My parents â they believe in me, but theyâre 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 donât get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, itâs like ⊠itâs like Iâm letting them down.â
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.
âIt shouldnât be this hard,â you say softly, almost to yourself. âI know the sport is tough, but it feels like Iâm fighting a battle thatâs rigged from the start.â
Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. âItâs not fair,â he says, his voice steady, grounding. âYouâre right, it shouldnât be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isnât just about winning on the track. Itâs about changing the game entirely.â
You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. Thereâs something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than heâs letting on.
âChanging the game?â You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.
Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. âYeah. Look, Iâm not saying itâs going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, itâs you. Youâve got the talent, youâve got the drive, and youâve got something most people donât â resilience. Youâre still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.â
You bite your lip, absorbing his words. Thereâs a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but thereâs also a part thatâs tired â so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.
âI just donât know how much longer I can keep doing this,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âWhat if itâs not enough? What if Iâm not enough?â
Fernandoâs 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 youâve been denied.
âYou are enough,â he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. âThe problem isnât with you. Itâs with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesnât mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what theyâre missing. And if they canât see it, then weâll make them see it.â
You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. Thereâs a conviction there thatâs hard to ignore, a belief in you that youâve been struggling to find in yourself.
âWe?â You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.
Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. âWe. Youâre not alone in this. Iâve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what itâs like to have to fight for everything. And I know what itâs like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.â
You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what heâs offering. Thereâs a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.
âSo what now?â 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."
***
Itâs been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasnât been able to shake the conversation from his mind. Heâs 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. Itâs 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 itâs 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.
âHey,â you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. âSo ⊠whatâs this all about?â
Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. âYouâll see,â he says, cryptic as ever. âCome on, the carâs this way.â
You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what heâs up to. Fernandoâs only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until youâre 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.
âYouâre not going to tell me where weâre going, are you?â You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.
Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. âNope.â
You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but thereâs a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasnât there before. âIâm trusting you, you know,â you say, half-joking, half-serious.
âAnd you wonât regret it,â 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. Itâs 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.
âThis canât be âŠâ you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. âIs this-â
âMercedes HQ,â 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.
Youâre silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. Itâs 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.
âNervous?â He asks, though he already knows the answer.
âA little,â you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. âOkay, a lot.â
He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. âDonât be. You belong here.â
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 â 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 couldnât 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.
âFernando,â Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. âAnd you must be the young driver Iâve been hearing so much about.â
You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. Itâs 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. âDonât worry, we donât bite,â he says, extending his hand. âItâs good to finally meet you.â
You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. âI ⊠Itâs an honor,â you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.
Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. âWelcome to Brackley,â he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity thatâs made him such a formidable figure in the sport. âFernandoâs told us a lot about you.â
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. âWhen Fernando reached out to me,â Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, âand told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldnât be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.â
Youâre still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that heâs gone out of his way to help you. âI ⊠I donât even know what to say,â you admit, your voice soft with emotion.
âDonât worry about that just yet,â Toto says from behind you, his tone light. âLetâs get you settled in first.â
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. Thereâs a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination thatâs 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. âGo on,â he says softly. âThis is for you.â
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. âThis,â he begins, his voice calm and measured, âis an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.â
You blink, sure you must have misheard him. âThe ⊠Mercedes Junior Team?â
Lewis smiles, nodding. âWe believe in your potential,â he says simply. âAnd we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.â
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance youâve 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. Itâs all real â your name, the terms, everything.
âWe know itâs a big decision,â Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. âTake your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that weâre serious about this. We want you on our team.â
Youâre overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but itâs a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing youâre on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, whoâs been watching you quietly, and thereâs a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.
âI donât ⊠I donât even know where to start,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. âStart by believing that you deserve this,â he says. âBecause you do. And weâre here to help you every step of the way.â
Thereâs a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything youâve been working toward, everything youâve sacrificed for, and now that itâs here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.
But as you look around the table â at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando â you realize that this isnât just a dream. Itâs real. Theyâre 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. âI ⊠I donât know how to thank you,â you say, your voice thick with emotion.
âThereâs no need for thanks,â Toto says with a small smile. âJust show us what you can do.â
Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. âYouâve already done the hard part. Now, itâs just time to make it official.â
You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. âIâm ready,â you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.
Lewis grins. âWelcome to the team.â
***
The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new â testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions â but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. Heâs there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when heâs not by your side, heâs 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 youâve 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 cafĂ© on the outskirts of town, thereâs a certain energy in his voice that you canât 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.
âMorning,â you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. âYouâre up to something, I can tell.â
Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. âMaybe I am,â he says, his tone teasing but warm. âHow are you feeling about next season?â
The question catches you off guard. âNext season? I mean, I havenât really thought that far ahead yet. Thereâs still so much to do now.â
He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. âWell, itâs time to start thinking about it,â 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. âWhatâs this?â
âOpen it,â 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 â Formula 2 Contract Offer.
Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. âIs this ⊠real?â
âVery real,â he confirms, his smile widening. âThey want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.â
Youâre 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. Itâs everything youâve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.
âThis is âŠâ you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. âI donât even know what to say.â
He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. âYouâve earned this,â he says, his voice gentle but firm. âYouâve worked hard, proven yourself, and now itâs time to take the next step.â
You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. âBut how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there âŠâ
Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. âBecause youâre one of the best,â he says simply. âThey see it, just like I do. And they know youâre going places.â
You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. âCarlin ⊠Formula 2 ⊠Itâs really happening.â
âIt is,â Fernando confirms with a smile. âAnd youâre ready for it.â
Thereâs 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 thereâs something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
âThereâs something else I need to tell you,â he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.
You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. âWhat is it?â
He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. âIâm planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.â
The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. âYouâre ⊠coming back? To F1?â
Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. âYes. Iâve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.â
Youâre stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what heâs just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 ⊠itâs huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. âThatâs incredible,â you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. âBut what does that mean for ⊠us? For everything weâve been working on?â
Heâs silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. âIt means that while Iâll still be around to support you, I wonât be able to be as hands-on as Iâve been. I wonât be able to be your full-time manager anymore.â
The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernandoâs been your rock, the one whoâs guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.
âBut,â he continues, his tone reassuring, âIâm not leaving you in the lurch. Iâve already started talking to some people, and Iâm going to make sure you get a manager whoâs the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.â
You nod slowly, trying to process everything heâs telling you. Itâs a lot to take inâ the offer from Carlin, Fernandoâs return to F1, the changes that will come with it â but thereâs a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.
âIâm happy for you,â you finally say, your voice sincere. âReally, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.â
Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. âThank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what youâre capable of.â
Thereâs a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernandoâs smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.
âBut donât think this means Iâm going to go easy on you,â he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. âIâll still be watching, making sure youâre giving it your all.â
You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. âI wouldnât expect anything less.â
He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. âGood. Because the hard work isnât over yet. If anything, itâs just beginning.â
You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernandoâs right â this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but youâre ready for it. And with his support, even if itâs from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.
âThank you,â you say again, your voice full of gratitude. âFor everything.â
Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. âCome on,â he says. âLetâs get out of here. Weâve got a lot to prepare for.â
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. Itâs 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 â calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando youâre ready for this.
He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. Heâs seen you grow over these past months, watched as youâve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he canât help but feel a surge of pride.
Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. Heâs grinning, but thereâs a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. âI still canât believe it,â Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. âFernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. Itâs surreal.â
You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. âBelieve it. Heâs stuck with me now.â
Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. âYuki, how are you feeling about today?â He asks, his tone friendly but professional.
Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. âIâm ready. Iâve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.â
âGood,â Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. âRemember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.â
Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. âAnd you?â He asks, turning back to you. âFirst F2 race ⊠How are you feeling?â
You shrug, but thereâs a determined glint in your eyes. âExcited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.â
Fernando canât help but smile at that. Heâs seen that look in countless drivers â right before they go on to do something special. âYouâve got this,â he says, his voice low but full of conviction. âJust do what you do best.â
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. Heâs invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now heâs 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. âRemember, itâs just another race. Donât let the pressure get to you. Youâve done this a hundred times before.â
You nod, your expression set with determination. âI know. I just need to stay focused.â
âExactly,â Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. âAnd remember, Iâm here. Youâre not doing this alone.â
Thereâs a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. Itâs 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 itâs 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.
âTrust your instincts,â he says. âYou know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.â
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. Thereâs a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like itâs just the two of you.
He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. âRemember why youâre here. Show them what youâre made of.â
You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. âI will.â
And with that, the crew steps back, and itâs 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. Heâs been in this position countless times, but itâs different when itâs someone youâve invested so much in.
As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernandoâs 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 youâre ready. Heâs seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way youâve handled every challenge thrown at you.
The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernandoâs eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. Itâs 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 â close calls, tight overtakes â but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. Youâre 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 youâre pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way youâre sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.
âCome on,â he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. Itâs a daring pass, squeezing through a gap thatâs barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didnât realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.
âYouâre doing it,â 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 Fernandoâs nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, youâre 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. Fernandoâs heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. Itâs a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything youâve got.
âCome on, come on,â he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. âYouâve got this.â
The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but youâre 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. Itâs a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.
Fernandoâs heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but heâs 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.
âYou were incredible out there,â he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. âAbsolutely incredible.â
You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. âI couldnât have done it without you.â
He shakes his head, his smile wide. âYou did this. You took everything youâve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.â
Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. âThird place in your first race? Youâre making the rest of us look bad!â
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, Fernandoâs 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, heâs content to stand here with you, knowing that youâve 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. Heâs seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he canât 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. Itâs the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch â just a few minutes before youâre 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.
Heâs 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 Fernandoâs right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a whoâs 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. Sheâs 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. Itâs clear youâve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but thereâs still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.
âGood to see you,â Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. âTake a seat. Weâve got a lot to discuss.â
You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. âLet me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,â he says, gesturing to the man on his left. âCarlos is one of the top managers in the business. Heâs going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.â
Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. âItâs a pleasure to meet you,â he says in a deep, authoritative voice. âFernando has told me a lot about you, and Iâve been following your progress. Youâve got a bright future ahead, and Iâm here to make sure you reach your full potential.â
You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. âThank you. Iâm looking forward to working with you.â
Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. âAnd 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 clientsâ personal brands. Sheâs here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.â
Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. âItâs a pleasure to finally meet you,â she says, her voice smooth and confident. âIâve 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.â
You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of whatâs happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.
âHereâs the thing,â Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. âYouâve been fighting against the odds, and thatâs whatâs made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but weâre turning it into an asset. Youâve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, weâre going to show the world that youâre not just a great driver â youâre a game-changer.â
Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. âExactly. 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. Youâre in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.â
Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. âBut itâs not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. Itâs about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. Thatâs where I come in. Iâve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.â
You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. âIt sounds ⊠amazing,â you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. âBut I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, theyâre the right ones. I donât want to just be a face on an ad â I want to represent something real.â
Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. âThatâs the right approach. And thatâs exactly why weâre here â to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. Youâve got the talent and the story, and now itâs about building the brand that reflects that.â
Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. âWeâve already secured two deals that I think youâre going to be very happy with,â she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. âThe first is with Cartier. Theyâre looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand â strong, elegant, and determined.â
Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. âCartier?â You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.
Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. âThatâs right. They want to work with you on a campaign thatâs going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. Itâs not just about jewelry â itâs about the story you tell when you wear it.â
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.
âAnd the second deal?â You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Sophieâs smile widens. âThat would be with Chanel. Theyâre launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. Itâs a bold move for them, branching out into a market thatâs traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.â
You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of whatâs being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration youâre giving to each opportunity.
âI ⊠I didnât expect anything like this,â you admit, looking around the table. âItâs incredible, but itâs also a lot to take in.â
Carlos nods, his expression understanding. âIt is. But youâre not in this alone. Weâre here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.â
Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. âYouâve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, weâre going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. Weâre not rushing into anything. Weâre building something thatâs going to last.â
You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. Itâs a trust heâs 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.
âThese are just the first steps,â Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. âThereâs so much more we can do. But itâs all going to be on your terms. Youâre in control of your image, your brand. Weâre just here to help you shape it.â
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. âI want to do this right,â you say finally, your voice strong. âI want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.â
Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. âAnd thatâs exactly what youâre going to do. Weâre just getting started.â
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. Itâs clear youâre taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of whatâs being presented.
By the time the meeting wraps up, thereâs 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, itâs about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for whatâs to come.
As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. âWeâll be in touch with the final details,â Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. âIâm excited to see where this journey takes us.â
Carlos nods in agreement. âYouâve got a bright future ahead. Letâs make the most of it.â
You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldnât have done this without you," you say softly.
Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "Youâve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what youâre 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. Youâre surrounded by familiar faces â family, childhood friends, and the newer ones youâve 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. Heâs been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though heâs always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. Heâs wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if heâs deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.
You catch his eye, and he raises his glass â a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. Theyâre reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. Itâs nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this â 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 theyâve thrown. Your momâs voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that youâve 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 youâve had since stepping into a race car.
Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your momâs words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and heâs 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.
âEnjoying your birthday?â 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. âYeah, itâs been really great. I didnât expect so many people to show up.â
âPeople care about you,â Fernando says simply. âYouâve made quite an impact.â
You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. âIâm just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. Itâs been a whirlwind.â
Fernandoâs smile deepens. He knows how hard youâve worked, how much youâve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. âYou deserve it. Youâve earned it.â
Thereâs a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. âI, uh, have something for you.â
You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. âFernando, you didnât have to get me anything. Youâve already done so much.â
âI know,â he says, his tone a little softer now, as if heâs stepping into more vulnerable territory. âBut I wanted to.â
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. Itâs not overly flashy, but itâs beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.
You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper â something like awe. âFernando ⊠this is âŠâ
He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. âYou donât have to say anything. I just ⊠wanted you to have something that reminds you of where youâre headed. Youâve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.â
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. Youâre not sure what to say â how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?
Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, âIâve come to see you as ⊠well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far youâve come, itâs been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.â
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 Fernandoâs heart against your ear.
âThank you,â you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. âFor everything.â
Fernandoâs arms come around you, holding you close in a way thatâs both protective and comforting. âYou donât have to thank me,â he murmurs. âJust keep doing what youâre doing. Thatâs all the thanks I need.â
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 thereâs a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protĂ©gĂ© â itâs something familial, something lasting.
He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. âDo you want some help putting that on?â
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 heâs done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.
âPerfect,â Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. âJust like you.â
You laugh softly, shaking your head. âYouâre too kind.â
âNo,â he replies, his voice firm but gentle. âJust honest.â
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 â 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, youâll always have this â this connection, this bond, this family youâve found in the most unexpected place.
***
The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but itâs 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. Itâs just you and the knowledge that youâve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that youâve 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, youâre 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 â your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but thereâs only one voice you really want to hear.
âYou did it,â Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. âI knew you could do it.â
A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldnât suppress even if you tried. âWe did it,â you correct him, because itâs true. Youâve always been a team, even when he wasnât 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. Youâre immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.
But even in the chaos, youâre searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesnât rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. Thatâs 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, thereâs a thousand words unspoken.
âNot bad for a rookie,â he finally says, his smile widening.
You laugh, still breathless from the race. âNot bad at all.â
He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you donât hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. âThank you,â 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. Itâs Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but thereâs a warmth in his expression thatâs almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile thatâs equally as proud.
âToto?â You ask, surprised. Itâs not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.
He steps forward, offering his hand. âCongratulations,â he says, his voice steady. âThat was an incredible race.â
You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that heâs here. âThank you,â you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. âYouâve had an outstanding season. Youâve shown everyone what youâre capable of.â
Thereâs 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, âWeâve been following your progress closely, and we believe youâre ready for the next step.â
Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. Itâs what every F2 driver dreams of, but itâs never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. âThe next step?â You echo, almost afraid to hope.
Jost steps in, his smile widening. âWe want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.â
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.
âNext season?â You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. âYes. Weâve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe youâre the perfect fit for their team. Youâve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now itâs time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.â
You feel like youâre 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. Heâs smiling, but thereâs a look in his eyes that tells you heâs known about this for a while. Heâs always known.
âYouâll be racing in F1,â Fernando says, his voice steady. âYou deserve it.â
Itâs then that the full weight of whatâs happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. Youâll be on the grid with drivers youâve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And âŠ
Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. Heâs going to be on that grid, too.
âIâll be racing ⊠with you,â you say, the words barely escaping your lips.
Fernandoâs smile is knowing, almost amused. âYes, you will.â
The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but youâll 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. âI donât know what to say.â
Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. âYou donât need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what youâre capable of. Weâll handle the rest.â
Jost nods in agreement. âWe believe in you. Youâve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.â
You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along â 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.
âIâll be ready,â you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination thatâs carried you this far.
Fernando nods, satisfied. âI know you will.â
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.
âYou knew this was coming, didnât you?â You ask, giving him a sideways glance.
Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. âI had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
He grins. âAnd youâre an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.â
The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future thatâs unfolding right before your eyes. Itâs been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but youâve made it. And now, youâre 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 canât help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando â the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.
âThank you, Fernando,â you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. âFor everything.â
He simply nods, his expression softening. âYouâve earned it.â
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 Fernandoâs private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. Itâs 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 whatâs to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, itâs different. Thereâs no time to lose â 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 youâre not alone on this journey. Heâs been here before, countless times, and now heâs passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isnât just about physical training; itâs about mastering the mental side of the sport â 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.
âYou know the driving part,â Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but thereâs an intensity to it that commands attention. âYouâve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. Itâs a mental game. Itâs about being the predator, not the prey.â
You nod, knowing heâs 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 â itâs all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.
âToday, we start with the basics,â Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. âHow to be a track terror.â
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 â thatâs what Fernando is talking about. Itâs not just about being fast; itâs about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.
âYou donât have to be the fastest in every session,â Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. âYou just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.â
He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. âEvery driver has a breaking point,â he says. âYou need to learn how to find it. Sometimes itâs in their driving â how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes itâs off the track â 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.â
You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. Itâs not just about talent; itâs about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.
âAnd once you find that breaking point?â You ask, wanting to hear it from him.
Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. âYou exploit it,â he says simply. âYou push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. Thereâs a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.â
His words are blunt, but you know thereâs truth in them. F1 isnât just a sport, itâs a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.
âTake the first corner,â Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. âItâs where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that youâre not afraid to fight for position, but also that youâre in control. Thatâs key â being aggressive, but controlled.â
You nod, envisioning the scenarios heâs describing. Youâve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. Thereâs no room for error, but thereâs also no room for hesitation.
âHow do you know when to cross the line?â 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 doesnât quite reach his eyes. âYou learn,â he says. âSometimes 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. Itâs about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.â
He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. âAnd sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you donât 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.â
Thereâs a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what youâve needed, what youâve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.
âWhat about mind games?â You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.
Fernando chuckles, a sound thatâs both amused and knowing. âMind games are everything,â he says. âThey start long before you even get in the car. Itâs 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.â
He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. âThe media is a powerful tool,â he continues. âYou can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitorsâ minds, but not enough to give anything away.â
You think back to the countless press conferences youâve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. Itâs a game within a game, and youâre starting to see how deep it goes.
âNever let them see you sweat,â Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. âEven when things arenât going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you donât. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.â
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. Itâs 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 whatâs to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.
âLetâs talk about racecraft,â he says, leaning forward. âYou need to understand that F1 isnât just about speed. Itâs 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.â
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. Itâs a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.
âYouâll have a team behind you,â Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. âBut youâre the one in the car. Youâre 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 youâll be to handle whatever comes your way.â
He turns back to you, his expression serious. âAnd remember, F1 is a long game. Itâs not just about one race, or even one season. Itâs 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. Itâs a marathon, not a sprint.â
You nod, the enormity of what heâs saying sinking in. This isnât just about your rookie season; itâs about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know youâre 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 doesnât sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges youâll face, the sacrifices youâll 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. Itâs been an intense day, but you know itâs exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but heâs 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. Thereâs 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. âYou know,â he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, âIâve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend ⊠war criminal.â
You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. âWar criminal?â
He chuckles, shrugging casually. âNot literally, of course. But some of my tactics, letâs say, werenât always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win â sometimes crossing lines that others wouldnât dare touch.â
You smile, catching on to his meaning. âAnd you think Iâm ready to follow in your footsteps?â
Fernandoâs smirk widens. âIâd be disappointed if you didnât. F1 isnât a game for the faint-hearted. Itâs for those who arenât afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember ⊠thereâs no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.â
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. âJust donât forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.â
***
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 thatâs 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. Itâs 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. âHey,â he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. âNervous?â
You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes â excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. âA little,â you admit. âItâs different from F2. Bigger.â
Fernando nods, understanding all too well. âIt is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressureâs heavier. But youâve got this.â
You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. âI know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.â
Fernandoâs eyes narrow, the glint of the nightâs floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. âRemember what we talked about in Spain. Youâre not here to play nice. Youâre here to win. Youâre here to make them regret ever doubting you.â
A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando youâve come to know so well â the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. Heâs drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.
âYouâre not just a driver,â he continues, his tone growing more intense. âYouâre 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-â
âI intimidate them back,â you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.
Fernandoâs lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. âExactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.â
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 Fernandoâs words.
â⊠If you see an opening, take it. Donât give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when theyâre scrambling, thatâs when you strike. Hard.â
Latifiâs 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 Latifiâs reaction and canât help but laugh. âI think you mightâve scared him off.â
Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. âGood. Less competition for you.â Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, âHeâs not your concern. Youâre here for the big players. And donât forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what youâre made of. Especially the ones who think you donât deserve to be here.â
You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernandoâs 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 â all of it fades away until thereâs only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.
Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. âTonight, youâre going to prove that youâre not just another rookie. Youâre a force to be reckoned with. And youâre going to do it with style.â
You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. âWith style?â
âAbsolutely,â Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. âRemember, thereâs a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And youâre going to walk it like itâs a tightrope.â
You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernandoâs words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, itâs a sanctuary â 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. Heâs seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows youâre ready for this.
âNow go out there,â he says, voice clear and commanding, âand make them remember your name.â
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.
âOh, and one more thing,â he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and thereâs a mischievous twinkle in his eye. âTerrorize everyone out there ⊠except me.â
You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. âNo promises.â
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 whatâs 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 youâre ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.
Heâs proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor youâve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernandoâs 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 nightâs 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. Heâs barely listening to the reporter in front of him, whoâs rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesnât bother him much. Tonight, his focus isnât on his own performance but on yours.
Youâre animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth â 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, thereâs a confidence there that wasnât present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.
âFernando,â the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. âCan you tell us about your strategy today?â
Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. Youâre laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes â the same one heâs seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell youâre about to say something memorable, and he doesnât want to miss it.
âFernando?â the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.
âHmm?â Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesnât leave you. âWhat was that?â
âYour strategy today â what was the thinking behind it?â
âStrategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,â Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. âYou know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.â 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, Fernandoâs attention is fully captured by what youâre saying.
A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, âCan 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.â
You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.
âI knew he would hit the brakes,â you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernandoâs direction, you continue, âBecause he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.â
The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernandoâs famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and itâs 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 whatâs just been said. âLooks like sheâs learned a thing or two from you,â he comments.
Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. âYes, she has. More than she knows.â
He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive â calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. Youâre not just a racer; youâre 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. âSebâs 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.â
âAnd what was going through your mind when you made the move?â Another journalist asks.
You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, âI was thinking, âWhat would Fernando do?â And then I went for it.â
Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He canât help but feel a surge of pride. Not because youâve imitated him, but because youâve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. Thatâs what separates the good drivers from the great ones â 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, whoâs still trying to get something meaningful out of him.
âFernando, about your race âŠâ the reporter begins again.
But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. âExcuse me,â he says, cutting the interview short. Thereâs 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.
âHey,â you say as he reaches you. âDid you hear what I said?â
âI did,â Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. âYouâve got quite the sense of humor.â
âLearned from the best,â you quip, giving him a playful nudge.
Fernando laughs, shaking his head. âI wasnât sure youâd actually use that line, but Iâm glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.â
You shrug, your smile widening. âFigured Iâd give them something to talk about. Plus, itâs not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.â
âAnd you did it with style,â Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. âYou handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. Youâre making your mark.â
The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernandoâs presence. âGreat job out there today,â he says, offering a handshake.
âThanks,â Fernando replies, shaking the manâs hand. âBut todayâs all about her,â 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 itâs just the two of you.
âYou know,â Fernando says after a beat, âIâve never been prouder.â
You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. âReally?â
âReally,â he confirms. âSeeing 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.â
Your smile softens, touched by his words. âI couldnât have done it without you.â
âYou did it because youâre a damn good driver,â Fernando corrects, though thereâs a warmth in his tone. âBut Iâm glad I could be a part of your journey.â
You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what youâve 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 youâve proven them wrong, and youâve done it in a way thatâs uniquely your own.
âNext time, though,â Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, âletâs aim for top five.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âNo pressure, right?â
âNever,â he replies with a grin. âJust a challenge.â
***
Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next seasonâs first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. Heâs 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.
âAh, there you are,â Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. âIâve got someone I want you to meet.â
You tilt your head slightly, curious. âWho?â
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 thereâs an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.
âOscar,â Fernando calls out, âthis is her.â
Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. âNice to meet you,â he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. Heâs calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but thereâs a warmth there, something genuine. You canât 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. âLikewise. Iâve heard good things.â
Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. âHopefully, I can live up to them.â
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 thereâs a softness to him that you hadnât expected. Itâs like heâs 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 â 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.
âPolite cat vibes,â you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
âWhat was that?â He asks, although thereâs a knowing look in his eyes. Heâs been around long enough to pick up on these things.
You roll your eyes playfully, but thereâs a lightness in your expression that wasnât there before. âI said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know thereâs something more going on behind those eyes?â
Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. âSo, you think Oscar is a cat?â
âWell, not literally,â you reply, grinning. âItâs just ⊠heâs got this thing, you know? Like heâs really nice, but you can tell heâs got claws if he needs them. And heâs so ⊠calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.â
Fernandoâs laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. âYouâre smitten, arenât you?â
âMaybe,â you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. âBut itâs just ⊠heâs different. Not in a bad way, just-â
âDifferent,â Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. âYeah, I get it. But donât let that cloud your judgment on track.â
You shoot him a look. âPlease. Iâm not a rookie, and besides, Iâm at Mercedes now. Iâve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.â
Fernando smiles, but thereâs a serious undertone to his next words. âJust remember, this is Formula 1. Thereâs no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.â
You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but thereâs still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. âDonât worry, Iâve got this.â
âGood,â Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. âBecause Iâm not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.â
âWouldnât expect anything less from you,â you retort, smirking. Thereâs a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.
But Fernando canât resist one last jab. âDonât go soft on him, okay? Iâve got my eye on you.â
You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. âYouâre impossible, you know that?â
âOf course,â Fernando grins. âItâs part of my charm.â
You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando canât help but feel a swell of pride. Youâve come so far, and heâs been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. Thereâs a part of him thatâs protective, sure, but thereâs also a part thatâs thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your waâ even if itâs an Australian polite cat.
âLetâs get out of here,â Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. âWeâve got a race to win this weekend, and I donât want any distractions.â
You follow him, but thereâs a spring in your step that wasnât there before, and Fernando notices. He doesnât say anything, though, just smiles to himself. Youâre going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.
As you walk together, side by side, you canât 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, heâs 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 youâve 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. Thereâs a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.
As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Markâs eye. âI guess this makes us in-laws,â he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Mark chuckles softly, nodding. âSeems like it. Didnât see this coming back when we were racing, did we?â
âNot at all,â Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. âBut Iâm glad it did.â
The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.
âFrom the moment I met you,â Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, âI 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 youâre down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.â
Thereâs 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 itâs your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.
âOscar,â you begin, your voice clear and strong, âYou were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. Youâve 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.â
Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. Heâs never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he canât 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 itâs time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscarâs 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 Oscarâs finger.
âWith this ring, I thee wed,â you both say, sliding the rings onto each otherâs fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.
âYou may kiss the bride,â the officiant finally announces, and thereâs a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss thatâs 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. Thereâs 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 Fernandoâs eye across the room. Thereâs a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.
âNando,â you say softly as you reach him, âwould you join me for a dance?â
For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. Heâs always seen you as a strong, independent force â someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much youâve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.
âAre you sure?â He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. âYouâve been like a father to me. I couldnât imagine today without sharing this moment with you.â
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, thereâs a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.
âIâve watched you grow,â Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, âinto one of the best drivers Iâve ever known, but more than that ⊠into an incredible person. Iâm so proud of you, more than I can ever say.â
Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. âThank you. For everything. I wouldnât be here without you.â
âYou wouldâve found your way,â he replies, his tone firm. âYou always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.â
âA little?â 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. âRemember, Iâll always be here for you, no matter what.â
âI know,â you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. âAnd Iâll always be here for you too.â
***
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. Itâs a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. Heâs used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing â but this, this is something entirely different. Heâs 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 thatâs 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.
Itâs not that heâs nervous â Fernando Alonso doesnât get nervous â but thereâs something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didnât 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. Itâs quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.
Youâre 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, thereâs a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.
âFernando,â you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. âCome meet him.â
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. Fernandoâs breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way thatâs both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.
âHeâs perfect,â Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. âWe think so too.â
You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. âWould you like to hold him?â
For a moment, Fernando hesitates. Heâs 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 heâs 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 â featherlight, almost â but itâs 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.
âWhatâs his name?â Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.
You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. âHis name is Theodore,â you say softly, âTheodore Fernando Piastri.â
Fernandoâs breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, heâs speechless, his mind struggling to process what heâs just heard.
âFernando?â He repeats, his voice barely audible.
You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. âWe wanted to honor you. Youâve been like a father to me, and now ⊠now youâre going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.â
Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else â something deeper, something heâs 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.
âYou ⊠you didnât have to do that,â he says, his voice choked with emotion.
âBut we wanted to,â Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. âYouâve done so much for us, for Y/N. Itâs our way of saying thank you.â
Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. Heâs always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this â this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasnât prepared for.
âThank you,â he finally says, his voice thick. âIt means ⊠it means more to me than you can ever know.â
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 didnât realize he was holding.
âGrandpa Nando,â you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. âThatâs what weâre going to call you. How do you feel about that?â
Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. âI think I can get used to that,â he says, his voice trembling with emotion. âGrandpa Nando. I like it.â
You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. âIâm glad. Youâve been a father figure to me, and now ⊠now you get to be a grandfather to him.â
The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando canât stop staring at Theodore, canât stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. Heâs held many titles in his life â champion, driver, mentor â but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role heâs 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 heâs meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. Heâs not just a mentor anymore; heâs family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory heâs 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.
âThank you,â you say softly. âFor everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for ⊠for being a part of our lives.â
Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. âNo, thank you. Youâve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You â you and Oscar, and now Theodore â youâre my family. And thereâs nothing more important to me than that.â
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.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#fernando alonso imagine#fernando alonso x reader#fernando alonso fic#fernando alonso fluff#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri fic#oscar piastri fluff#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#fernando alonso fanfic#oscar piastri fanfic#fernando alonso x you#oscar piastri x you#fernando alonso#oscar piastri
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a loving family, an unpalatable desire
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.
imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.
you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruceâ even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their careâ your vows are real.
you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.
really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.
yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.
the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.
but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.
you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.
yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.
you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.
you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumbleâ but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.
maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.
and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.
''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.
and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.
you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.
your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clarkâ even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in handâ
it's everything a parent wants, needs even.
and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.
so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error stillâ one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.
a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.
#đ§... yael's misc.#yandere batfam#yandere dc#yandere batman#yandere angst#yandere bruce wayne#yandere clark kent#yandere superfam#yandere superman#yandere damian wayne#yandere jon kent#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x female reader#yandere x male reader#yandere x gn reader#yandere imagines#yandere scenarios#male yandere#yandere x y/n#yandere x you#yandere x darling#I HATE WRITING HIATUS#this is so bad erm...#im back at ranting in tags but ykyk#why am i so bad at this again đ
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âlovers once a yearâ | 9.4k
dbf!joel miller x f!reader
SUMMARY: One always craves what is out of reach. Like the forbidden fruit that lingers just beyond grasp, tempting with its sweetness. Joel became the townâs greatest sinner, and you, his best friendâs daughter, are the tantalizing temptation he knows he should never indulge in. Your very existence marks the path to his ruin. He can't help but follow it. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. joelâs POV. a lot of introspection. mentions of alcohol. miscommunication. no outbreak. dbf!joel. age gap (25 and 56). petnames. religious imagery. car sex. oral sex (f!receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. riding. missionary. doggy style. orgasm denial. crying. hair pulling. thumb/finger sucking. cum shot. creampie. reader sits on joelâs lap and has hair. moodboard for aesthetic purposes only. A/N: the fact this idea has been sitting on my drafts for over a year is just crazy. i finally found the time to put into words, and i know iâm a little late to the whole dbf!joel trope, but iâm a real sucker for it... hope you like this one! <3
No one couldâve ever said Joel was a great best friend.
For one, he was terrible at remembering important dates. His mind just didnât catch hold of details like thatânever had, really. He wasnât the sentimental type, either. At best, heâd manage a pat on the back or a firm handshake, maybe even a call on Christmas if he remembered. Emotional displays werenât in his nature, far too used to keeping things at armâs length.
Luckily for him, Stephen never seemed to care much about these things. Theyâd been friends for over forty yearsâwhich is, well, a hell of a long time, especially considering each had gone off to carve out his own life. Theyâd trudged through both primary and secondary school side by side, and Joel felt Stephenâs absence like a hollow ache the day his friend left for university in another state.
Technology eventually offered them more ways to connect, but it didnât make keeping up any simpler. The years had tested them, and somehow, theyâd held on to the quiet strength of their friendshipâa bond theyâd forged across decades and distance, held steady like the roots of an old tree.
Stephen was the laid-back type, always down for anything as long as a cold beer was part of the deal. It was rare for him to lose his temper, having a way of letting nuisances slide. Joel could bend every rule, yet Stephenâs patience never wavered. He was unflappable, hardly bothered by Joelâs mood swings, which was what made them a match made in heaven. Nothing could throw him off.
Though Joel doubts Stephen would stay so calm if he knew what heâd done to his daughter. As mentioned, Joelâs not exactly what youâd call a good friendâparticularly considering heâs slept with his best friendâs daughter. Just once, to be fair. One ephemeral, impulsive encounter. Right here, in this very house, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago.
His gaze drifts across the room, settling on you at a smaller table a few meters away, surrounded by your younger cousins, ages five to fifteen. He watches as you scroll absent-mindedly on your phone, your brow furrowed in concentration, only tearing your eyes away from the screen when one of the kids hurls a handful of salty peanuts at you.
You press your palms flat against the tablecloth, eyes narrowing as you scowl playfully at the child, a mischievous glint in your expression. âYouâve got ten seconds to run,â you utter in a tone meant to sound ominous, tickling his sides until he erupts in laughter, his giggles filling the dining room with raw joy.
Joelâs been here for over two hours, but he canât recall a single detail about the nightâs events. All he knows is youâheâs studied your every movement, following the shape of your silhouette through the crowd. Heâs accepted a few drinks, engaged in shallow conversation with your relatives, trying his best to play the part of a man with nothing to hide. But despite his efforts, despite every attempt to appear unaffected, he feels a slow burn kindling in the pit of his stomach, an ache that curls through him in a deliciously destructive way.
Itâs when you look up, locking eyes with him, that he nearly mutilates the chicken breast on his plate, the knife skittering over porcelain with a screech. He quickly mutters an apology, excusing his clumsiness and blaming it on one too many drinks. Meanwhile, you donât quit glaring at him, a hint of a challenge dancing in your stare.
This shouldnât feel the way it does, this hazardous, risky game youâre playing. At one time, he mightâve thought this was something only seen in movies, something imagined and unreal. But here you are, and here he is, and the indisputable hunger in your eyes is as real as anything heâs ever known.
Suddenly, his memories drift back to a year ago, to your grandmotherâs 84th birthdayâthe night it all began.
Stephen had left Austin when he was eighteen to pursue a college degree. Thatâs how heâd ended up in New York, and from that point on, he never came back. Itâd been amazing to see him as an equal when they were teenagers, but as they grew older, the only things they shared were the white hairs scattered all over their beards and the memories of much better days.
Whenever they got in touchâwhich didnât happen oftenâyour dad would talk about you. You were just a name without a face, an empty canvas. Close to graduating, with only a few subjects and finals left. Psychology was your majorâwerenât you smart? Joel remembers typing back with a string of exclamation marks to show his contentment. His best friendâs daughter was a success; how could he not be happy?
One random day, Joelâs phone buzzed late in the afternoon, flashing with Stephenâs name. It was rare for them to talk outside the usual birthdays and holidays, so seeing his name on the screen sent a small jolt through him. A dozen scenarios raced through his mind as he picked up, each one edging between concern and curiosity.
Just like that, Stephen dropped the news without any preamble. âIâm moving back to Austin,â His voice came in clear, and there was something unusual about it, brisk but almost nostalgic. Joel gripped the phone a little tighter, processing the words. âIn fact, Iâm filling up the gas tank as we speak. Thereâs someone at home who wants to see you.â
That someone had been your grandmother. With a twinkle in her eye, sheâd insisted on inviting Joel to her 84th birthday. âItâs the perfect chance for you two to reconnect,â sheâd declared, her tone laced with warmth and hope. She adored Joel, practically worshipping the ground he walked on, often reminiscing about the vibrant young man he had once been.
Who could deny anything to an elderly person, especially one as cherished as her? He was strong, physically imposing, but not strong enough to resist her wishes.
The reunion was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. After all, it was a strange kind of delight, seeing his best friend for the first time in decades. Joel thought theyâd do what friends doâsit back, drink, smoke, and trade stories about the good old days.Â
Then you walked into the room, absolutely gorgeous and with a smile that was all teeth, and you reached out to shake Joelâs hand as you introduced yourself. The contrast hit him instantlyâyour skin was satin-like against his, smooth where his was rough and calloused from years of handling concrete and steel. A subtle heat bloomed where your fingers touched, the chill of the rings on your hand sending a shiver through him, as if his senses had sharpened in that brief instant.
You pulled away, taking a step back, your eyes flicking between him and your dad. Joelâs arm fell back to his side, his hand forming a tight fist, the bite of his nails embedded into his palm to keep him grounded. But he couldnât stop himself from scrutinizing youâevery detail of your face, the curve of your smile, the effortless way you carried yourself. Your beauty was at fault, not him. You were completely out of reach, yet close enough to marvel at. He was no more than a man, bound to notice the charm of a pretty girl like you.
That you happened to be the daughter of his best friendâthat was just a cruel stroke of fate.Â
âOh, sweetie. Iâm glad you got to meet Joel at last!â Stephenâs voice cut through his thoughts, an arm draping across Joelâs shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate embrace. âHeâs that friend from school Iâve been telling you about.â
Stephen looked so at ease, so utterly pleased, that Joel could only swallow back the lump in his throat. What kind of sick joke was this? What could he have possibly done to deserve this twist of the knife?
With a soft laugh, you folded your hands behind your back, tilting your head to the right. âMy father wouldnât shut up about you,â you said, light and melodic, drawing him in like a lure. Joel found himself adrift in the sweet cadence of your voice, entranced by the delicate chain glinting at your throat, resting just above the neckline of your shirt, the v-cut hinting at a world of temptation.
He blinked owlishly, fighting the images clawing behind his eyelids. âWell, heâs a good man, your father,â Joel managed, his smile strained. Not because it wasnât true, but because there was a blaring alarm in his head, warning him to get a fucking grip. He knew himself well enough to read the signs, the underlying meaning beneath these nerves, the quickened pulse, the quiet, undeniable urge to reach out and feel you.
He was gone already. He fancied you, and his mind raced with thoughts he knew he had no right to entertain. He imagined what youâd taste like, the way you might sound if he were between your legs, encouraging you to gasp his name. Yet, he was aware that these fantasies were as treacherous as they were forbidden, even more with you standing right in front of him. And your father, just inches away.
From the kitchen, someone called out to Stephen, and with a weary sigh, he unhooked himself from Joelâs shoulder. âComing!â he shouted back, already angling himself toward the door. He glanced back at the two of you, half-smiling while rubbing his temples. âI forgot how exhausting it is to host a family birthday party. Iâll be right back. You two go ahead and chat without me.â
Fuck, no, Joel thought to himself. Donât leave me here. Where the hell are you going?
Joel resorted to remaining silent, choosing instead to take a long sip of his beer to avoid the occasion of sin. He refused to look in your direction, fixing his gaze on anything that didnât involve your bare legsâthe same legs heâd just been eyeing in those damn denim shorts, which exquisitely hugged your thighs. But, then again, he shouldnât even be noticing that.
As he peered down at the carpet, he couldnât ignore the movement of your shoes as you stepped closer. He observed your fingers playing idly with the frayed edges of your shorts, your body inching nearer, and he braced himself in anticipation of whatever you might say next. When his eyes landed on yours, he was met with an aura of expectancy, a cocky smirk pulling at your lips.
âItâs a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Miller,â you murmured, watching his Adamâs apple bob as he swallowed with effort. Letting your hand linger beside your face, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, glancing at him through your lashes. âIâve heard so much about you.â
Joel felt the flush rise to his cheeks, and there was no mistaking itâyou were doing this on purpose. Were you trying to push him off balance, to see how far heâd bend before snapping? Was this just a game for you, a bit of mischief to spice up a family gathering? The idea irritated him, but he couldnât entirely ignore the thrill woven into the discomfort. A quarter of his mind itched to play along, but the rest of him screamed to find the nearest exit.
âYâcan just call me Joel. No needa be so formal,â he mumbled, lifting the beer bottle to his lips once again, the bitterness spreading across his tongue.
âBut I like Mr. Miller better.â
His mind conjured all those images of fire and damnation, of being dragged to some dark, smoldering pit. Rotting in hell, he could already see himself within the flames. Tugging at the collar of his flannel, now too tight and hot, he gave a rough, clearing cough. âMâgonnaâgo find your dad.â
He was glad you didnât try to approach him in public again. For a few hours, he felt something close to tranquillityânot fully, though, as he could still hear echoes of your voice in the silences. Every so often, out of the corner of his eye, heâd catch you orbiting near him, lurking in his peripheral vision, even though you sat at a different table.
Later in the night, he wandered upstairs in search of the bathroom, instead stumbling upon your fatherâs childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he took the liberty to enter it, a familiar scent filling the room. He ran his fingers over the walls, still papered with posters he recognized well. It was as if time had paused thereâeverything remained as it had the last time heâd been in this very room. The framed portraits, the worn bedspread, and Stephenâs desk, scattered with foreign bills under a layer of glass, each one a memento from the different countries he had visited.
It was only a matter of time before you found him, a light knock on the open door drawing his attention. Joel turned on his heels, catching sight of you, acknowledging your presence with a slight bow of his head. You ambled toward him, curiosity alight in your steps, twisting the chain of your necklace, a restless gesture that betrayed the energy simmering beneath your calm exterior.
He scratched the back of his head, offering a half-hearted smile. âThis isnât the bathroom, right?â he joked, attempting a casual tone. The joke was a weak one, admittedly, but you laughed anyway, a nonchalant sound that showed the gleam of your teeth.
âNo, I donât think it is,â you replied, sliding onto the edge of the desk with an effortless ease. âWhat brought you here?â
âBirthday parties can be a bit overwhelmin', dontcha think?âÂ
âTotally.â
And then you went back to watching him, your eyes tracing his features with an almost stubborn intensity.Â
âYou gonna stop doin' that?â he asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant, though they didn't make you flinch.
âDoing what, exactly?â
âLookin' at me all doe-eyed.â His voice didnât waver, but he advanced in your direction. His knees nearly brushed against yours, the weathered denim grazing your bare skin, and only then did a flicker of uncertainty soften your confident stance. âWhatever it is youâre after, itâs not gonna happen. So quit tryinâ.â
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself to your feet. âYou sure about that?â Before he had the time to react, you were standing inches from him, your chest pressing against his, just close enough for him to feel the soft weight of your breasts. âShould I pretend, then, that I havenât noticed youâve been half-hard all night?â
Joel's jaw tightened, his teeth gritting almost painfully. His fists flexed by his sides, his entire body feeling heavier, muscles pulled taut by some invisible thread. "Watch your mouth.â
âOr what?â You hooked a finger inside his belt loop, tugging him that much closer. Your breath, fresh and minty, mingled with the faint scent of your perfume, and he inhaled both, heady on the mix. âYouâre gonna teach me a lesson?â
There was only so much patience a man like him could summon, and you were a thorn in his flesh, determined and unyielding. He leaned in, voice gruff as he uttered three words that made your brows knit together. âClose the door.â You stayed frozen, lips parting in surprise. âDid yâhear me? Mânot into exhibitionism. Close. The. Door.â
You did as he asked, obliging, stepping back to close the door before returning to your place. Without warning, he turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the cool glass of the desk, a sharp chill that made you yelp. His hand settled firmly on your back, guiding you down until your chest was flush against the surface as well. In one swift motion, your shorts were gone, followed by your soaked panties, a damp spot where your arousal had begun to seep through.
He slipped his fingers inside you first, his hand covering your mouth to stifle the needy whimpers escaping your lips. The roughness of his beard grazed your cheek as he hovered over you, his breath hot in your ear as he spoke. âBeinâ too fuckinâ loud, doll.â Matching the rhythm of the slow drag of his fingers, his hips pressed forward, grinding against the curve of your ass, each movement making his mouth go dry. âYâwant this cock that bad?â He nipped at your throat, and you, against his sweaty palm, mumbled what could have only been a muffled Yes. âThen I need yâto keep real quiet for me, alright?â
His jeans and boxers hung around his knees, his cock leaking and throbbing at the tip. Joel realized what true desperation felt like, dangerously close to busting his load at any given moment before even getting the chance to be fully inside you. On top of the desk, your body trembled, and you reached back, pulling your top higher up to bare more of yourself to him. He unclasped your bra with one hand, while his other guided him to your entrance, his lips pressing reverently against your spine as he pushed inside, savoring the heat of your walls wrapping around him for the first time. It certainly didnât feel like anything heâd ever experienced in his fifty-six years of life.
It had been short, and harsh, and fast. Borderline animalistic, what experts would label as a quick fuck. The moment he breached your entrance, you begged for more, fucking yourself back onto him until his thighs met your skin. You acted as if possessed by a greater entity, diabolic, though Joel didnât mind it. He relished it, welcomed it. But he couldnât let you take the reins. He asserted his dominance, snapping his hips forward with a force that drew moans from the depths of your lungs. He was the one in control, driving himself deeper and deeper within you. Suffice it to say you seemed to love it, if the sounds he elicited from you were anything to go by.
It was what you wanted, what you needed. One way or another, heâd caught onto what those lingering glances throughout the party had signified. Every glance youâd thrown his way had been leading to thisâa silent promise that whatever was happening had been destined to be the nightâs climax.
You bit down on his palm as you reached your peak, tightening around him, and perhaps it was the thrill of it all, the knowledge that heâd need far more time to become well acquainted with your body, that had him chasing after you. Holding back until you came had been a feat, pulling out seconds prior to his release, stroking his length once before painting your skin with his seed. A low, primal groan escaped him as he slid his length between your cheeks, prolonging his high, each heated pulse marking you in a way that felt undeniably his.
As he regained his composure, he watched you swirl your thumb along your lower back, collecting a trace of his release, and bringing it to your lips to have a taste of him. You softly laughed when he cursed under his breath, turning your face lazily to the side. âDamn minx yâare,â he rasped, closing the gap between your mouths, his claiming yours in an urgent kiss. Your mewls faded beneath the insistent press of his mouth as he sought to suppress the strange pull in his guts, reluctant to confront the unfamiliar sensations churning within him.
Things wrapped up quickly after that. You both returned to your places, resuming the roles youâd stepped out of briefly: Joel had been in the bathroom; you had been on the phone with a friend. When he reappeared downstairs minutes after you, no one thought twice about his slightly damp hair.
For the remainder of the party, the two of you exchanged no further words. The time for him to leave came, and he offered only a nod of his head across the packed living room. It was a farewell only Joel would give, a subtle acknowledgment that left you wondering about its meaning. There were no explanations, no parting words.
The next time he saw your father, the mere thought of seeing you again terrified him. If itâd happened once, then the temptation would still remain undiminished, strong enough to awaken the lust and the longing veiled in silence. But you werenât there anymoreâback in New York, focused on finishing your semester at college. The surprise must have been evident on Joelâs face, a bewilderment that prompted Stephen to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. âRemember I told you she hasnât graduated yet?â
âYeah, yeah. I remember now,â he said, wishing to convince both your father and himself.
You were out of the picture, no longer around. Yet, the two of you now shared a secret. You still do, to this day. Heâs no stranger to the notion that some things never seem to change. After all, heâs a creature of habitâsame breakfast every morning, same brand of bread heâs been buying for years. Like all his other preferences, heâs come to realize he likes his women a certain way. And though he hates to admit it, you fit the bill perfectly.
Betty, Stephenâs mother, was turning eighty-five tonight. A seat with Joelâs name was saved at the big table; they wanted him there, his best friend and his best friendâs mother. How nice it was to actually feel wanted. He liked that feeling. Still, heâd had to bite his tongue when your father mentioned youâd be there, too. You had graduated at long last, with your birthday having been just a couple of weeks ago.
âCanât believe sheâs twenty-five already,â Stephen muttered with a chuckle, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Sitting beside him, Joel gripped the arm of his chair, sinking his nails into it. âMe neither, man.â
His choices had led him to this moment. The clinking of glasses rings in his ears, blending with laughter and the rich aroma of food that fills the air. None of it manages to distract him. He can't help but track you down, eyes scanning the room, relentless in their pursuit of yours. The need to see you goes beyond any shred of restraint he might have faked to have. Joel canât muster the decorum to feign indifferenceâGod, not when youâre near, when the pull toward you feels like gravity itself. Heâs keenly, almost painfully aware, that heâs not even pretending to be indifferent, his interest etched plainly in the way his gaze persists, refusing to pull away.
Itâs his first time seeing you in a year. A lot can change in that span of time. He canât help but be amazed, because you look just the same as you did back then. Only your hairâs a touch shorter. He wonders if itâs even noticeable, or if heâs just spent so long memorizing your features that heâs losing his sanity. He bets itâs the latter.
A light pressure on his shoulder makes Joel jump, breaking down his reverie. He turns quickly, eyes widening. "Betty," he exhales, patting his chest with a smile, eyebrows lifted. "Jeez. Yâscared me."
âYâalright, Joely? Yâlook a bit pale.â The older woman reaches up, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with a gentle familiarity. Through her lens, heâs still young. âDoesnât seem like youâve got a fever, though.â
"Thatâs âcause Iâm not sick." Joel takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Howâs everythinâ goinâ so far? Got all these people together just tâcelebrate yaâ."
"Itâs a wonderful night, sweetheart. So happy yâfound the time tâbe here," she replies, pinching his cheek in that affectionate way that earns her a quiet laugh from him. Her eyes then catch sight of a familiar figure. "Oh, look who's here. If it isnât my beautiful granddaughter."
He stops smiling. In fact, he thinks he even stops breathing for a second as you intrude yourself into the scene, settling yourself beside your grandmother, flashing him a knowing grin. âI was getting kind of bored with the little ones.âÂ
âYâknow Joel, right, dear?â
âYes.â A pause, a beat you draw out between breaths. âYes, I do.â
Betty leans his way, her warm hand still on him. âHave yâheard the latest news? This young lady just graduated.â
âStephen told me,â he answers, looking up at you with a reserved nod. âCongrats, kid.â
âThank you, Mr. Miller.â
Thereâs that damn name again. Were he alone with you, heâd laugh in your face, but he canât. Under the scrutiny of family and friends, he knows heâs cornered. Joelâs starting to believe you think youâre untouchable, that there are no consequences to your actions. You might look the same, maybe a little older, but that teasing, provocative spark in your eye hasnât changed a bit.
âAlways so polite, my child,â Betty says, cupping your cheek with a light pinch, a grandmotherly gesture perfected over the years which she seems to repeat often. âAny boyfriends back in New York?â
This would, without a doubt, be the perfect moment for him to excuse himself and stand upâa conversation heâd rather not be privy to. But with you positioned right in front of him, escape isnât an option. âStill single, grandma,â you respond unfazed, as if you know exactly what youâre doing. âNo one to worry about. Better like this, anyway.â
âBut whatâs the problem? There arenât any boys yâlike?â
He doesnât even know what makes him say itâsome impulse, some hidden tension surfacingâbut he jumps in, his voice carrying a slight, sardonic edge. âBoys are more foolish than ever these days, Betty. Surely yâwouldnât want her to settle for the first idiot who crosses her path.â
Betty clutches his arm, shaking her head in feigned shock. âOh, not at all! Itâs all about waitinâ for the right person. Thereâs no rush, for either of you. Youâre still on your own, Joely?â
Time to drink again. He drains the last drops of alcohol remaining in his glass, feeling your eyes on him, intense and searing, and then he clears his throat, swallowing down the words heâd rather say. âAffirmative.â
âWell,â she sighs contentedly, patting each of your hands as though binding you both with some invisible thread. âJust means yâtwo have to wait a bit longer, right? Time has its way.â She chuckles, eyes soft with memory, turning to you. âDarlinâ, this man here was quite the heartbreaker in his day. He and your dad would find all kinds of trouble with the ladies!â
âHow so?â You cross your arms, playfully tilting your chin up. âJoel Miller, the charmer of the town?â
âGuess Iâve been known tâmake a fool of myself,â he shoots back, silently cursing the moment he missed his chance to slip away. âStephen got more fans than I did, though.â
âI did what?â Joel feels an elbow nudging his back, and thereâs his friend, grinning in his usual easy way.
Joel's luck in life had been more bruised than blessed, a string of hardships that seemed amplified compared to what most people experienced. Being drawn in by youâin which category did that fall? Good luck or bad? He couldn't decide. Every glance and delicate smile you aimed his way stirred something reckless within him. Was it pure thrill, or a warning?
He laughs every time Stephen cracks a joke, but heâs barely listening, his mind half-tethered to the present. Itâs like heâs watching himself from afar, observing his reactions as if he were an outsider. He isnât stoned or drunk, just acutely mindful of your presence. He catches himself peeking up at you from where he sits, jaw tight, his brow creased. You meet his gaze with a slight squint, a polite look that hides something far more dangerous.
Boys are more foolish than ever these days. Heâs sure of that much. Theyâre young, untested. But what about him? Heâs no model of virtue, either. Heâs made his share of mistakes, left good women behindâwomen who were willing to love him in spite of his flaws. Theyâd seen through the layers he wore like armor, and yet, in the end, he couldnât hold on to any of them. He carried the ghosts of every past life, fragments of who heâd been and what heâd left behind, and he knew those shadows werenât for everyone.
A thought pierces through him, sharp and sobering: what would Sarah think? His lovely daughter, grown and settled into her own life, would likely be mortified to know her fatherâs infatuation with a twenty-something. The weight of that realization sinks into his chest, and that seems to be his last straw.
He canât possibly take it anymore. Rising from his chair, he mutters something to Stephen about needing fresh air and makes his way to the backyard door, exhaling deeply and gripping his car keys. The cool night air hits him, stepping outside, a temporary relief as he heads toward his truck.
Just as heâs about to open the door, he hears your voice. You call his name, your tone soft but distinct. He doesnât turn, only lets out a long, weary sigh. âWhat?â
âWhere are you going?â You stop a few steps behind him, watching the way his shoulders visibly tense. âAre you mad at me?â
âWhat?â He faces you, almost snapping his neck in his rush to look at you. âWhy would I beâIâm not mad at yaâ.â
âThen whatâs wrong? Why are you leaving so early?âÂ
He scrubs a hand over his nape, fingers pressing into the tension gathered there. âWould yâlike me tâbreak it down for yaâ, how messed up this is?â His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet yours. âIâm riskinâ the only real friendship Iâve had here for⊠for somethinâ that I canât even wrap my head âround. This isnât okay, no matter which way I look at it.â
In that moment, itâs as if reality pulls you under. The mask of subtle, practiced arrogance falls apart, scattering in fragments around you. He watches, waiting for you to gather them up, to hide behind that composed veneer again. But you donât move. You leave the pieces where they lie. Instead, you confront his gaze, unguarded, and ask, âDo you regret what happened between us?â
Another question. You seem to be full of them. They just keep coming, one after the other, as if you already had them prepared. I donât, he thinks to himself, but would it do you any good if you knew it? âDonâ start with those mental games.â
âThen come back inside.â
âI know myself well enough to know whatâs gonna happen if I do that, darlinâ.â
Neither of you breaks the silence thatâs settled between you, thick as the night air. You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, head hanging. Once again, like all those times before, heâs struck by how young you are compared to him. The difference stretches between you like a chasm, bridged only by these stolen moments. The weight of his years presses down on him, the choices heâs madeâthe mistakes and the half-hearted attempts to mend them. Heâs got decades on you, three of them to be precise.
Joel never thought of himself as an ever-lasting free spirit, the kind of man who clings to youth or pretends to be something heâs not. Right now, with you here, he feels reckless, like a boy again. Stupid, impulsive, like the foolish young men he used to shake his head atâthe very ones heâd warned your grandmother about.
âYou left without even saying goodbye last time,â you mumble, low but clear, as you scuff the toe of your shoe against the grass. âAnd now youâre doing it again.â
He inhales sharply, clenching his keys, feeling the edges of the brass biting into his palm. For a moment, he thinks the sharpness will give him something to hold onto, but he knows the sting is nothing more than a weak anchor. âYouâre a smart girl. Donâ need me to spell this out.â
âI know exactly what you mean, trust me. I get it.â
âThen why do you keep pushing?â His pent-up exasperation slips through despite himself, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, the way your forehead barely puckers as his words hit harder than intended.
Even as you look away, a trace of that hurt fading, you stand firm. You shake your head after a beat, seemingly trying to brush off your doubts and confusion. Joel canât decipher if youâre feigning innocenceâif you are, he thinks, you could be one hell of an actress. âI donât know. I guess I want to see how far this can go.â
You take a small step forward, testing the waters. Your feet move cautiously, not aiming to scare him off. Each step draws you nearer until thereâs only a whisper of space between you, close enough for him to catch your scent, and he has to force himself to peer down to meet your eyes. They hold a quiet intensity: pleading, wide and earnest, already trained on him. Gleaming like two lone stars cutting through a moonless, empty sky.Â
It baffles him, the question forming unbidden in his mind. He goes even further, canât help but wonder: why him? What is it that you see in him? What makes you keep coming back for more? Youâve already had a taste, a story you could tuck away, a secret to be shared with your friends someday around a campfire. So why, he would like to know, are you still here, seeking something from a man like him?
âI like you,â you blurt out, fingers drifting to skim over the worn fabric of his flannel, almost hesitantly. That tentative gesture sparks something raw in him, a low rumble of desire that feels like itâs been lying dormant for too long. Heat pulses through him, hot blood racing through his veins, awakening every nerve, each beat of his heart more insistent than the last one. âI think you like me, too.â
âYouâre insufferable,â he bites out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching so hard it nearly hurts. He closes his eyes, half hoping youâll disappear, that heâll find some reason, any reason, to call this off. Though when he opens them, youâre still there, waiting, unshaken. âI wish I knew how to stop this. How to walk away.â
âThatâs not what you want.â
âWe donâ always get what we want, kid. Youâll figure that out soon enough.â He means it as a warning, but even he hears the way his voice falters, his defenses crumbling in the face of your unflinching state.
You let out a slow sigh, your arms falling to your sides, eyes roaming over his features as if youâre memorizing every line. Your focus dips to his mouth. âMaybe,â you murmur, and he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin. âBut some things are worth fighting for. And sometimes, those who donât give up⊠get the best in the end.â
With a gentleness that stuns him, you lean in, bringing your lips to his in a featherlight kiss. You pull away, and he helplessly notices the way your lips part, how your breath hitches, and for a split second, the guilt becomes palpable, the significance of wanting a woman he knows he shouldnât. You stand there, chest rising and falling, skin tingling, a faint trail of goosebumps visible where your neckline meets your chest.Â
Apart from the glint in your eyes, he catches the persistent, quiet ache of want. He isnât sure if itâs just physical attraction, if it runs deeper, or if thatâs all it is for him, either. He doesnât need to know. The simplicity of it all is a short-lived relief. Itâs an easy escape, though, this bare minimum of understandingâyou want him, he wants you. Let it be enough for one more moment, for tonight, just another memory heâll have to lock away. Yet heâs aware, deep down, of his own pattern: promises broken just as easily as theyâre made. Heâs only fooling himself. The part of him that knows this isnât something heâll let go of so easily sits there, silently taunting him, daring him to make another compromise he wonât keep.
From where you remain frozen, heâs certain you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs every possible outcome. âItâs gonna happen, isnât it?â Your voice is barely above a whisper, and before you can react, his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and turning you toward the car door. The cool metal pressing against your back startles a gasp out of you, but the suddenness only heightens everythingâthe heat of his body, the toughness of his hold.Â
He doesnât waste time with words, having always been a man of action. His hand cradles your face, inspecting your features to later crush his mouth against yours. Your tongue finds his without hesitation, seeking him out, hungry and unrestrained. He savors your eagerness, the way your hands roam over him, clutching at his shirt, tugging him closer by the belt until your lower halves are pressed tightly. The taste of beer and mint clings to your lips, and a husky groan rumbles from him as your fingers find their place in the longer strands at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling him impossibly closer.Â
He could lose himself in this, the simple, electric thrill of kissing you, how you fit so perfectly against him. Hours could slip by, and he wouldnât mind, but then reality pulls him back; itâs too exposed here, right outside his truck where anyone could stumble upon you. âGet in the car,â he rasps, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, fumbling to unlock the door. It takes him three tries, and he chuckles, feeling the warmth of your laughter beside him as you tease him.
Once inside, his mouth finds yours again, this time more urgently, his hand pressing against your back, tracing the line of your spine through the clothes. âTell me yâwant this,â he breathes, his kisses trailing down your throat, latching onto the tender skin there. âCâmon, baby. Tell me yâwant it. Tell me yâwant me.â
A soft, breathy sound escapes you as his mouth fixates on that sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your hips instinctively, craving contact in search of relief, and he shifts you onto his lap, guiding your thighs to settle over his. Desperately working to undo the buttons of his shirt, yearning to uncover him, you pant against his cheek. âJ-Jesus Christ, I need you. Please, touch me. Anything will do. Justââ
Heâs silently grateful for your choice of a dress tonight. It makes things easier for him, and he gets right to it, bunching the fabric around your waist, hands roaming over the soft skin of your hips before moving his fingers lower, tracing teasing lines over your clothed center. He canât fully make out the murmured words you breathe into his ear, but your voice drives him like a lighthouse guides a sinking ship, and he adjusts his movements, pressing with more intention. The only sounds filling the car are his ragged breaths and your gasping moans, and he holds you close to his chest, cooing softly as you start to rock into his hand, asking for more.Â
His fingers find their rhythm, circling your clit in deliberate flicks. Joel watches as you unravel, trembling in his arms, a hint of drool spreading over his shoulder from your parted lips on his skin. His grip tightens as he tugs your underwear down your legs, grinning when you kick them impatiently to the floor of the car. Now, as he strokes his digits up and down your folds, you turn to putty on his lap. In another world, heâd have you laid out in his bed, enjoying each inch of your body. But here, in the cramped, dim backseat, he keeps the lights off. He knows itâs reckless, yet that barely slows him down. His cock throbs at the very risk of getting caught, at the edge heâs walking just to have you like this.
âGoddamn, youâre soaked, arenât yaâ?â He doesnât expect you to answer, at least not in any coherent way. He sinks his middle finger into your bare heat, searching your face in the dark, contemplating the fluttering of your lashes. His hand weaves into your hair, a firm tug guiding your gaze to his. Your head tips back, a moan spilling from your lips at the new sensation, rolling your hips into his palm with earnestness. âItâs gonna be a tight fit, huh? If this is how youâre grippinâ my fingers, I canât imagine what that cuntâs gonna feel like wrapped âround me.â
Studies suggest that in those final, fleeting moments of life, memories flood the human mindâa last journey through a personâs years before crossing over. If he were to die after tonight, he knows your face would be there, etched into his last breath. He can almost picture it: struggling for air, teetering on the edge, with that reddish, towering figure of mortality looming over him. But even then, heâd find solace in the thought of you, thrown into oblivion. Youâd grant him a last-minute reprieve, easing the ache. Youâd be the one whoâd hold back the shadows. This constitutes the apex of his life, and he knows he should be worried, yet intellectual dominance doesnât stand much of a chance when confronting the heart of a man. Not when that heart, so long starved of its pulse, has finally found someone worth remembering.
He makes space for himself, thrusting his long fingers into you until heâs got your slick coating his palm. One hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding your movements, while he feels his collected composure faltering. You mouth at the rough stubble along his jawline when you start to get close, breathless whimpers clouding his thoughts. âJoel,â you call out to him, as if that alone would make wonders. âOh, fuck. Please, I waited a whole year. I need to come.â
A whole year. You were his once a year, and he was yours, a bittersweet ritual bound by time. He never wouldâve thought this party could bring him such pleasure, though he canât pretend heâs against it. Last time, he hadnât taken the chance to pull you under and make you fall apart as many times as heâd wanted. Heâs intent on making up for that missed opportunity, determined to make you enjoy every moment.
He withdraws his fingers abruptly, and a sharp laugh nearly escapes him at your reaction. You reach instinctively, grabbing for his hand, trying to guide him back to where he belongs between your legs. But heâs already moving, maneuvering you down until youâre lying on your back, fully under his command. He lowers himself, replacing his fingers with the warm insistence of his mouth. The sound that escapes your lips as his mouth presses against your center is nothing short of a screamâa wild cry that fills the space around you. Heâs grateful he parked far from the other guests, because that sound would turn more than a few heads.Â
Joel laps at your arousal as if it's the fountain of youth, the very essence of everything pure and precious in the world. He presses down on your thighs until they rest on either side of him, unclamping your legs from around his head. The suppleness of your skin feels divine under his fingertips, and he brushes his thumbs over your trembling form, coaxing you into calmness, to let him have his way with you at his own pace. It's an absurd paradoxâaiming to soothe you while his mouth continues its fervent worship, tracing intricate patterns against your most sensitive flesh. His beard, streaked with gray and freshly trimmed, glistens with your slick, and Joel smolders with all-consuming passion.
When his friends had told him to go out more, maybe find someone to date, he's certain they didn't mean this. The smart choice (scratch that: the correct one) would have been to pursue a woman his own age. But fuck itâhe's spent a lifetime doing what's right. Every road he might've taken would've led him here, to this moment, with you. Part of him believes he must still have something left, some spark of appeal. To have a pretty little thing like you, so eager, so willing, offering yourself to him? He has to have something. His knees ache from where he kneels on the unforgiving surface, but the burn is inconsequential, and heâll endure anything to be what you need.
Joel trails his hand up your body, over the curve of your breast, before gently groping it, his palm covering yours in a shared grip. He runs the tip of his tongue along your folds, his saliva mingling with your wetness, aquiline nose grazing your sensitive bud. âYouâre tellinâ me youâre this tight âcause youâve been savinâ yourself for me? You do know what tâsay tâmake a man happy.â He spreads you open slowly, his gaze lingering on the way your cunt glistens, a sense of satisfaction rippling through him. You remain silent, your breath shallow. âStill with me, sugar?â
âItâs just thatâIâm so close.â You bite back a moan, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat. Joel hums in response, his lips closing around your clit. Agitation flickers across your face as you try to grind your hips against his mouth. âFuck, fuck, fuckââ
The pressure is gone as he notices your thighs quivering again, his movements halting immediately.
âNo, Joel. Pleaseââ
âYouâll come when I tell yaâ.â
Heâs having the time of his life. Damn right he is.
He suddenly realizes he's still dressed from head to toes, the heat building in his body becoming too much to ignore. With a frustrated grunt, he undoes his belt, yanking the metal zipper down, longing to rid himself of the constricting denim. A strangled noise escapes him as you suck on his neck, fisting his base, giving him a few purposeful tugs.
âNow, youâre gonna ride me,â he murmurs, making a pause to shrug his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor of the car, âand youâre gonna like it. Donâ want you tâhold back this time, understood?â
His back ends up against one of the fogged-up windows. The air is thick with the apparent scent of sexâa phrase heâd only ever heard in movies, but now, itâs undeniably real. Joel holds his cock, aligning the tip with your entrance as his lips crash against yours in a hungry kiss. A deep groan escapes him, vibrating over your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. The sensation intensifies when your wet interior welcomes him, velvet walls molding to his size. Your brows scrunch together at the stretch, a choked whimper catching in your throat. As your hips sink fully, your ass flush against his thighs, your body clenches around him, that abrupt tightness drawing a stuttering gasp from him.
âFor Godâs sake,â he exhales, the words rough as his forehead bumps into yours. His hand splays over your ribcage, fingers curling slightly. âSweetheart, youâreâkillinâ me here.â
âI can feel you everywhere,â you huff, your arms looping around his neck to pull him closer, holding your breath. He takes the moment to capture your nipple between his swollen lips, leaving a shiny trail of spit in his wake. You lift yourself, the motion teasing, before sinking back down onto his lap, taking him in fully. âCan feel you in my stomach.â
When you begin to move, Joel loses track of everything else. Time seems to stretch, bending and reshaping itself each time his tip finds some hidden place inside you. Heâs fifty-six years old, yet in this moment, his soul feels infinite. Invincible. He brings his hand to your lips, thumb grazing over them before slipping inside. Your warm tongue envelopes it, and when you start to suck dutifully, muffling your moans, his body jerks in response. His eyes drift to your glistening chest, where a sheen of sweat makes your skin glow in the dim light. Youâre the most captivating woman heâs ever seen, and he knows heâll never look at anyone the same again. He canât tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the way your body merges with his, the way you undulate your hips on top of him.
You move back and forth, and he drives into you, filling you to the brim with every calculated thrust. He thrusts upward, stealing the air from your lungs, the sharp motion making you sputter as your body struggles to keep up with his.
âThatâs it.â His voice is a husky growl as he wraps his arms tightly around your back, your chests sticking together with sweat. His pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more insistent. âTakinâ it like a good girl. You feel exquisite, baby. Makinâ me lose my fuckinâ mind.â
âSo big inside me,â you pant, your own pace faltering as you surrender to Joelâs unforgiving tempo. His hooded eyes flicker to yours, catching the way your pupils have swallowed up your irises, dark and blown wide with desire. A shiver runs through him as your fingers dig into his shoulders, your grip leaving faint crescents in his skin. âMissed your cock so much, Mr. Miller.â
Fuck, not that shit. If itâs possible, he grows impossibly harder. He pounds into you with renewed intensity this time, his singular goal to leave you speechless, boneless, completely undone. He wants you limp and shuddering, with nothing left to give. âEnough of that.â His hands find their place on the soft globes of your ass, molding and squeezing until the pressure has you mewling, the sweet sound shooting straight through him. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. âResponsive everywhere, honey. Have any idea how much fun Iâm gonna have with yaâ?â
Who wouldâve believed him back then? It proves this isnât some once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It happened before, and now itâs happening again. He might as well surrender to itâaccept his fate and move through the motions like a man resigned to whatâs already written.
Thereâs a moment when your moans sharpen, turning high-pitched and dazed, and the way you constrict him sends his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a guttural noise tearing from his chest. His movements still, clutching your waist to pin you in place, denying you the chance to move, to bounce on him.
Then you break. A sob wracks your body, tears spilling over and tracing hot paths down your cheeks. They gather, fusing together as they slide along your throat and pool in the hollow of your jaw before disappearing lower. âAsshole,â you hiss, the word fragile as you push your face into the curve of his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.
âSorry? Couldnât catch that.â He makes sure to keep you securely tucked under his chin, tilting his lower half upward. âIf you want me tâstop, just say the world and I will.â
Heâs messing with you, plain and simple. He doesnât actually expect you to take his words at face value. But you do, grinding down harder, impaling yourself further on the length of his cock, and your arousal trickles down, slicking the coarse hair of his thighs. âPlease.â
âPlease what?â
âPlease fuck me.â Slotting your mouth over his, you attempt to move, chasing any sort of friction against your clit. Sadly, pleasure doesnât come on its ownâitâs Joel who can make you feel good, and heâs not obliging. His hand seizes your hair in a rough grasp, tugging sharply. Eyes fluttering shut, you hunch forward, submitting to the sharp edge of his control.
âWhat an impatient little thing yâare.â Joel grabs your thighs and turns you over, your back pressed against the leather seat. The brusque shift pulls him out of you, the cool air a cruel tease before he taps his head against your swollen folds, then fills you again in one powerful thrust, kissing your cervix in the process. A deep moan rips from your lungs, deep and guttural, as your legs tremble uncontrollably on either side of him. Your ankles dig into his back, fervent to keep him close. His balls rest heavy against your skin, full and aching for release. âGonna give yaâ what yâwant, okay? Youâve been on your best behavior,â he mumbles with his lips stuck to your forehead. âThatâs a good girl. Think she deserves to come after all.â
Only then does he find his rhythm again, ramming into your drooling hole. For the third time tonight, heâs captivated by how you teeter on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. He has you eating out of his hand, taking all that he offers, and you do so willingly. He knows he could ask you for anything, and in exchange for an orgasm coaxed by him, you'd comply without thinking twice. In many ways, heâs not so different. He gathers some of your saliva, using it to moisten his fingers before slipping them between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he continues to hit your bundle of nerves. Where his stamina comes from, he has no clue, though heâs determined to keep pushing.
Your face becomes a living poem, each cry of yours adding to its verse. Your head nearly reaches the door, but he cradles it with his arm, ensuring you donât hurt yourself. âClose,â you whine, struggling to keep your eyes from falling shut. âJoel, please. Let meââ
âGive it to me, darlinâ.â Another thrust, another moan. âDrench me, câmon. Thatâs what yâwant, isnât it? To come all over this cock?â
The way heâs worked you up has its rewards, leading to a release that feels like an eruption. You bite down on his shoulder, your cries growing louder, chanting his name without pause. It loses all meaning after being chanted so many times, but the way you say it still has an undeniable weight. He doesnât mind it one bit, not when heâs finishing right after you plead him to fill you. His jaw hangs open as ropes of his seed spill inside you, and he sags against your frame, giving short thrusts to push his cum deeper into your warmth, your pussy milking him dry.
âOh, GodâŠâ he groans, fumbling with one of your breasts, holding onto something for dear life. âJesus Christ.âÂ
âDonât pull out yet,â you say, grinning when you feel him twitch. âStay a little longer.â
Too personal. Too intimateâdangerous in his books. Normally, he'd tuck himself back into his briefs, drive the woman heâs slept with home, and that would be the end of it. No happy endings in his story. So heâs surprised when he supports his weight on his forearms, claiming your lips in a voracious encounter of tongues and teeth. He caresses your cheek, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, and you sigh contentedly.
The two of you lapse into a heavy silence after that. He clears his throat, and says: âI shouldâve asked you for your number that one time.â In the heat of the act, heâs being too honest. Regret will come knocking on his door once his excitement fades. His eyes bore into yours, dubious. âMâsorry for that.â
âWell, you could ask me for it now,â you admit from beneath him, and Joel pulls away for a moment, trying to gauge if youâre serious. He doesnât think youâre joking. âTo make up for lost time.â
This must be the onset of something else. He can't quite put it into words, but he feels it in his chest, in every place where your skin merges with his. He's no fortune teller, and there's no way for him to know where this path will take him, whether it leads to ruin or salvation. Though in this moment, he doesn't careânot now, at least.
At last, Joel blindly reaches for the pocket of his jeans with one arm. âHow long are you stayinâ in Austin?â
dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
#joel miller#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller/reader#joel miller fic#joel miller smut#joel miller tlou#joel miller x reader#joel tlou#joel smut#joel x reader#joel the last of us#joel x female reader#joel x f!reader#dbf joel miller#dbf!joel#joel x you#the last of us hbo#the last of us fanfiction
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Neighbourly Care (NSFW)
Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader
Summary: You come home from college for the weekend but your parents forgot and you are locked out of the house. Luckily your neighbour finds you and they let you stay at theirs
-OR-
You think the neighbours are MILFs and the evening is filled with flirting and then you get to be fucked by each of them and then by both of them.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, top Agatha, top Rio, small mention of Mommy kink, strap-on use, oral, there might be more idk it's very horny
Words: 4.6k of pure horniness
A/N: I think I blacked out while writing this, its so horny. It's inspired by this request and hasn't even been proofread yet so enjoy the horny mess of it
Tagging @aceday because I said I would
AO3 | Master List
The rain falls in relentless sheets, soaking through your jacket, and the rest of your clothes, for that matter. Each step squelches as you trudge the familiar path from the train station to your parentsâ house. By the time you reach the front door, your teeth are chattering, and your clothes cling damply to your skin. A sigh escapes your lips as you grasp the handle and pullâonly to find it locked. Your heart sinks.
The memory hits you like a slap: the locks were changed after they had a break-in a few months ago. Of course, youâve forgotten to get a new key. Fumbling through your bag, you pray for some miracle, some overlooked backdoor key, but your search turns up nothing except your phone. A quick glance at the screen confirms no messages from your parents and no backup plan. Frustration mingles with despair as you stand shivering, wondering what to do next.
Footsteps break through the downpour, and you turn to see Agatha, your parentsâ neighbour, crossing her lawn towards you. Youâve exchanged pleasantries with her and her wife, Rio, a few times during your trips home from college. Theyâre always friendly, but youâve never spoken beyond casual greetings. That hasnât stopped you from admiring them, thoughâtwo stunning women, each with their own magnetic charm. And yes, youâve labelled them MILFs in your mind more than once. Their son, Nicholas, is long gone from the nest, leaving the two women to embody a kind of confident, enviable domesticity.
Agatha snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts with a two short words. âLocked out?â Her voice is smooth, with a hint of amusement as she tilts her head and surveys you.
You open your mouth to respond, but your gaze catches on her appearance. Sheâs wearing tight black leggings that cling to her toned legs and a cropped gym shirt that reveals her navel, where a bead of rainwater trails tantalisingly down her skin. Her wavy brown hair is piled into a loose bun, though a few strands cling to her flushed neck. A sheen of sweat glistens on her skinâevidence of a workout she must have just finished. Your thoughts betray you as your eyes linger on the curve of her waist, imagining what it might feel like to touch her. A sudden heat rising to your cheeks.
Her blue eyes lock onto yours, a curious smile curving her lips. âHey, you alright?â she asks, a teasing lilt in her tone.
You stammer an explanation about the locked door, your forgotten key, and your parentsâ apparent absence. Agathaâs expression softens, and she motions towards her house with a nod. âCome on, youâre soaked to the bone. Youâll catch your death standing out here.â
For a moment, you hesitate. Accepting her offer feels⊠intimate somehow. But the alternative is staying in the cold rain, and the way her gaze lingers on you makes warmth crawl up your spine. You nod and follow her.
Agathaâs house is welcoming, with a faint scent of flowers mingling with something earthy and grounding. She grabs a towel from a nearby linen closet and tosses it to you with a playful grin. âGuest bathroomâs down here,â she says. âYouâve got two options: strip down and warm up, or stay wet and risk getting sick.â
Your eyes widen, startled by her bluntness. Agatha leans casually against the doorframe, smirking at your reaction. âRelax,â she teases. âIâll get you something dry to wear.â And with that, she saunters away, not bothering to close the door fully behind her. Her confidence leaves you both flustered and intrigued.
Inside the bathroom, you peel off your soaked clothes, debating how much to remove. In the end, you leave your underwear on, wrapping yourself tightly in the towel. When Agatha returns, she hands you a pair of shorts and a blue plaid shirt. Her sharp eyes sweep over you, noting your wet underclothes with a tut. âAll of it,â she says pointedly. âYouâre dripping everywhere.â Before you can respond, she adds, âIâm off to shower. Rio should be back soon.â She turns and leaves, her movements fluid and deliberate, leaving the door ajar once more.
Feeling the weight of her words and gaze, you strip completely, your damp underwear joining the rest of your clothes in a soggy pile. Youâre still mulling over what to do with them when the door opens suddenly. Rio steps in, her dark eyes widening as they land on you.
âOhâsorry,ïżœïżœ she says, though her gaze lingers a beat too long before she averts her eyes. âDidnât know we had company. Agatha didnât mention it.â Her tone is low and smooth, carrying a quiet amusement that makes your skin prickle.
You stammer an apology, clutching the towel back around you. Rioâs lips quirk upward in a faint smirk as she backs out of the bathroom, but not before you catch the way her gaze sweeps over you. Your heart pounds in your chest long after the door closes.
You quickly shower to warm up, but thereâs no cleaning the thoughts inside your head. Memories of Rioâs lingering gaze replay in your mind, but theyâre quickly overtaken by images of Agatha. You canât help imagining what she looks like under the water, her skin glistening with steam, her hair sticking to her neck. The thought is startling, and you shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the fantasy.
After calming your racing mind, you dress in the clothes Agatha left and leave the guest bathroom to find the two women.
You find them both in the kitchen; the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that had soaked through your bones earlier. Agatha moves fluidly between the stove and counter, stirring something fragrant in a pot that smells like tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs. Rio, meanwhile, arranges a bouquet of vibrant flowers in a vase with meticulous care, her strong hands working delicately to adjust the stems.
Itâs domestic, serene even, but thereâs an undeniable electricity in the airâone you canât ignore under the weight of their lingering glances.
Agathaâs grin spreads when she notices you lingering awkwardly near the door. âLooking good,â she says, her eyes flickering over the borrowed clothes. The oversized plaid shirt hangs slightly off your shoulder, and her gaze lingers on the exposed line of your clavicle.
You fidget, tugging the fabric up, but Agatha only smirks, stirring the pot with a deliberate slowness.
Rio rolls her eyes, though thereâs a faint curve to her lips. âIgnore her,â she says, her voice laced with playful exasperation. âShe loves making people squirm.â
You manage a sheepish laugh, but it does little to quell the heat climbing up your neck. Agatha recounts your lockout predicament to Rio with the same teasing edge, her tone carrying just enough detail to make your situation sound both pitiful and amusing.
Rio hums in understanding, sliding the last flower into place and stepping back to admire her work. âStay for dinner,â she offers, her dark eyes soft with genuine warmth. âItâs the least we can do.â
Agatha winks at you over her shoulder. âYeah, we canât have you heading back out into the rain getting all wet againâthe downpour outside hasnât let up.â
You nod, accepting their offer, though the way they exchange glancesâsubtle but chargedâmakes your stomach twist with something you canât quite name.
As you sit at the dining table, Rio who is opposite you, starts pouring red wine into three glasses; her movements fluid and confident. Agatha joins you a moment later, setting down plates of steaming pasta and sitting next to her wife. âHope you like red,â she says, her teasing smile returning.
The conversation flows easily over dinner; their attention split between each other and you. They ask about college life, your plans for the future, and your family; their questions laced with genuine interest and just enough flirtation to keep you on edge
When you have all finished, Rio stands to clear the plates, leaning close as she reaches for yours. The proximity is dizzying, her chest brushing your shoulder, and you catch a faint, earthy scent clinging to her skin.
Agatha doesnât miss a beat, her eyes flickering between you and Rio, her expression smouldering. She doesnât say a word, but the intensity in her gaze speaks volumes.
When you offer to help with the dishes, they wave you off with a chorus of ânonsense.â Agathaâs smile turns wicked. âBesides, we were supposed to have a movie date night tonight. You should join usâitâd be a shame to let all this wine go to waste.â
The phrasing makes you pause, but before you can think too much about it, Agatha ushers you into the living room.Â
The room is cozy, bathed in the soft glow of lamps. Rio claims the armchair with an almost feline grace, crossing her legs and leaning back with a glass of wine in hand. Agatha sprawls on the couch, her posture open and inviting. She pats the seat beside her with an easy smile.
You hesitate for half a second before sitting on the far end of the couch, hyper-aware of the spaceâor lack thereofâbetween you.
The movie starts, but itâs impossible to focus. Agatha stretches her arm along the back of the couch, her fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. The touch is casual, almost innocent, but it sends your pulse racing.
She leans over at one point to refill your glass, her chest grazing your arm. The heat of her proximity is overwhelming, and youâre sure Rio notices the way you stiffen. Thereâs a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes as she takes a sip from her own glass, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.
As the movie progresses, the conversation becomes more pointed. They ask if youâre seeing anyone, and when you choke on your wine at the question, Agatha laughsâa low, throaty sound that makes your stomach flutter.
âNo,â you mumble, setting your glass down a little too quickly.
âWell, thatâs a shame,â she says, her hand brushing your knee lightly. The weight of her touch lingers, even as she pulls away. âI was sure a pretty little thing like you would get snapped up in a heartbeat.â
Rio arches a brow at her wife. âDonât scare them off, Aggie.â
âWhat? Iâm just being friendly,â Agatha replies, her tone innocent but her smirk anything but.
The conversation continues, peppered with light touches and teasing remarks that leave your heart racing.
By the time the credits roll, the tension in the room is palpable. Rio sets her glass down and stretches, her movements deliberate as she rises from the chair. âWhat do you think of married life, Aggie?â she asks, her voice light but carrying an edge. âThink we make a good team?â
Agathaâs gaze flicks to you, her lips curving into a smirk. âThe best. But sometimes, itâs nice to mix things up.â
The comment hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Your heart pounds as you glance between them, unsure if youâre imagining the tension or if theyâre deliberately baiting youâand each other.
You nervously check your phone, hoping for a message from your parents saying theyâre home and wondering where you are. Instead, you find a single text: âOut of town for the weekend, hope youâre doing okay!â
You stare at the screen in disbelief, your stomach sinking.
âEverything alright?â Rio asks, noticing your expression.
"They⊠forgot I was coming,â you admit, feeling foolish. âTheyâre away for the weekend.â
Agatha clicks her tongue, feigning shock. âTerrible parenting, really. Lucky for you, weâre not going anywhere.â
Rio nods, her tone reassuring. âYou can stay here. Weâll take good care of you.â
Thereâs something about the way she says itâgentle but with a sharp edgeâthat makes your breath hitch. You thank them profusely, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks as they show you to the guest room.
They leave you alone for a bit, both going to change. You sit on the bed, your thoughts racing. Their lingering glances replay in your mind, stirring something restless and uncertain. Without thinking, you pick up your phone and start searching their names on social media. Your heart beats faster as you hope for a bikini picture or somethingâanythingâthat might help you satisfy the growing ache of desire.
A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly set the phone aside. Rio steps in, holding a phone charger. âThought you might need this,â she says, her voice soft and her gaze steady.
âThanks,â you manage, taking it from her. Her fingers brush yours for a fleeting moment, and she lingers by the door before slipping away.
Did she know what you were about to do?
A short while later, thereâs another knock. This time, itâs Agatha, holding a glass of water. âThought you might be thirsty,â she says, her tone lighter, almost teasing.
Surely she hears how that sounds, right?
Her fingers graze yours as she hands it to you, and the warmth of her touch lingers long after she leaves. You sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the glass, your mind spinning with questions you canât answer.
"Okay, itâs totally normal to be offered a glass of water before bed, and it does not mean they can read your mind,â you whisper to yourself, trying to curb your horniness.
â
Later that night, as you lie in bed, unable to sleep, the events of the evening are still playing over in your mind, especially the lingering touches and smirks. Suddenly, you remember the spare key your parents used to keep hidden under the plant pot by the front door. Without even thinking about how weird it was to up and leave in the middle of the night, you hop out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. But just as you reach the stairs, a voice stops you cold.
âExactly where do you think youâre sneaking off to?â
Turning slowly, you see Agatha leaning against a doorway, her silhouette illuminated by the faint light from her bedroom. She is wearing a floral robe, and her hair is slightly mussed; her expression is both amused and predatory.
âIâI wasnât sneaking,â you stammer, holding up your hands defensively. âI just remembered my parents used to keep a spare key under the plant pot. I thought Iâd grab it and let myself inââ
âWithout saying goodbye?â she interrupts, stepping closer. Her tone is teasing, but thereâs a sharpness to her gaze that makes your pulse quicken.
Before you can respond, another figure appears behind her. Itâs Rio, wearing nothing but her underwear and a top that reads: BOHNER FAMILY REUNION. PITCH A TENT. Her dark hair is messy, and you notice a small, mouth-shaped bruise blooming on her neck that definitely wasnât there earlier.
âYou were being so good for us before now,â Rio says softly, her voice carrying an edge that makes your knees weak. âWe said weâd take care of you, didnât we?â
The heat in your cheeks is unbearable now, and there is a familiar wetness pooling between your thighs. You stammer out an apology, but their combined presence is overwhelming.
âRelax,â Agatha purrs, her fingers grazing your arm. âWeâre not upset, just disappointed you wouldnât come see us before saying goodbye.â
Before you can process her words, Rio steps forward, her hand gently tilting your chin up to meet her gaze. âWhere were you going to sleep after grabbing that key, hmm? Your parentsâ dark, empty house? Sounds pretty lonely to me,â she murmurs, her lips curving into a faint smirk as Agathaâs hands slide around your waist.
Rioâs touch is featherlight yet commanding, her fingers tilting your chin just enough to keep your wide-eyed gaze locked with hers. Her dark eyes glimmer with something unreadableâintensity, curiosity, desire, maybe all three.Â
Youâre painfully aware of Agathaâs hands on your waist, her touch firm but teasing, fingers curling just slightly as if testing your reaction. âAnd what would you do when you found out that they no longer keep one there? They stopped doing it since the break-in, donât you know? Would you come back over here and beg for us to take you back in and keep you warm?â Agatha says softly, her breath brushing against the back of your neck.Â
You try to answer, but your words stick in your throat as Rio steps closer, her thumb brushing along your jawline.
âSheâs right,â Rio adds softly, her voice low and velvety. âWhy sneak off when youâre already here?â
Your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears as you look between them. You want to say somethingâanythingâbut the weight of their combined attention renders you speechless.
Agatha chuckles, the sound rich and almost predatory. âCat got your tongue, sweetheart?â She presses closer, her front brushing against your back now, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.
Before you fully realise whatâs happening, Agatha and Rio are guiding you away from the stairs. Youâre caught between them, their touches subtle yet deliberate. They lead you down the hall, past the guest room, and into the master bedroom.
The room is large but intimate, the air carrying the faint scent of cedarwood. A soft glow from a bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the space. Agatha releases your waist to close the door behind you; the click of the lock is startlingly loud in the quiet.
Rio takes the lead now, her hands resting lightly on your arms as she guides you towards the bed. Her touch is warm and grounding, yet thereâs a deliberate slowness to her movements, like sheâs savouring the moment.
âYouâve had a long day,â she says, her voice soothing but laced with something deeper. âLet us take care of you.â
Agatha steps into view, her smirk as confident as ever. âOr, we can stop. If thatâs what you want?â She asks, tilting her head as she studies you.
Your heart pounds as you shake your head, unable to trust your voice.Â
Agathaâs smile widens, satisfaction gleaming in her hazel eyes. âBe good and use your words for us, hun.â
âPlease donât stop,â you whimper.
At that, Agatha moves swiftly to your other side, her presence as bold as ever. Her fingers brush against your jaw, turning your head slightly so youâre looking directly at her. âYouâre so tense,â she murmurs, her thumb grazing your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and intimate. âWeâll fix that.â
You barely have time to process her words before Rio steps closer, her body heat radiating against yours. Her hand trails down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate, as if sheâs memorising every inch of you.
The room seems to shrink as the weight of their attention consumes you.Â
Agathaâs thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and you feel a thrill shoot through you as her lips quirk into that teasing, predatory smile.
âSee something you like?â she murmurs, her voice a low purr. âYou werenât careful enough not to like some of our pictures online, darling.â
Shit. So their coming into your room was not a coincidence.
Before you can stammer out an excuse, her lips capture yoursâsoft but demanding, her confidence evident in the way she takes control. Her hands slide up to cradle your face, her touch firm yet tender, while the kiss is a paradox of teasing and intensity.
Rioâs hands suddenly slide to your hips, pulling your attention. Agatha leans back just slightly, her breath fanning your face as her lips curve into a smirk.
âYour turn, my love,â she says, glancing at Rio with a playful challenge in her eyes.
Rio doesnât hesitate. Her movements are firm as she tilts your chin towards her, her lips finding yours in a kiss thatâs slower, softer, but no less consuming. Where Agatha is fire and fervour, Rio is water, her touch calm yet undeniably intoxicating. Her hand presses gently against the small of your back, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.
When she finally pulls away, her lips linger close to yours, her breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the room. âYou taste as good as I thought you would,â she murmurs, her voice low and laced with something that makes your knees weak.
Agatha laughs softly, stepping even closer so that youâre cocooned between them. Her fingers trail down your arm, igniting sparks along your skin. âI think theyâre enjoying this, donât you darling?â she teases, her gaze flicking between you and Rio.
Rio smirks, her eyes glinting in the dim light. âIâd say so.â
They exchange a knowing glance before Agathaâs hands firmly grip your shoulders, and with a playful yet commanding push, they guide you onto the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting with the harsh intensity of their movements.
Agatha walks into what you presume is her closet, but you donât think on it for long as Rio is straddling you in a matter of moments. She is kissing you with a deep need; meanwhile, her hand makes its way under the waistband of your shorts; she swipes two of her fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, letting out a groan of pleasure at the feel of it and brings her fingers to your lips.
Just as youâre about to take her digits in your mouth, you hear Agathaâs voice full of desire call, "Off."
But Rio doesnât move; instead, she pushes her fingers into your mouth, groaning at the feeling.
Agatha grabs the woman by the scruff of the neck and yanks her off of you.
âBut Aggie, theyâre so wet already,â Rio whines.
If your lips werenât already parted from having sucked on Rioâs fingers, your mouth would have dropped open at the sight of Agatha; she had removed her robe, revealing the purple lace lingerie underneath.
She places something you canât see at the foot of the bed and comes to stand next to you. âIt seems like everything you wear ends up soaked,â she says, mock concern coating every word.Â
Rio looks longingly at Agatha, a silent request on her face. With a single nod from Agatha, Rio starts undressing you hungrily. And as soon as you're bare, her mouth is on you again, exploring every inch of newly exposed skin.
âYou know,â Agatha drawls, âBefore your little stunt back there, my wife and I were finishing off our date with a wonderful night in bed.â She continued. âBoth of us talkedâor rather tried to talk between our moansâabout how weâd get you to join us.â You feel Rio smirk against your skin at this last sentence.
You shudder under Rioâs relentless kisses and Agathaâs firm gaze. Your legs are forced apart with strong hands, and you feel the cool air hit your heat.
âYouâre dripping everywhere,â Agatha states for the second time that evening. âNow let us take care of you.â Her voice is sure, leaving no room for arguments.
Rioâs makes her way down your body, nipping and sucking at your skin. When she reaches your thighs, her touch becomes lighter, stopping short of where you want her mouth most.
âPlease.â You beg, back arching up into her.
The feeling of her lips on your clit is pure ecstasy. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation of Rio starting to suck lightly. Moaning, you grab a fistful of her hair and grind up into her face, seeking more.Â
She hums in satisfaction, happy to fulfil your request. She nips gently and begins to tease your entrance with her tongue, dipping it in ever so slightly. It doesnât take long before youâre cumming all over her face, her name falling repeatedly from your lips. Itâs only when you start to come back down that you remember Agatha is still in the room. She is looking at you with sheer lust, clearly struggling to keep herself from interrupting Rioâs fun.Â
As if they could read each otherâs minds, Rio withdraws from between your legs and comes to sit behind you, pulling you up so your back is against her chest. She pinches one of your nipples, causing your head to drop back on to her shoulder. A firm hand grips your chin, forcing it back up, and you open your eyes to see Agatha kneeling between your legs, her hands rubbing up and down your thighs.
âYou need to look at Mommy when she fucks you,â Rio whispers in your ear before playfully nibbling your earlobe.
Agathaâs arms snake under your legs, pulling your hips up and into her. Itâs then that you feel something hard poke you, making your eyes go wide. At some point when Rio was fucking you, Agatha had slipped into a harness, a purple dildo secured firmly in the centre.
âAre you sure you want this?â She asks, bringing the tip to your entrance. âIâll only continue with your enthusiastic consent.â
The fact that she cares enough to make sure you were definitely okay with this, only turns you on more. âYes. Please, Agathaâ" Rio's grip on your jaw tightens. âMommy,â you correct yourself. âPlease fuck me, Mommy.â
And with that, she slides into you, facing very little resistance with how wet you are. As she bottoms out, her hips pressing into yours, you canât help the whimper that escapes your lips.
âKiss me,â you demand.
You hear Agatha chuckle when she leans into you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss while still continuing her thrusts.Â
The sex is messy and loud, and you cum at least two more times before the couple shows any kind of stopping. You are left gasping, your body shaking; Rioâs firm hold on you is the only thing keeping you upright.
âThink you can go for one more round, sweetheart?â Agatha teases as Rio climbs out from behind you.
With the strap still inside you, Agatha rolls you over so she is lying on the bed and you are straddling her hips. The other woman settles her thighs on either side of Agathaâs head, facing you.
âHoney, you really have enjoyed having our guest round, havenât you?â
Rio doesnât reply, only winking at you before lowering herself onto Agathaâs face.
You start to grind your hips at the sight, the strap hitting the perfect spot inside you, Agatha begins to flick her tongue over Rioâs clit, and Rio pulls your face in to start making out with you. This change in position has the harness rubbing against Agathaâs clit, pulling the most gorgeous moans from her. All of you are lost in waves of pleasure; the sounds of grunting, moaning, and whining filling the room.Â
You all cum at different times, but it doesnât matter because nobody stops until the last of you is coaxed through the final aftershocks of your orgasms.
Untangling yourself from one another, you and Rio flop down beside Agatha, dumb smiles plastered across all of your faces. Itâs a few minutes before they get up, but Agatha takes off the harness, giving it to her wife before coming back and drawing you into her arms. Rio wanders off to their bathroom to clean it off and returns with a wet cloth to clean you up as well.
She rejoins you after she's done and presses a soft kiss to your head, coming to lay down behind you, draping her arm across your body. With the three of you like that, it is not long before you fall into a deep sleep, a small smile still visible on your lips.Â
You were going to ache in the morning, but right this second you couldnât find a single fuck to give.
ââ
Please like&reblog if you enjoyed, I thrive off external validation and it motivates me to write more stuff like this đ
#agatha all along#agatha all along fanfic#agatha harkness#rio vidal#agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader#agathario x reader#agathario x you#agatha x rio x reader#rio vidal x reader#rio x reader#rio vidal smut#rio x reader smut#rio vidal x reader smut#rio vidal fic#rio vidal fanfic#aubrey plaza character#alternate universe#marvel#mcu#rio vidal x you#rio x you#agatha harkness x reader#agatha harkness x you#agatha x reader#agatha x you#agatha harkness smut#wlw smut#kathryn hahn#agathario#x reader
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Yours, Mine, Ours
Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader
wc: 1.5k words
warnings/tags: fluff
âSo did the other two actually say no or did you just never invite them?â
ââCourse I invited them, you asked me to, so I did.â Simon replies with ease, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. âTheyâre smart lads, lovie, they knew to say no all by themselves.â
You shake your head at him in disbelief but the smile thatâs been plastered across your face ever since the two of you pulled out of your flatâs parking doesnât budge. Simonâs been driving for a few hours now, and as stressful of an experience as that is alone, youâre too excited to mind the long journey in the car.
Simon is on leave for the next two weeks, something about Price having to attend a funeral following a death in the family, and deciding that everyone on the force was due for a bit of time off. Seeing as the Captain was going to be preoccupied during his time off duty, he had asked if Simon wouldnât mind checking in on his house for him, making sure things were alright. Heâd even offered for the two of you to stay in the guest room for the duration of their leave.
Simon had explained how Price knew that the two of you were living in a small flat in London, and apparently his home was in a beautiful, forested, isolated area which meant he had essentially no neighbours, something he also knew would appeal to Simon. He offered for the two of you to stretch your legs out there at enjoy the property, including the privacy that came with it.
Wanting to be polite, youâd told Simon he should extend the invitation to Soap and Gaz, thinking they might enjoy a nice, quiet stay-cation as well at their Captainâs place away from it all. It would appear your lover had different ideas in mind however. Though you couldnât blame him entirely, the thought of having the cozy cabin all to yourselves was certainly more appealing.
Every which way you look outside the car, your vision is filled by endless blurry trees as you zoom by, the colours of the leaves having finally changed into the warmer, more vibrant colour palette that came along with the autumn chill. If the drive up to his property was any indication of how beautiful the area really was, then you were in for quite the treat.
Entranced by the beauty of the landscape in comparison to the city lights youâve grown so used to, you fail to notice the glances Simon keeps sneaking your way, the smallest of satisfied smiles seemingly permanently etched upon his face beneath his balaclava. He was grateful that after explaining the situation and Priceâs generous offer to you, you had been too excited to ask many questions, instead getting a jump start on packing a duffel bag or two.
You were one of the most intelligent, clever, curious people heâd ever known, and it was normally quite difficult to get anything by you. He was therefore feeling rightfully proud of himself as he drove you nearer and nearer to the home you believed belonged to his Captain. In actuality, there was no funeral for Price to attend, the sergeants had certainly not been invited along on your getaway, and the home youâd be staying in wasnât Priceâs.
It was yours.
Yours, and Simonâs.
The two of you had been living in that shoebox of a flat heâd considered as âsatisfactoryâ when he was only staying there as a bachelor, for far too long. As ideal as the location might have been, there simply just wasnât enough space for two people to live together, even considering Simonâs absences for work and that fact that when he was home, you two were essentially always on top of one another anyways.
Youâd both been searching for a new flat for what felt like ages now, none of the places you visited feeling like the right fit. Simon would be weary about a certain neighborhood, youâd be concerned with the lack of any balcony or outdoor space, heâd ignore the price tag that felt your eyes bulging, and youâd shake your head as you walked through doorways that had him needing to duck down.
Little did you know, Simon had been doing his own house hunting, outside of the city. You had told Simon you were fine with staying in London, understanding that itâs convenient to have everything near by. But Simon didnât want to give you just âfineâ. He wanted to give you a home. The home he intends to spend the rest of his life with you in, plans on carrying you over the threshold in your wedding dress, hopes to carry sleeping newborns in their car seats through the door.
For months now, Simon has subtlety been learning more about what that home looked like to you. Heâd look over your shoulder as you scrolled through Pinterest, casually asking if you could show him your boards, you know just for fun, and paid very close attention when you showed him the one named âfuture houseâ. On his phone, he had a list a mile long in his notes app, from secretly writing down every comment you made while watching your home reno shows. Heâll casually ask you what you think of the houses you drive by, jotting down your answers in his mind, remembering likes and dislikes.
He believes that like you, itâs the people filling the home that matter more than the structure itself, as proven by the way you continue to put up with his minuscule flat. He knows you mean it when you say youâre alright with another flat. But he has the money goddammit, he has the means to do this for you, and when the listing came up for a home in what youâd revealed as being your ideal area to settle down in one day, the house resembling the amalgamation of everything he believed youâd described as being your perfect place, he knew he had to put an offer in.
And if there ever was anything about the house you didnât like or wanted to change, heâd gladly do it for you, no questions asked. You want to paint the bedroom? Just tell him what colour you want. You want to change the railing on the wrap around porch? Heâs on his way to the hardware store already. You need him to dig a stump out of the backyard to make room for your garden? Sit back and enjoy the show lovie, heâs on it. And when the time comes to build a crib? Well he may as well baby proof the whole house while heâs at it too.
Heâs pictured your reaction a thousand times over in his mind. He imagines youâll maybe give a small gasp when he turns the corner of the long driveway and you first see the cozy, two-storey home, surrounded by never-ending foliage of red, orange, and yellow leaves, the time of year perfect for appreciating autumn in the UK, as well as the privacy the tall trees grant you. He thinks the first thing youâll comment on will likely be the windows, an item high on your priority list he knew to adhere to.
He imagines you kicking off your boots as you step through the door, pace quickening to explore every room, spinning in the kitchen as you joke about how jealous you are of Price. He pictures you groaning with envy when you spot your dream master bathroom, insisting to Simon that since youâd been tasked with checking in on the home you may as well see every room, right? He plans to explain away the obvious sparseness of the home as the Captain not having lived here long, as being very non-materialistic after all his years in service.
Heâll continue to play along for as long as he can, part of him knowing that you know him well enough that youâre likely to catch onto his deception at some point. However he hopes that before you start rummaging through kitchen cabinets and find them empty, too empty even for an absentee captain of a homeowner, that youâll mention something along the lines of wishing you could stay here longer. Thatâs when he plans to slip a key into the palm of your hand, revealing that you might be able to stay longer than you believe.
The small piece of metal thatâll unlock the rest of your lives together, sits heavy in his pocket, in contrast to the light feeling in his heart when his hand reaches across the dashboard to grab a hold of yours, knowing that the content, lovesick smile you offer him is likely stretched across his face as well, staring right back at you.
Though youâre unaware that Simon is currently driving towards your home, and not away from it, youâre gently stroking the scarred skin across his hand, feeling as though your home is sitting right next to you, holding your hand and your heart at the same time.
#call of duty#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fic#simon ghost riley#simon riley#cod fanfic#ghost x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#cod simon ghost riley#cod simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon fluff#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley fluff#simon ghost fluff#ghost x you#ghost fanfic#call of duty ghost#ghost cod#ghost#readwritealldayallnight
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collateral damage
pairing: rio vidal x agatha harkness x fem!reader
summary: after being stranded by your ex-lovers, you've found a new life, hoping to finally move on. unfortunately, fate just doesn't seem to be on your side.
content: angst, allusions to smut, sapphic yearning
a/n: i'm obsessed to say the least
You should've known.
From the moment Agatha stepped foot into your pitiful excuse of a store, you should've slammed the door shut. For years, you'd been reeling from the wounds inflicted by your so-called lover. If you could even call her that. Never, did she once, refer to you as anything other than her 'pet'.
You supposed the name was fitting. You were practically a dog, groveling at the ground she walked on. Hoping, begging, praying, dying that she wouldn't leave.Â
Then, without a trace, she vanished from your life, set on her next twisted mission. You had simply been a means to an end, a brief footnote in her life.Â
It didn't help that the only other person you cared about, Rio, had followed in Agatha's absence. They'd left you alone, desperately trying to piece together the shattered remains of what you once had.Â
Sometimes, you wondered. You wondered if they ever felt guilty about what they did, and if they ever thought of you from time to time. Then, you scolded yourself for even daring to believe that the Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal would have the time of day to care about you. You had drowned in that pit of self-deprecation for years, slowly re-learning how to live without them.Â
And just as you thought you were finally free, the wretched witch came back, pulling you back under her spell. If it were anyone else, you would have said 'no'. But it wasn't just 'anyone else'. It was Agatha. You weren't sure where this sick, borderline-obsessive love for her came from. You had left it to depreciate in the back of your mind, where you would have preferred for it to have stayed.
Unfortunately, Agatha had had other plans.
It was stupid. You hated yourself for it. You hated that tiny spark that you felt when she said your name, that familiar warmth in your chest when she came close. You would've given anything to stop the feeling.
If only Agatha knew. Throughout her long, melodramatic speech about the rewards of The Road, all you could do was stare at her in disbelief. The promise of being with her, even if it were for a short while, was enough to have convinced you. If you had known, back then, that Rio would have been joining you, you would have eagerly accepted the offer without hesitating.
But then again, time had cast a golden glow over your past relationships. You hadn't remembered how unwanted you had felt in their presence, how much they hadn't cared about you.
Sat around the warmth heat of the fireplace, your gaze lay wistfully on the two women. Situated across from them, you felt more distant to them than you had when you were alone.
"I have a scar," Rio suddenly spoke, glancing over at the coven.
"No, you don't," Agatha shot back, almost instantly.Â
Your ears perked, waiting for Rio's next words.
"Yes, I do," Rio replied, glancing over at Agatha, her solemn gaze worth a thousand unspoken words. It was their dynamic, their silent conversations, that left you feeling like a second-choice. The feeling settled into the pit of your stomach, which you desperately tried to keep from coming back up.
"A long time ago, I loved someone." Rio shot another pointed look at Agatha. "And I had to do something that I did not wanna do, even though it was my job. And it hurt them. She is my scar."
If you had the choice to go deaf right there and then, you would have chosen it immediately. Although, you knew it wouldn't stop the sharp pain you felt in your heart. Seeing them together was enough.Â
"I have to go stretch my legs," Agatha said, walking away.
Just like she used to walk away from every problem in her life. Like she did with you.
You couldn't bear it. One more second in their presence, and you were sure you would have thrown up.
"Same," you replied quietly, walking in the opposition direction to your past lover.Â
It was only until the warmth of the fire was long gone, that you felt the tears sliding down your cheeks.Â
Breaking down into sobs, you brought your knees to your chest, burying your head inside. You shouldn't have come. You should have said no.Â
It seemed as though fate was constantly punishing you, tugging at your heartstrings until they threatened to break. You hated that a part of you wanted to hurt them. Just enough, so that you too would have left a scar. But you knew you couldn't do it. You wouldn't. Not after they shared, so intimately, their past with you, letting you devour every fiber of their being.
You knew why they were the way that they were. That's why it hurt so much to watch them, again and again, fall victim to their pasts. That's why you could never leave, knowing how much pain they had endured, knowing that their wounds ran too deep to ever heal.
Sympathy was a knife, stabbed straight into your back when they left you to dry.
"You good?"
You'd been so deep in your emotions, you hadn't noticed the dark shadow looming over you. Swiveling around, you were met with a pair of manic brown eyes.
"Rio," you exhaled, quickly wiping away your tears. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Rio shook her head softly, pushing her tongue against her right cheek. Her fingers trailed up your leg, sending shivers down your spine.Â
"Come on, now," she lulled. "You never were much of a good liar."
"Maybe I've changed," you replied sharply, pulling away from her touch.
Rio's grip tightened, her fingernails digging into your thigh. "Maybe you have," she replied dismissively. "Is that why you never called?"
You scoffed, turning away from her piercing stare. "No. We're not doing this - this wasn't my fault. You and Agatha left without saying a word to me. Call me crazy for assuming you were done with me."
"Now there's the Y/N I know," Rio bit back. "Always jumping to conclusions."
You rolled your eyes at her. "What does it matter anyways? You seem perfectly fine without me. I didn't seem to have left a scar."
"Is that what this is about?" Rio questioned, a taunting grin tugging at her lips.
You refused to dignify her question with an answer.
"Aww, was our little baby feeling left out?"
A mocking, cruel voice rang out in the air, one that you knew all too well.
"Fuck off, Agatha," you snapped. You were hardly in the mood to deal with her heartless jests tonight.
"Someone's forgotten their manners," Agatha remarked, her voice laced with venom.Â
Rio chuckled, her grip still deathly tight on your thighs. You could feel the blood seeping out of your skin, onto her fingers.
"I wish I could have forgotten you instead," you retorted, unsure where this newfound attitude was coming from.Â
"Now, now. Don't get too cocky," Rio warned, although the grin on her face said something entirely different.
You bit back a scoff. "What's this, anyways? Last time I checked, you both hated each other."
The Green Witch shrugged. "We both share a common interest."
Refusing to take anymore of this, you made a move away from them, eager to escape Rio's death grip. Unfortunately, the two witches were unwilling to let you get away so easily.
"Don't," Agatha cautioned, her voice alone enough to stop you in your tracks.
"What do you want?" you snapped, finally turning towards her.
Your eyes narrowed as Agatha's smile turned into something sinister.
"You," she replied definitively.Â
You laughed sarcastically, barely believing what was happening right now. "Are you fucking kidding me? You left me. You can't - I - don't you think we're too far gone now? I mean, you left me wondering where the hell you -"
"We didn't want to leave," Rio interjected.
"Then why did you?"Â
"We cared too much about you to stay," Rio explained, gently interlocking your fingers with hers. "It would've only have hurt you."
"Well, you hurt me either way," you replied bitterly, flinching at the coldness of the witch's fingers.
Rio sighed. "I know. I know we did."
Exasperated, Agatha tilted your head up with her fingers, forcing you to look her in the eyes. "Pet, we're sorry."
"Well, sorry doesn't cut it anymore. Not in my books," you snapped, wrenching yourself out of their grasps. "And don't call me that. I'm not your pet."
Without looking back, you walked back towards the fireplace. Unbeknownst to you, the two witches you left behind were hardly satisfied with your answer.
"She's forgotten who she belongs to," Rio murmured, staring into the back of your head.
Agatha tightened her jaw, shaking her head. Her eyes met Rio's, a knowing smirk playing on their lips.Â
"It looks like we'll have to teach her a lesson then, hm?"
#agathario#agatha harkness#agatha harkness x reader#agathario x reader#rio vidal#agatha all along#rio vidal x reader#agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader#dark!agatha harkness#dark!agatha harkness x reader#dark!rio vidal#dark!rio vidal x reader#agatha harkness x you#rio vidal x you
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Request idea:
Your darling, adoring, wonderful boyfriend Jason sits you down And solemnly confesses that he is red hood. Heâs been dreading this day for months. If you want to leave, heâll understand and waitâ-
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU KNEW THE WHOLE TIME?
Jason thinks heâs in an angst fic. The reader is in a rom com where her boyfriend has been a ridiculously obvious superhero, but sheâll let him tell her when heâs ready.
Maybe some shaningany flashbacks where youâve helped to keep his identity secret (stalling so he can change, giving alibis) while he was oblivious.
- Batchilla
To Wait and To Love
Hi Batchilla! Hope you enjoy! ⥠~1.5k words
Your boyfriend is a vigilante, Red Hood, to be exact. You know this. He's just not aware you know this.
It's obvious, really, and kind of cute the way he makes excuses to leave. Sure, before you put two and two together, it was starting to seem like he was just dragging you along. But it all made sense when you caught sight of the helmet poorly concealed under his bed.
It makes you wonder if he wants to get caught. Especially when he brings you flowers from the shop you just saw him save from Poison Ivy on TV. Or freezer-burnt cartons of ice cream from your favorite ice cream shop, which was buried under piles of snow courtesy of one Mr. Freeze only twenty minutes ago.
You offer him big smiles and kisses of thanks, and your heart melts a little at how relieved he looks, how baffled he is by your understanding. And you do understand. To tell someone you run around in spandex and leather every night is a big risk, especially for someone who used to run crime in Gotham.
You're no angel yourself, even if he does call you one, and it's endearing to watch him scramble for excuses. It's even more endearing that he tries so hard to make it up to you when he's late, when he has to leave early, when he comes back battered and bruised with flimsy half-thought out explanations.
You'll let him take all the time he needs to tell you, and it's almost funny how easily you've come to cover for him.
"Jason? Oh, he's changing his suit. Someone knocked into me and I spilled my drink all over his jacket. How embarrassing," You laugh out, answering the reporter's question over Jason's absence from the latest Wayne Gala. It's only half a lie, you might not have spilled your drink but he's definitely changing his suit. It's just not the suit anyone would expect.
Once whispers of a break-in at Gotham National Bank started circulating the Gala, it wasn't hard to miss the meaningful glances between your boyfriend and his family. Sometimes you wonder how no one's noticed it before.
You smile brightly at him once he comes back, smelling like gunpowder and leather, and you let him kiss your knuckles while he mumbles apologies over getting caught up with an old friend. You don't imagine Riddler is exactly an old friend, but you teasingly tell him how he owes you a dance for making you wait. He smiles back, his own grin even brighter than yours, as he leads you to the dance floor.
You're opening the door to your apartment, chatting lazily with your friend after a night out.
"Is your boyfriend here? I remember you saying you two were practically living together," they ask, eyes trailing around your living space.
You hum thoughtfully, "We pretty much are. I think he might be sleeping or out looking for the stray cat we saw the other day. It had a bad limp." It's not a hundred percent a lie either, there was a hurt stray. You just know that Catwomen already picked it up, after a text Jason sent to Bruce Wayne's current girlfriend, Miss. Selena Kyle. Which would have been more of a surprise if you didn't already know who Batman was.
But it definitely isn't the truth, because you did catch sight of a red helmet following you and your friend back from the club. (Gotham never felt safer, than when he was watching over you.)
Your friend coos and starts to respond, when a thump sounds from the fire escape. They jolt, "What was that?"
"The cat, probably," You say quickly, letting out a laugh, "it's, uh, pretty big. Has a limp. Hey, did I show you the flowers Jason got me?" You gesture towards the bouquet behind them, and you both focus on the pretty blossoms.
Within minutes, you hear your bedroom door open and close. "Hi, baby," Jason drawls, looping an arm around your waist to pull you to his side, "Sorry, I fell asleep, how was your night?"
You pretend not to notice the limp he's nursing, one you're certain he should be resting, and tilt your head up to kiss his jaw, "It was fun. Missed you."
"I missed you too," he echoes fondly, and the three of you fall into an easy conversation. You distract your friend when you all go to sit on the couch, and if you choose to avoid sitting on his left side, it's certainly not because Red Hood hurt his leg fighting Killer Croc earlier this week.
Jason has never said your name like that before. His eyebrows are knitted together. He's kneeling in front of you, his hands clasped over yours as you sit on the bed.
"I love you and Iâ I have something to tell you," he chokes out, strained, "please, justâ just, hear me out."
It clicks. This is it. He's going to tell you.
You smile and nod, it'll be nice to finally air out this secret. And maybe he could help you work on your excuses? It'll be easier if you're working as a team. You reach out and brush his hair back, unfazed and delighted he's trusting you enough with this, "Of course, Jason. Anything you need to tell me."
Jason is going to throw up. He's finally gotten his act together enough that he's going to tell his partner he's Red Hood. His stomach is churning, it's agony, knowing he could lose them over this.
They're so good to him. So understanding and patient and kind. He has no idea how he got so lucky. And he loves them. It's scary sometimes, how much he loves them. He wants this to last so badly. So, he has to be honest. Has to tell them he isn't what the world says he is.
He's a vigilante. Was a crime lord. He hurts people to save people. He terrifies the trash that calls themselves human. He's not good for you, but he tries. He wants you to still love him.
He wants you to stay so much. Even if he's not good. He wants you. You deserve so much more than the excuses and lies he gives. Jason's wanted to tell you for weeks, but he chokes on his words every time. He's never been so afraid of doing something. Not when he was a kid on the streets. Not when he was Robin. Not as Red Hood.
You look so perfect, sitting at the edge of your bed and smiling at him. He almost flinches when he thinks this could be the last time you smile at him.
He's on his knees. He's prepared to beg. He would beg to keep you.
He says your name, he tells you he loves you. It might be the last time he gets to say that to you. The thought makes him even more nauseous. He tells you he has something to say.
You brush his hair back and keep smiling. He wants to sob. You don't know. You don't know what he is, what he's done.
"I'm Red Hood," he gasps out, voice ragged.
A beat. You're still smiling, you still look happy, and you're nodding at him.
He blinks at you, "I'm Red Hood," he repeats, "I know that- I know it's a lot. I understand if you never want to see me again, but, babyâ"
You lean forward and kiss him. He's more than just a little dumbfounded. "Jason, I love you too. I'm not leaving you. I, um, kind of already knew you were Red Hood?" You say, a sheepish smile coming over your face.
"Youâ what?" Jason stumbles out. You're still here. Still touching him. You kissed him. You look relaxed. Happy.
"I saw your helmet under the bed. Everything clicked after that," You tell him gently.
"And you're okay with that? You're okay with me?" He asks, tone betraying his desperation.
Concern flashes in your eyes, "Of course I'm okayâ I'm more than okay with that, Jason. I love you, tights or not."
He lets out a laugh, and his stomach swoops, the tension dissipating throughout his body, "Yeah?"
You grin at him, cupping his face, "Yeah, but you're going to have to show me how you swing around rooftops."
He gets off his knees to kiss you again, he doesn't think this moment could get any better, "Is that all?"
You giggle, at the pure elation in his eyes, and he grins widely at your joy. Then, the moment does get better, "Well, I'm kinda interested in the car Batman drives around you."
"I could make that happen," he murmurs, and seals the promise with another kiss, "You wanna see the batplane too?"
Your eyes light up, and Jason thinks he might be addicted to the mischievous glint that flickers in your gaze.
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Discretely touching them down there to their parts and gently squeezing when no one is looking and them not being able to do anything (since it's in public).
Ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, & Roy. AN: Anon you're a menace and I love ya!
Bruce
You get exactly one, which he acknowledges with a stern pout and a cocked brow. Flawlessly concealing the fire youâve ignited but for his laboured breathing and blown-out pupils. Youâre walking a thin line, behaving like a brat in front of Gothamâs elite.
If he sees you reaching for him again, and trust, he will see; it will take him precisely 0.8 seconds to lock you in an unsuspecting death grip and pull you close. He wants you to feel the increased tempo of his heart against your chest. To feel the growing stiffness of his hard-on grazing your hip as he tells you assertively to; âBehave.â Â
Dick
Dick sees your game; he raises you tenfold. He knows youâre up to something when he clocks the determined bite of your lips as you survey the subway car, and the mischievous glint in your eye as you look back at him. When your hand snakes under this shirt, caressing his v-lines, he juts his hips forward, presenting himself to you; daring you to take it further.
When you sink your fingers below his waistband he sucks in a deliberately loud breath. You freeze to survey your surroundings, but Dick does not. Dick starts grinding on you until he senses you growing nervous. He locks a sturdy hand around your elbow just in time to prevent you from pulling away, leans in close and whispers; âWhatâs wrong baby? Thought you wanted to play?â
Jason
âIs that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?â You giggle at your own joke, because Jason is always packing some form of heat. He might have laughed too, might have trapped your wrist in his hands and rocked against your outstretched palm if youâd been at home, or the club, or even the casino. But not the fucking grocery store, you little perv. Â
âAre you drunk?â He offers you an out, glaring down at you with a gaze fierce enough to make a nun blush. You respond with a brazen-faced shake of your head, and he canât help but imitate it out of disbelief at your cocky attitude. You stay like that, locked in a stare of, rock vs hard place, until Jason cracks first, noticing a couple rounding the corner at the other end of the aisle.
He grabs your arm with an unapologetic level of force, spinning you around and trapping you between his body and the trolley. Hiding his hardness by pressing it against your back. âYouâre in for it later.â
Tim
Tim is the most taken aback. His pale blue eyes are rapidly examining your surroundings the moment he feels your devious fingers ghosting over the top of his thigh. Heâs cute when heâs flustered, with pink cheeks and blown-out pupils. Nobody is looking, too focused on the conference speaker.
âWhat are you doing?â He hisses, but before he can get his words out, your hand is gone, casually pulling a non-existent thread from your sleeve.
You donât reply, you just smile and shoot him a playful wink which puts him even more on edge. So much so that when you abruptly return, this time cupping his half-hard cock through his jeans that he fucking flinches. His knee hits the chair in front, and he sucks in a loud breath, earning him many pointed glares from multiple members of the audience.
âBabe.â Be tries to warn, but his hushed breathy tone makes him sound exactly as aroused as he feels.
Roy
You get it, you do. It was a long trip, and heâs starving but youâve really been feeling his absence over the last few weeks, and the fact that youâre currently sat in a Burrito Bucket, watching Roy devour a tray of tacos, instead of being at home and watching him devour you, is a problem.
He seems to have noticed your sulking, but too late. âYou okay ho- â
His question is halted by your foot tactfully situating itself between his legs. His gaze flits between his food and you, defiant eyes watching you through a mop of shaggy hair. A knowing grin spreads across his queso-stained lips as you answer faux-sweetly. âIâm fine, baby.â
âRight.â He huffs, breath hitching, freckled cheeks turning red when you press your toes down and something firm pushes back. He knows what you want, but he just loves to play dumb. So, he takes another bite, jerking every time you tap or roll your foot but never acknowledging what youâre silently begging for. âIs this one of those things where you say youâre fine, but actually youâre not fine?â
âIâm going home.â You finally concede with an exaggerated sigh, dropping your foot back to the floor and gathering your things.
âIâm coming with you.â Heâs on you the moment you stand, draping his arm over you and placing kisses to the side of your neck, your face, whatever he can reach as you struggle to move with his deadweight over your shoulders. Notably, thereâs still half a tray of uneaten tacos left on the table. âFunnily enough, Iâm hungry for something else now.â
Taglist: @wandalfnation
#anon#reader insert#bruce wayne#bruce wayne/reader#bruce wayne x reader#batman#batman x reader#batman/reader#dick grayson#dick grayson/reader#dick grayson x reader#nightwing#nightwing/reader#nightwing x reader#jason todd#jason todd/reader#jason todd x reader#red hood#red hood x reader#red hood/reader#tim drake#tim drake/reader#tim drake x reader#red robin#red robin/reader#red robin x reader#gn reader#roy harper#1k#2k
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giving older bsf toji a bj cs u dont have any money on u for gas đ”âđ«đ”âđ«đ”âđ«
oh mi gosh. dis is absolutely so filthy ând absolutely perfect for him . dis is how grimy he is in my mind.. (modern au where toji is RICH $$)
âtoji.â
âhm, darling?â you look upon the questioning man sitting besides you, one strong hand that guides the steering wheel of your own car. he insisted to drive, and in what position would you say no? youâd never pass up an offer to be passenger princess.
âi-i forgot.â
âforgot what?â
âforgot money for gas, toji.â
âare ya dumb sweetheart? goinâ tâget gas n the one thing ya forgot is gas money?â
ââm s-sorry toji, can you lend me? please? promise i wonât forget next time!â
he scoffs, knowing well that he wouldâve paid nonetheless. but watching you nervously scramble yourself together, anticipating a response from him is too adorable, he thinks.
âyeah, but ya gotta pay me back.â
âcourse i will! gonna give it back as soon as we ge-â
âno sweetie. not with money.â
your head turns slow to the man, already shooting you a evil-intentioned smirk. his free hand comes down to scarce over the evident bulge that pokes through his sweats, indirectly instructing you.
âwith your mouth, honey.â
he chuckles when your face flushes red, how unexpecting.
with over 3 years of close friendship, the man had assumed that you at least wouldâve noticed; his stares that pierce into your skin, touches that linger a little too long, and the constant absence of your favorite panties. what a naive little thing you were; he loved it.
if you didnât know his true intentions then, youâd definitely know now.
âcâmon, yâwant me to fill it up right?â
ât-â
âthe tank sweetie. the car. donât you want gas?â
you huff when he chuckles at your flustered expression. your small fingers dance across his bulge, his own hand messily slipping under the band of his sweats, releasing himself. he canât help the smile that spreads across his face when you gasp, fawn like eyes that immediately shoot up to meet his gaze.
âs-so big..â
âmm, you think so?â he teases.
his hand slithers to the back of your head, fingers playing with one or two strands of your hair.
âcâmon, be good..â
he smiles at you coyly, desperate even, and it makes your heart and your cunt clench.
with slight pressure from the manâs hand, you find yourself lowering onto the tip of his cock. your puffy lips press against the warm slit, an immediate groan that spills from his lips,
âno action recently?â you tease, facing him with a slight smile,
âshaddup princess. yer lucky youâre cute.â
you snicker, separating your slicked up lips to wrap around the thick of his cock head. your tongue presses against the slit once again, tasting the sweet substance that coats his dewy slit; more that spews from the teasing licks.
âdonât t-tease.â
you hold yourself further onto his cock to accommodate his length, a light gag that elicits from your throat. tears brim in your eyes when you feel your jaw begin to ache, but the needy man pays no mind when he begins thrusting into your warmth.
oh and when he feels a warm tear fall onto the skin of his thigh, he nearly cums.
âheh.. there you go, see? ya can do it.â
you hum around him, the light sensation that drills right through his sensitive cock.
âg-gunna cum. shit.â
and with a few shallow thrusts, his cum brims. itâs warm, and thick, but you swallow without a second thought. you pull yourself off to meet your eyes with his, vision daisy and face fumed with a sweet blush once again.
âhah.. gonna have to fill you up, darling. weâll worry about the car later, kay?â
#dis got kinda long but kinda bad . . soz :<#jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#toji fushiguro x reader#fushiguro toji x reader#toji <3#toji smut#jujutsu toji#jjk toji#jujutsu kaisen toji#toji zenin#toji fushiguro#toji x reader#toji fushiguro smut#drabbles ââ
Ëâ#requests à Ë. á”á”
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i'll love you forever
pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader
summary: you were sunghoon's first everything; first friend, first love, and first heartbreak. after years of quietly crushing on you, he was finally ready to confess. so ready to confess, that he told his parents the two of you were already dating! it was an easy enough lie to keep up and he kept it up for months, what could possibly go wrong? he thought. little did he know, you would have a falling out and stop talking for months.. and then, you'd both get invited to spend a week at home with his parents, who still believe you're his girlfriend.
genre: smut, fluff, angst, college au, childhood best friends to lovers, fake dating
warnings: minors dni, fake dating is pretty mild (sorry), she kinda doesnât rate him at the start, these two kind of exist in a vacuum a little bit idk i had a self-enforced word count to stick to and broke it.. (im within the 10% allowance !), sunghoon in a vest, sunghoon arms, sunghoon
word count: 21,858
playlist: click here.. (for my non-spotify babes, the main song is light by wave to earth (which for some reason i put last.. whatever))
author's note: for silly @asahicore. happy birthday pooks i hope it's amazing and that u enjoy reading this when u have the time !!! LOL (lots of love) also im never writing without telling you things again this was so absurd.
to everyone else.. ok happy reading also emma did not beta read this so im sure it's missing its charm .. anyway it's for emma not you đ anyway i hope u enjoy regardless and lmk ur thoughts! omg this is the first fic im nervous about posting.......... please enjoy or else.
In the three years since Park Sunghoon moved away for university, heâd been doing a pretty good job of going home to see his parents. Theyâd welcome their baby back to the nest with open arms and wide grins. With a rehearsed level of indifference, his younger sister, Yeji, would say, âOh, I didnât know you were coming home this weekend.â when she saw him at the dinner table. Sunghoon pretended to only be marginally hurt by this.Â
In the last three months, he hasnât so much as sent a text to his parents.Â
Or to you.Â
Ignoring texts from his mother is devastating. Between classes, he watches as, âHi, sweetie, I love you đ,â turns into, âMissing you, honey, know you must be busy but spare some time for your old mummy, no?â which turns into, âGetting really worried now, are you doing okay? Has something happened with YN? Talk to me, I love you, my baby boy!âÂ
Ignoring texts from you is easy because texts from you never come.Â
Sitting at the end of his bed, Sunghoon rereads a text his mother sent a few minutes ago: Please talk to me, son. Really worried and YN isnât answering calls either. Whatâs going on with you two?
When he leaves his room, he finds Jake lying on the couch, and with his keys in hand, Sunghoon says, âIâm going home.âÂ
And the drive is great! At least, he tells his mum it is. In truth, the drive home without you was nearly impossible. Your ever-expanding home time playlist buzzed through the speakers in his car, but without you there to screech along to the songs, it wasnât the same. He felt your absence the most when he stopped to get petrol and you werenât there behind him struggling to carry enough snacks to feed a small family without offering to pay.Â
The look of worry on his mumâs face stirs a pit in his stomach. âWhy are you so quiet these days? God, you look so tired,â she says, frowning. âIs it school? Or something with YN? Itâs not like her not to text back.â Her brows crease as she whispers the word unless. She pulls him into a hug, her chin resting perfectly on his shoulder, and her comforting hand strokes the hair on the back of his head. âBreakups are never easy, honey. Iâm so sorry, I know how much you love her.âÂ
Breakups are never easy. The sentence hangs heavy over his head.Â
Whether she knows it or not, sheâs handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, the opportunity to set things straight, to end this mess once and for all. No further questions, and most importantly, no more lies.Â
For the first time since he left your flat three months ago, Sunghoon lets himself cry. Heâd imagined this moment countless times, his first cry since you ended things. In his mind, it was always intense. Today, as it happens, only a few salty tears leak from his eyes, spilling onto the cuff of his sleeve, darkening the blue cotton in tiny indigo splotches.Â
âWe didnât break up,â he says in a small voiceâfor some reason. âIâm just having a hard time.â Neither statement is technically untrue, but the words taste rotten in his mouth.
The tightening grip of his mumâs arms around his body is what brings on the harsh, shoulder-racking sobs heâd been anticipating. For a while, they stand like this, Sunghoon weeping into his mumâs cardigan until she sends him upstairs to lie down, promising a cup of tea that never comes.Â
His childhood bedroom is chilly, so he changes into clothes he left behind and climbs into bed, pulling his duvet up to his chin. He turns his head to look at the walls and the room around him, everything is exactly where he left it in the summer. It should be comforting, but itâs weird to be home without you.Â
There are photos of you and him everywhere, growing up and around each other through different stages of life. The two of you together during the summer your family moved in next door, you wore glasses back then and were the first friend heâd made in his life. Sunbathing and sharing earphones at the beach, listening to music together on your iPod classic. Sunghoon in thick glasses with a stiff smile and your arm around him on the first day of high school. Wide grins at the start of this summer, the last time things were okay between you.Â
Overwhelmed, he stares up at the ceiling, only realising heâs crying when a hot tear slips from his eyes to tickle his ear. Because Sunghoon likes to upset himself, he screws his eyes shut and thinks about the night before you stopped talking.Â
Though he didnât know it at the time, youâd left Yeonjunâs place to sit with him in a tiny restaurant on campus, the one youâd only visit to toast to each otherâs heartbreaks. It had become a ritual â ever since your first year boyfriend dumped you after two weeks â to cry as much as you wanted and drink as much soju as your bodies could handle before stumbling back to your apartments.Â
Having spent years suffering from an unrequited crush on his best friend, Sunghoon was always the one to comfort you. But that night was different; you were there to comfort him. It was easy enough to play the part of âboy whose crush likes someone elseâ because he spent your entire friendship in that role. Heâd had no problem accepting his fate, but his composure started to slip when you met Yeonjun. It was the first time youâd dated someone who Sunghoon had reason to be jealous of. In every way, Yeonjun was better than himâtaller, funnier, hotter. Sunghoon knew he didnât stand a chance. He took it personally, you liking Yeonjun instead of him, and let his jealousy consume him from the inside out.Â
This jealousy led him to start telling you about Minjeongâlying to you about Minjeong, and his feelings for her. She was a girl from a college out of town that he saw on his Instagram Explore page. He followed her by accident, and by some stroke of luck, she followed back. Sunghoon didnât really have feelings for her â he didnât even know her â but she was a girl that you didnât know, so you wouldnât be able to meddle.Â
It only took a few weeks for Sunghoon to become so upset about your relationship that he couldnât hide his emotions anymore. So, in a fit of tears, he told you over the phone that things ended badly with Minjeong, and he was in urgent need of a soju ceremony.Â
But the night was missing its usual comforts.
It was strange to be the one crying, to see you looking put together and ordering the food. To see you pouring the drinks and raising your glass to propose a toast to âHoonieâs first heartbreakâ. You were driving that night, so you only had a tiny sip of soju and let him drink as much as he needed, the way he always did for you, at the same table, in the same restaurant for years.Â
Hours later, in your car, you entertained his drunken rambles, though he remembers how your lips were set into a frown that he wanted to kiss away while you gripped the steering wheel like you thought it would run from you. Sunghoon was more drunk than heâd been in a while, drunk enough to let you sling his arm over your shoulders and keep him upright until you reached his flat.Â
The voices coming from Yejiâs room disrupt the memory. Heâs thankful.
âYour brotherâs going through something, so be nice to him this weekend.â His motherâs voice is her version of hushedâa loud whisper.Â
Yejiâs response is harder to make out, but he doesnât miss the way their mum says, âI mean it, missy.âÂ
A dramatic sigh rumbles through Yeji as she barges into his room without knocking. Sunghoon sits up, feeling an ache in his back and crossing his legs.Â
âMum told me to lay off you today, which is fine, but before I do, I need to tell you something.âÂ
Yeji pushes the door shut behind her, and the open window makes it slam, both of them flinching from the sudden noise. She pulls her hair out of a silk scrunchie and throws herself on the floor. A pang of irritation forms in his chest, knowing that he could immediately find the empty hanger in his wardrobe where the shirt sheâs wearing used to live.Â
âI hate you and your perfect golden boy image, Hoon. Would it kill you to fail a class for once? I donât know how Iâm supposed to carry on your legacy.â Sheâs looking up at him, her chin in her hands and irritation written in the crease between her thick brows.Â
Itâs impossible to know if itâs because of Yejiâs complete lack of boundaries or the fact that her âperfect, golden boyâ big brother is on track to fail three out of three classes and get cut from the hockey team, but Sunghoon immediately bursts into tears.Â
âOh, uh.. Iâm sorry?â Yeji offers. âI was kidding if that helps.âÂ
âIâm alright, itâs okay.â The tears donât stop stinging his eyes. âWhy do you want me to change everything about myself?âÂ
With a frown, Yeji pours out her frustration and mild resentment. She doesnât understand how Sunghoon effortlessly conquers every aspect of life while she struggles. Neither do their parents, who had been baffled by her plummeting grades since she moved to boarding school, especially when Sunghoonâs academic performance has only soared since he left for university. The weight of this perceived injustice pulls Sunghoonâs shoulders down with guilt as she talks about the expectations he has inadvertently set for her.Â
âBut other than that, Iâm good.â She shrugs, sitting with her legs out, and leaning back on her palms. âHowâs YN?â she asks. Itâs clear from the brightness in her voice that she thinks sheâs helping.Â
Sunghoon cries again.Â
Back on campus, heâs trying to scrape together whatâs left of his academic career with the help of two of the smartest guys he knows, and their friend Jay. Though the word âfriendâ feels a little strong at the moment given the way Jayâs goading him.Â
Sunghoon rolls his eyes, sitting back in his seat. âThereâs nothing you can do that I canât,â he says, meaning every word.Â
Jay scoffs, shrugging and raising his brow in a way that, over the years, Sunghoon knows to interpret as his âabout to say something ridiculousâ look. âPretty sure I could call YN right now, and sheâd answer.âÂ
Thereâs a pit in Sunghoonâs stomach as Heeseung turns his head in the other direction like heâs been slapped, trembling with stifled laughter. At least Jake doesnât hide his amusement, throwing his head back in a fit of giggles that draw nasty looks from the other students in the library. Sunghoon doesnât waste his energy trying to argue because Jayâs right.
Now composed, Heeseung turns back to the table, flipping through some of Sunghoonâs course materials to find whatever his class was doing in class that week. The English Literature class heâs taking â The Modernist Movement: Joyce, Woolf, and Hemingway â is the same class he had to send a million emails over the summer to get enrolled in, but itâs the same one Heeseung aced two years ago. Lucky for him none of the boys seem to be in the mood to make fun of him for trying so hard to have a class in common with you, and then practically failing out of it before the term had started properly.
âThis class is, like, beyond easy, dude.â Heeseung pauses to sniffle and twist the stud in his ear. âEveryone in my class aced it. How are you doing so badly already?âÂ
âI only took it because YN thought itâd be fun if we had a class together, but.. I kind of havenât been going since we stopped talking.â Sunghoon shrugs, pretending to be unaffected.Â
As if the mere mention of your name has some sort of summoning power, like saying Biggie Smalls in the mirror three times, you appear in his eye line, rounding the corner with a furious stride. Your demeanour crumbles when Jay waves at you, and you grin, waving back, but as soon as you look Sunghoon in the eye again, the rage comes back, and you smack a hand on the table when you reach it, leaning over to him.Â
âSunghoon, a word?â you ask.
He thinks youâre asking, but itâs hard to tell with the way you set your jaw afterwards, and the way the warmth of your signature vanilla scent hits him hard. Dazed, Sunghoon lifts a hand, pointing at himself. âMe?âÂ
âDoes anyone else at the table answer to Sunghoon?âÂ
âOkay,â he says, somewhat pathetically, nudging Jay for laughing at him.Â
As slowly as possible, Sunghoon pushes his chair from the table and stands up, following you to the corner of the references section where only anthropology students in scratchy thrift store knits, and Jay, come to check out encyclopaedias by volume. You look good, save for the rage written all over your faceâwhich, honestly, Sunghoon thinks he likes.
Sunghoon isnât sure what to expect, so he says, âHey.â Heâs being cautious, waiting a moment to gauge your reaction. âWhatâs gooooood?â His cheeks burn as soon as he closes his mouth around the vowel, but you laugh. You laugh, and itâs beautiful and happy, and youâre laughing because of himâor at him, but heâs glad either way.Â
Annoyance quickly clears all traces of amusement on your face. âWere you ever going to tell me weâre spending next week at Mum and Dadâs?â you ask.Â
Sunghoon gasps dramatically, clicking his fingers. âI knew there was something Iâve been meaning to do.âÂ
His attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, and you only nudge his shoulder gently, sighing. âCan you be serious? For once in your life, even for a second, can you please think about how the things you say affect me?â Youâre frowning, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at your feet. âItâs not fair, Sunghoon. For you to keep saying thingsâmaking plans involving me and then acting like Iâm the bad guy when I turn you down.âÂ
âI donât think youâre the bad guy at all,â Sunghoon admits. âIf anyone is in the wrong, itâs me, I guess.â
You scoff, looking at him like you hate him. âYou guess? Are you serious?â You look furious, but you sound hurt and Sunghoon hates it. Hates himself. âI canât have this conversation with you right now. Tell mum Iâm sick, and itâs contagious.â You roll your eyes and walk away, leaving Sunghoon alone with his thoughts and judgemental stares from students in crochet scarves so long they graze the floor.Â
He sighs, slumping against the wall. How does he keep getting it wrong with you?Â
Back at the table, Sunghoon manages to act like heâs not falling apart and makes some serious headway on his missing assignments with Heeseungâs help before they call it a day as the sun starts to set.Â
When he gets home, he lies down on his bedroom floor, spending hours poring over the conversation you had. Over the minute changes in your facial expression, the tone of your voice, and the endless list of things he should have done, rather than watch you walk away.Â
The moment feels familiar, both identical to and worlds apart from what happened after you left three months ago. When he managed to scrape the last shreds of his dignity from the kitchen table, he dragged his feet to his room and lay down like he is now, face to the rug. That day, he left his door open and lay so still that Jake thought he was dead. Sunghoon remembers wishing he had been.Â
For once in your life, even for a second, can you please think about how the things you say affect me? The words run on a loop in his mind, over and over, until he canât remember the order of the sentence or where you put emphasis. Theyâre cutting all the same.Â
Sunghoon sighs into the itchy fibres of his black rug before rolling onto his back. In the diminishing purple light of the setting sun. he looks at the walls of his room. At the Fleetwood Mac poster, he stole from Jay when they moved out of their first year dorm, that curls away from the wall towards the ceilingâa diagonal strip of shiny tape being the only indication of the otherwise invisible tear through the face of Stevie Nicks.Â
Heâs glad when his phone rings, cutting through the quiet, though the sight of your name and the anatomical heart emoji next to it only dampens his spirit. Reluctantly, Sunghoon answers the phone, holding it to his ear.Â
âI just got off the phone with Dad..â You trail off. Tangible silence follows, so thick it weighs on his chest. âIâll go home with you.âÂ
âYou will?âÂ
âYes. Goodbye.âÂ
Sunghoon reaches your flat at five in the evening. You donât smile when you open the door for him, nor do you invite him in. Instead, you dump your bag at your feet and he cringes, looking from the floor to you. Youâre aggressively beautiful and cosy-looking as you pull a jacket over the sweater you wore that night. Sunghoonâs heart aches in his chest and he wonders if you even realise. Suddenly, the memory of the last thing you said the morning after hits him like a truck: Then letâs not be friends at all.Â
A familiar weight lands on his shoulderâyour hand. Concern lines your eyes as you ask if heâs okay.Â
With a lump in his throat, Sunghoon nods.Â
In the discomfort of his car, the two of you sit in silence while he starts the drive home.Â
âHowâs Yeonjun,â he asks, eyes flicking towards you but regretting it immediately when he sees how you clench your jaw.Â
âNo,â you say simply, shaking your head. âYou donât get to ask me about him.âÂ
These are the only words you exchange until Sunghoon stops for petrol. He has enough fuel for the rest of the journey, but he feels like dying and thinks the fresh air might quell his thoughts of running his car off the road. Like always, the two of you get out and head into the kiosk, where he follows you wordlessly through the aisles, watching you debate on snack choices before settling on the same things you always get. Sunghoon pays for your snacks and you roll your eyes but donât protest, mumbling thanks as you take them into your arms, leading the way back outside.
He knows he needs to tell you before you reach the house, but heâs not entirely sure how to say itâso he just does. âMy, uh.. my parents think weâre dating.â
You stop so suddenly in front of him that he almost bumps into you. Stepping around you, Sunghoon keeps walking.Â
Over the top of his car, he watches your face cycle through all five stages of grief until anger comes back around in the loop as you scoff. âWhy do they think that?â Your face is devoid of expression now, the blankness over your features dragging a sharp chill over his spine.Â
He stares blankly at you, processing. âBecause I told them weâre dating,â he mumbles.Â
âWhy did you.. do that?â You tilt your head, eyes pressing shut in a long blink. âWhat are you even talking about? Why did you.. What?âÂ
A thin layer of sweat coats his palms despite the cold. Why did he do that? âWe can stage a breakup during the trip or say we broke up right now,â Sunghoon offers. âJust one night, YN, please.âÂ
The wind whistles by, ruffling your hair and jacket that you hug tightly to your chest. Behind you, Sunghoon takes note of the group of girls standing by the pumps, all five of them jerking their heads abruptly when they notice him watching, suddenly finding interest in the scattered litter and flickering halogen bulbs in the steel canopy over their heads.Â
Youâre staring when he looks back at you, nostrils twitching with a sniffle before you sigh. âOr we could say that youâre a liar and end things there,â you say. âOr better yet, you go down there on your own and tell them the truth.â
Sunghoonâs gaze drops, his thoughts racing in his mind. He knows youâre right. At some point, his parents will have to find out, and itâd be better for them to find out now. Sunghoon sighs, nodding. âAlright,â he concedes. âIâll take you back.â
An angry laugh comes out of you as you shake your head. âNo need, Iâll walk.âÂ
The station youâre at is neatly nestled in the middle of nowhere, on a road so narrow heâs not even sure it has a pavement. Youâre halfway through the three-hour drive, so thereâs no telling how long the walk would be, never mind the fact that the sun is already setting and itâs deep enough into October for the wind to sting.Â
âFrom here?â he asks, incredulous.Â
âYes, open the boot so I can get my bag.âÂ
Sunghoon can only bring himself to say your name, a desperate whisper.Â
âOpen the boot.â
He repeats your name as if itâll make a difference, heâs pleading with you, beggingâthough he doesnât know for what.Â
You go to the back of his car where Sunghoon joins you, a pit in his stomach when you step away. With misty eyes, you look up at him and his heart breaks. âPlease.â
Sunghoon knows you well enough to know that youâre not actually going to attempt the walk home but also knows that you wonât back down if he keeps challenging you. He nods, opening the boot for you and getting into the driverâs seatâyour move.Â
You stand there, unmoving, and long enough passes that he thinks youâll actually leave. The boot closes softly and you join him in the passenger seat. You sigh, buckling your seatbelt. âLetâs just get this over with.âÂ
For the rest of the journey, you sit in silence as Sunghoon briefs you on the relationship, fighting a smile as he thinks about being your boyfriendâeven if only for a night. You scoff when he âremindsâ you that youâve been together for four months now and the only reason you havenât been able to come home recently is that your schedules donât match up very well anymoreâwhich couldnât be further from the truth as, before term started, you went out to celebrate the fact that your class schedules couldnât be more suited for seeing each other.Â
Finally, at Sunghoonâs childhood home, the two of you smile and laugh for his parents before going to bed. Your relationship has only made his mother more averse to the idea of you sharing a room under her roof than she had been when you were younger. Heâs relieved about this, and in the solitude of his bedroom, he lies on the duvet of his twin bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the last few hours.Â
With his parents, youâd sat up in the living room watching TV. They sat on the couch together, his mum nestled in his dadâs side, while you two sat on the couch opposite, mirroring their position. If your complete stiffness was anything to go by, you were less than comfortable with his arm around you and Sunghoon felt terrible for begging you to go along with this. It was after midnight when you all went upstairs and you let him kiss your forehead before all but slamming the door to the guest room in his face. His heart twirled and his mum beamed at him before saying goodnight again.Â
Now, at 3 a.m. he canât sleep. Flinching at the knock on his door, he furrows his brows and goes to open it. Itâs you. Standing there with your hair scraped away from your face in one of his t-shirts. Your eyes are red, brimmed with tears as you step into his room and sit on his bed.Â
He closes the door softly, heart aching at the sight of you so upset, and when he sits next to you, his heart tears apart because you move over, putting a distance between you. It falls out of his chest onto the floor when he realises youâre not wearing your necklace.Â
Sunghoon suspected you might have stopped wearing it, it only made sense that if you didnât want him, you wouldnât want the necklace he bought for you either, but at least earlier, your sweatshirt sat so high he couldnât see if you had it on or not.Â
It was a gift for your sixteenth birthday, after your first heartbreak. He was so upset and angry that you let some loser hurt you that way, upset and angry that someone could be loved by you and fuck it up. Sunghoon was inspired by Jay, whoâd gotten a pretty necklace for his girlfriend, and talked about her cute reaction for weeks, how happy she was to have a piece of him with her all the time. It was a locket, with a picture of Jay in one side and a picture of her in the other so the pictures would kiss when she wore it.Â
While at the jewellers with Jake, Sunghoon thought something like that might be a bit much for the two of you and eventually picked out an equally pretty piece with his first initial on it. He wrote a corny note to put in the box, something about how âboys come and go but Sunghoon is foreverâ and gave it to you with trembling hands a few nights laterâit was the first time he ever made you cry. Immediately, he thought heâd done something wrong and was ready to snatch the box and run back to the jewellers (even though he trashed the receipt). You hugged him and told him you loved him. Sunghoonâs been riding that high ever since.Â
Until tonight at least.Â
âAre you okay?â he whispers.Â
âIâll do it, Hoon.â Your eyes lift from the floor to meet his gaze. âFor as long as you need me to, Iâll pretend.â
As soon as the words leave your mouth, Sunghoon feels lighter, an unbearable weight slipping from his shoulders. You havenât called him âHoonâ in ages, and he canât tell if youâve said it out of vulnerability, or even noticed that youâve said it at all, but it warms his heart nonetheless. However, heâs not fully at ease, still curious about your sudden change of heart and why youâre crying.Â
âWhat happened?â
You pull him into a hug, and his eyes bulge out of his head. âIt doesnât matter,â you say, the words muffled by the skin at the base of his neck.Â
For as long as heâs known you, youâve smelled like vanilla, a sweet warmth that grounds him. Yet itâs only after these months apart that heâs able to put a name to the sensation: home. The realisation of how much heâs missed this feeling, missed you, floods him with a rush of emotion so overwhelming he canât find the words to press the issue. A moment passes before he remembers to hug you back, his arms finally wrapping around you, pulling you close, and you sink into his hold. Months ago, he would have kissed the top of your head and mumbled reassurance into your hair, but tonight, Sunghoon settles for stroking the back of your head and hopes itâs enough.Â
âYou can talk to me, you know? You can always talk to me.â
A heavy silence follows, sharp as a daggerâscraping his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge and lodging itself between his shoulder blades. Sunghoonâs breath hitches in his throat when you cling onto him even tighter, shifting so close youâve had to settle in his lap. His heart races in his chest, pounding a rhythm so loud it fills the room.Â
Finally, you speak, assuring him that you know and that youâre okay. At this, Sunghoon holds you as tight as he can, and neither of you speaks for the rest of the night. You fall asleep like this, in his arms, so deeply that you donât even stir when he lies down.Â
Rubbing your back, he watches the clock on his nightstand, the piercing green LED digits cycling through two whole hours right before his stinging eyes until you wake up. Sunghoon presses his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep when you kiss his cheek and leave his room.Â
For the entire morning, you stay in your room, and although Sunghoon is concerned, he decides not to bother you. In the afternoon, he sits at the dining table with his mum, listening as she talks about work. When she asks him, he gets up to make a cup of tea for her. Itâs at that moment when you finally come downstairs, looking so effortlessly pretty. Your hair is still damp from the shower, and youâre bundled up in one of his old sweatshirts. Thereâs a bright grin on your face that leaves his heart thudding.Â
âBaby!â you squeal when you see him, charging towards him and wrapping your arms around him from behind. âGood morning.â Your words are muffled against the back of his t-shirt, and the four-letter word, and the sugar coating it, make his cheeks burn.Â
âItâs great to see you too, YN,â his mum says with a smile. âMy night was amazing; I slept very well and had no dreams.âÂ
You let go of Sunghoon and walk over to the table, kissing his mum on the cheek and wishing her a good morning as well. âSorry, mum, how are you?âÂ
His mother doesnât seem to have the heart to correct you either, allowing your 3 p.m. âgood morningâ to go unnoticed.Â
Sunghoon carefully fills both mugs to the brim and, with extra caution, carries them to the table. He places a steaming cup of peppermint tea in front of his mum and a milky coffee in front of you. A warm smile spreads across your face as you mouth a âthank youâ, and his knees turn to jelly.Â
The next day, after eating an early dinner with his parents at the table, the four of you go out on a walk along the bike path you used to take for school. His parents have gone ahead, not intentionally, but because Sunghoon canât stop you from dragging your feet.Â
As with most things in the town where you grew up, nothing about the trail has changed. The leaves are yellowing in standard form for the season, and crunching under his feet with each step he takes. The only foreign experience is the silence that youâre determined to uphold. Everything Sunghoon says to you is met with either a hum, a nod, or no acknowledgement at all. At this point, he feels like he could drop dead at your side and the most youâd do is step over his body like a fallen branch.Â
After letting you go ahead, the weathered slats of the wooden footbridge sag in the middle under his tread. Itâs been like this for as long as he can remember and he wonders how nothing has been done about it. The stream rushes under it, loud and unruly, the smell of wet grass both comforting and suffocating as you look over the railing. Itâs like something from a postcard, the low-hanging branches sweeping back and forth under the breeze, the grass lush and green around the path, murky water thrashing against the mud and rocks underneath with you in the middle of the frame, peering over the edge.
You keep walking when Sunghoon approaches, leaving him alone on the creaky bridge with nothing but the ache in his chest. He looks up, staring at the grey clouds in the sky through the gaps in the leaves, and sighs.Â
Eventually, he catches up with you, grabbing your hand and locking his fingers with yours when his parents slow down. You stiffen, looking up at him with cut eyes and a creased brow. âWhat are you doing?â
Sunghoon matches your clipped tone. âHolding my girlfriendâs hand.âÂ
âNo oneâs looking, boyfriend.â
âYou think my parents arenât going to wonder why weâre lagging behind?âÂ
A scoffâyour fingers remain defiantly stiff. âDo you think your parents are going to care whether or not weâre holding hands?âÂ
âMy mum might after the show you put on yesterday afternoon, baby.â Bitterness covers the word like a blanket, a stark departure from how you said it.Â
A long sigh rumbles its way out of you before you fix your lips into a strained grin. âSorry, sweetheart, this is my first time pretending to be in love.âÂ
As your words hang in the air, Sunghoonâs emotions brew like a storm within him. Frustration gnaws at his patience. All hopes for a smooth week are dashed, though determination simmers in his chest with a strong resolve to make this work, to fix your relationship. It doesnât stop the sharp pang of hurt piercing his stomachâhe knows you donât feel the same way, he knows youâre faking, but the word âpretendingâ hits him like a truck anyway.Â
âWe held hands all the time when we were friends,â he points out.
Your smile drops immediately, hurt flashing behind your eyes. âYeah, and now weâre not.âÂ
If there was a competition for who could hurt Sunghoonâs feelings the most, youâd be a shoo-in for first place. With distinction.Â
âExactly!â he says, feeling the sting of his own words. âBecause now weâre dating.â
At the sight of his mum turning around, you switch up in an instant. Lock your fingers with his, wrapping an arm around his bicep, leaning into him, giggling. Itâs forced but his parents are far enough away that all that matters is the curve of your lips.
âYou two okay back there?â she asks.Â
âPerfect! I feel like a kid again!â you call back, beaming up at Sunghoon in a way that makes his stomach flutter even though it doesnât meet your eyes.Â
The two of you donât talk at all when you get home, with you hugging his parents goodnight and running up the stairs.Â
âSheâs not feeling too well,â he explains, nodding when his dad tells him to make you some tea.Â
His parents spend the whole day at work, and you spend the whole day following him around like a shadow until the evening when they return. He doesnât pretend not to like it.
Sunghoon helps you make dinner, turning leftover rice into fried rice with the help of some eggs and vegetables. Itâs nice moving around the kitchen with you, watching you scramble eggs in his t-shirt and bump his hip with a playful frown when he eats some of the peppers youâre chopping.Â
His parents watch from the table, cooing over the two of you and he does his best to fight the blush forming on his cheeks and neck. Embarrassed, he hugs you from behind, hiding his face in your neckâthe scent of your coconut conditioner mixing with your vanilla perfume doesnât do anything to stop the flush.Â
Over a bottle of wine, the four of you eat together at the table, swapping stories about your days. Sunghoon tries to hide his surprise as you lie about the time you spent at the play park by your primary school, competing for height on the swings and spinning on the roundabout until you couldnât stand up. You grin at him, and it meets your eyes as you hold his hand under the table, and kiss his cheek.
After eating, his parents head upstairs, leaving to clean up together. You hum a song heâs never heard as you load the dishwasher, carefully placing the plates and cutlery in the rack, shaking your head when he hands you the glasses youâd used.Â
âLeave ours,â you say. âIf you want.âÂ
Sunghoon nods, putting them back on the table, where you sit in the seat across from the one he was sitting in. He sits too, staying quiet rather than saying the wrong thing. You donât speak either. Itâs reminiscent of the pastâthe hours youâd spend in the same room, only speaking to share a funny post youâd come across or to ask if you were hungry.Â
His eyes track your movementsâreaching for the half-empty bottle on the table to pour yourself another glass, filling it to the brim. Before putting it down, you offer him some, filling his glass too when he nods. The three glasses of wine heâs already had must be the reason he wants to reach across the table and hold your hand, run his thumb over the soft skin on the back of it.Â
Sunghoon doesnât know why youâve been so nice to him all day or why it makes his chest hurt.Â
âYou know you donât have to be nice to me when weâre alone, right?â The words come out before he can stop them.
Over the top of your glass, your brows knit together. A sound of confusion, a low hum, comes from your throat as you try to finish your sip. âWhat?â you ask finally.Â
âI only asked you to do this because of my parents, you know? You donât have to sit or talk with me when theyâre not around.âÂ
Sunghoonâs known you long enough to recognise the look that flashes across your face. The way your eyes narrow and your brows tug together, the little pout that sets on your lips before you speak; youâre hurt.
âWhy canât I just be nice to you because itâs the right thing to do?âÂ
Because it hurts, is what he wants to say. He wants to cry, to beg you to forget everything he said that day. âBecause I donât want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have.â Is what he settles for.Â
Your face softens. âI donât feel uncomfortable around you, Hoon. We were best friends for ages, I donât think you could ever make me uncomfortable.â You pause to take a gulp of wine. âWhy canât I just want to be nice to you?âÂ
Sunghoon has to chew on his cheek to distract himself from how much your word choice stings. The implications of were and all of your past tense. âIâm sorry,â he says.Â
âWhat for?âÂ
âEverything.âÂ
Thereâs a sadness in the way you run your fingers on the base of your glass. The way you chew on your lip, how your hair falls when you tilt your head and how it moves when you shake it. âItâs not your fault,â you say. âI donât know anyone who would choose to have unrequited feelings for their best friend.âÂ
Wow, he thinks. Youâre on a roll. Sunghoon wonders if youâre meticulously choosing your phrasing to upset him. Wonders why you feel the need to remind him that his feelings arenât reciprocated as if he didnât live through and spend hours reliving the day he confessed.Â
âBut I didnât have to tell you about it. It was unfair of me to spring that on you when I knew about Yeonjun.âÂ
âDid you.. did you think I was going to leave him for you?âÂ
âMaybe?â Sunghoon chews on his lipâhe has no idea what he thought would happen. âI think I thought I loved you enough for both of us, that you might play the part for fun or out of curiosity, and.. I donât know, just learn to love me.â
âHoon,â you whisper, frowning. âHow could you even think about settling for something like that?âÂ
Sunghoon shrugs. âItâs not settling if itâs you.âÂ
Silence takes a seat at the table after he speaks, interrupted only by the ticking clock on the wallâa glittery mess of scrapbooking paper and washi tape layered over each other that Yeji had decorated at summer camp years ago. Youâre picking at your fingernails, letting flecks of black polish fall to the table, stark against the varnished oak.Â
âI know itâs not my place to ask,â Sunghoon starts after a while, hesitant and only continuing when you nod. âBut what did Yeonjun say when you told him? About.. everything?âÂ
You take a long sip from your glass and sit quietly for so long that he thinks youâre not going to answer himâhe doesnât blame you.Â
âI didnât.âÂ
He waits for you to elaborate. You donât.Â
Sunghoon nods slowly, deciding not to ask any follow-up questions. Instead, he takes another drink, scrunching his nose at the bitter taste. âHe didnât ask why we stopped hanging out?â he blurts out.
âI told him we fell out but I didnât say why.â You shrug, but your posture is stiff.Â
âWhere did you tell him you were going to be this week?â He knows itâs not his business at all, that heâs pushing your boundaries, but he canât help his curiosity.
âNowhere.âÂ
âYou told him you were staying on campus?âÂ
âI didnât tell him anything.â Your gaze shifts, avoiding his as you toy with the stem of your glass. You drum your nails against it, letting the dull clink ring out.Â
âSo you just left?âÂ
âDoes it make a difference to you?âÂ
Sunghoon nods.
For a while, you tug at the drawstrings on your hoodie, pursing your lips to the side, considering this. âYeonjun and I arenât together anymore.â Your admission is so shocking that Sunghoonâs jaw drops. He tries to cover his surprise by coughing, his tongue sticking out like a small child. âI didnât want to say anything because I didnât want you to think it was because of you.âÂ
Sunghoonâs thoughts move at lightspeed, too fast for him to catch onto any of them and process this information. His emotions compete with each otherâdisbelief, guilt, and a painful glimmer of hope he hadnât dared to acknowledge until now all at the forefront.Â
âWas it?â he asks. âBecause of me?âÂ
You scoffâan incredulous sound that doesnât match the sad look on your face. âI donât know, Sunghoon. Do you think my boyfriend used me to make his ex jealous because of you?â
Heâs not sure what he expected you to say, but this is.. Complete disbelief eclipses him as his heart sinks in his chest, shock, and guilt bubbling in his stomach.Â
âIâm sorry,â he says after too long. âThat I wasnât there. That I havenât been there.âÂ
âYou didnât know,â you say, gaze softening as you look up at him.Â
âBut I made you feel like you couldnât talk to me about it.âÂ
You shake your head. âI made me feel like I couldnât talk to you about it. All you did was change the friendship, Iâm the one who ended it.â
âI still shouldâve been there.âÂ
âYouâre here now, right?âÂ
Sunghoon nods, earnestly. âAlways.âÂ
Only one thing comes to mind when you repeat the word âalwaysâ before taking a sip from your glass, downing its contents. Sunghoon gets up and crosses the room with wobbly steps to open the fridge, where he pulls out as many bottles of soju as he can hold in his hands and puts them down on the table. He goes back to collect some glasses from the cabinet, puts some of the leftover fried rice from dinner into the microwave, and brings it all over when itâs done, with bowls and utensils. You watch him with a fond smile as he opens a bottle and he hopes you think the flush on his cheeks is from all the drinking youâve been doing.Â
âIs it bad that Iâve missed doing this?â Youâre grinning now.
Sunghoon shakes his head, raising his glass. âTo YNâs fifteenth heartbreak.âÂ
You grin, clinking the rim of your glass against his. âTo YNâs fifteenth heartbreak,â you repeat.Â
Both of you down the glasses, and Sunghoon refills them, pouring the soju with an oddly steady hand. As you eat spoonfuls of rice and sip your drinks, silence settles over the room. The soft glow of the kitchen lights forms a warm ambience, a cosy familiarity that brings up simple memoriesâdoing homework together at the table while gossiping about your classmates, the first New Year after you were both eighteen and had your first drink with his parents.Â
For at least an hour, the only sounds are the occasional clinks of forks against bowls, glasses hitting the table, the faint hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of Yejiâs clock. Sunghoonâs eyes meet yours, and he canât help but notice the slight change in your expression when they do.Â
You clear your throat, running a hand through your hair. âThis is my sixteenth, actually.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
You take a small sip of soju, staring down at the table. âMy fifteenth heartbreak was losing you. Yeonjun is my sixteenth.â
In the two days since your soju ceremony, Sunghoon finds himself sinking into the role of your boyfriend like a hot bath. But thereâs no use pretending it doesnât hurt. Pretending it doesnât hurt when you kiss his cheek before bed, or when you reach out to push the hair out of his face or snuggle into his side on the couch; because it does hurtâa lot. It hurts to think that in three days when you put your bags in the boot of his car, youâll sit in silence all the way home. When he drops you off at your flat, youâll close the door in his face and stop talking to him again. These realisations are harder to confront when heâs alone in his room, like now.Â
About an hour ago, you asked if you could borrow his car, saying there was something you needed to do on your own. It seemed important, so he handed over his keys with no question. Sighing, Sunghoon gets up from his bed and heads to the shower, where he jerks off to clear his mind. On his way back to his room, he notices the light leaking from the open kitchen door that illuminates the landing.Â
He hears the lock on the front door clicking, and stands at the top of the stairs, dripping water onto the carpet while listening attentively. His ears perk up when he hears a gaspâhis mother.Â
âWhatâs this for?â she asks.Â
âI just..â You trail off. âI know itâs not much, but I wanted to thank you both for always looking after me.â You pause, and Sunghoon holds his breath, waiting. Your voice trembles as you continue. âItâs been hard since my parents went back home, and I guess it was still hard when they were here, but you both supported me. I donât think I couldâve managed without you guys. I want to make you guys proud, you know? And Iâm trying, really, so this is me saying thank you. Iâm sorry it took me so long.âÂ
He grips the railing by the landing, digging his nails into the wood until they start hurtingâan ache in his fingertips that makes him wince.Â
An odd feeling settles in his stomach, a bittersweetness tinged in his fondness for you, and the gentle shock of realising how much his parents have done for you. Growing up, you became an honorary member of Sunghoonâs family. His parents showered you with gifts during holidays and birthdays, which you often celebrated with them rather than your own family.Â
The memory of your parentsâ sudden decision to move across the country still lingers, and Sunghoon vividly recalls the tearful conversation he overheard at the top of the stairs. Your parents understood the enormity of their request but had earnestly asked if Sunghoonâs parents could continue looking after you.Â
His chest tightens when you start crying.Â
âYou donât have to thank us for anything, sweetie. Just you being here and taking care of our boy is more than enough thanks. You never forget our birthdays, and you always come and visit when you can. Youâre doing a great job, and you should give yourself some credit,â his dad says, a little choked up. âWeâve always been proud of you.âÂ
Sunghoonâs eyes sting with tears and his skin gets dry in the spots where the water from the shower is evaporating. He presses his fingers to his closed eyes, forcing a few tears to fall and walks the rest of the way to his room with his eyes shut. He canât hear anything through his closed bedroom door, which he decides is a good thing as he coats himself in moisturiser and swipes deodorant under his arms with intention to spend the whole night alone. Once heâs dressed, he gets into bed and pretends not to be bothered by the way his wet hair dampens his pillow. Under the duvet, he tosses and turns before sighing and heading to Yejiâs room.
In her absence, the roomâs subtle transformation is stark. The sage green-painted walls, once a backdrop to the A3 faces of Wave to Earth and Beabadoobee, now bear the faint imprints of those missing posters. Tiny, shadowy rectangles are the only remnants of the 6x4-sized pictures of her and her friends, of her and Sunghoon, that she took away with her to school.
Her hairdryer is still on her desk where sheâd left it for him to use and he sits in her stiff wooden chair, plugging it in. The airflow starts immediately, hot and loud, humming throughout the space as he runs his fingers through his wet hair, feeling cosy under the heat. His shampoo is fresh and soapy scented under his nose, and his reflection watches him in Yejiâs mirror, eyes red and concerned while his hair blows around his head. Sunghoon closes his eyes and finishes his hair, sighing as he lets his worries slip under the whir of the fan.Â
Finished, he shuts off the dryer and opens his eyes, flinching at your reflection in the doorway behind him with a soft smile on your face. âMum and Dad are going to open a bottle of wine if you want to join,â you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror.Â
Sunghoon canât find it in himself to speak, only nodding in response. You smile wider but donât move. He unplugs the hairdryer and leaves it on the desk where he found it before crossing the room. Without giving himself a chance to think about it, he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head, smiling into your hair when you wrap your arms around his waist, holding him closer.Â
Youâre sitting on the edge of the bathtub, mumbling sleepily that youâre never going to drink again, and Sunghoon leans over the sink brushing his teeth, heâs glad you have the decency to cover your mouth as you speak.Â
âBrush your teeth and go back to sleep then,â he mumbles around his toothbrush.Â
You donât respond.Â
Sunghoon sighs through his nose, spitting foamy toothpaste into the sink, leaving bubbly, blue splatters on the porcelain. âAnd quit staring at me, I can feel your beady little eyes on the back of my neck and itâs freaking me out.âÂ
âBut youâre so pretty,â you coo.Â
Thereâs a flutter in his stomach and he rinses off the sink and his mouth, buying himself some time. With a hand on the Listerine, he lifts his gaze to meet yours in the mirror and stops short. Youâre still staring at him, features soft and glowing under the afternoon light. You look like an angel; a gentle smile spreading over your lips, and a sleepy glint sparkling in your eyes, wide and gorgeous as you watch him. Sunghoon gulps, mumbling his thanks and looking back at himself. He hopes you canât see the flush on his cheeks.Â
âGo back to sleep,â he says.Â
âWill you come and lie down with me if I do?â Your voice is a sleepy drawl, coming out in a slow, high-pitched slur, and your eyes are closing on themselves.Â
Lying down doesnât sound like a terrible idea, especially not if itâs with you, so he nods. âIf you brush your teeth, then yeah, baby, Iâll lie down with you.âÂ
You chuckle softly at Sunghoonâs agreement, the sound carrying a mix of exhaustion and genuine amusement, showing no repulsion to him calling you the B-word. He didnât mean to, itâs been a confusing few days. You nod, saluting to him and getting up to join him by the sink, using your hip to bump him out of the way, but he feels like heâs glued to the spot.Â
âMove, baby,â you mumble sleepily, reaching for your toothbrush. âWe can cuddle in my bed,â you suggest, to which Sunghoon only nods, taking your words as a cue to unstick his feet from the floor and go to your room, playing the word âbabyâ on a loop in his head.Â
He stands in the doorway staring at your bed, the duvet is all crumpled in the middle, and the pillows are in an L shape at the top corner. He sighs, he canât go on like this, canât stand around hoping even a tiny part of you called him âbabyâ and it meant something for you as it did for him. Itâs not fair for him to project his feelings on you like this, but he canât help it. Youâre already pretending for his parents, so would it be so bad to pretend for his sake as well? Even if only until the day after tomorrow when you leave?Â
The sound of the bathroom door shutting behind you snaps him out of his thoughts, your bright smile making his heart race when you tug him by the sleeve to your bed where the mattress dips underneath you as you curl into his form, resting your head on his chest and falling asleep. Youâve shared the bed before, countless times, but he knows youâve only asked him because youâre tired. Because your brain is foggy with drowsiness that clouds your judgement, not because you want him there, not because you miss him when heâs two doors down the hall, tossing and turning at night thinking about you. He wonders absently if you can feel his aching heart beating through his chest, a painful, yet all too familiar rhythm that pulls his own eyes shut, plunging him into a deep sleep too.
Itâs dark in the room when he wakes up, the sun already down behind the curtains and the soft yellow of the bedside lamp casting a glow around the space. Youâre staring up at him, smiling and you donât look away when he catches you. âWhat is it?â he asks, voice thick with sleep.Â
âNothing,â you mumble. âI just missed you.â Sunghoon has no time to respond or even register what you said before you clear your throat, speaking again. âCome on, dadâs cooking tonight, heâll need help.âÂ
Helping Sunghoonâs dad with dinner always looks an awful lot like Sunghoon eating snacks on the kitchen counter and staring at you as you help his dad cook. Tonight is no exception, heâs sitting on the island, and his snack of choice is a family pack of Chilli Heatwave Doritos his mum bought for Yeji. Heâll have to remember to replace them before leaving seeing as heâs reaching the halfway point.Â
You go back and forth with his dad about measurements, with you rummaging through the drawers for measuring cups while his dad says itâs best to trust your gut. Reluctantly, you nod, chewing the inside of your cheek as you watch him eyeball the seasoning.Â
The gas stove turns the kitchen into an oven, and you complain about it while opening a window, pulling your hoodie over your head and leaving it in Sunghoonâs lap. Time stops when you grin at him, the light from the stove hood illuminating the necklace youâre wearing, his initial resting on your chest and glowing under the light. He chokes around a crisp when he sees it, catching your attention with his coughing.Â
âYouâll spoil your dinner, snacking like that, baby,â you scold, using a hand to push his knee. âWeâre almost done, I swear.âÂ
All he can do is nod, cheeks burning as he folds the crisp packet over before putting it back in the bread bin where he found it.Â
âWow,â his dad says, resting his hands on his hips and shaking his head in amusement. âBeing in love looks good on him, heâd never have listened if I said that.âÂ
Itâs already your last day when Sunghoon picks up Yeji from school. She grumbles for the entire half-hour drive and all the way to the front door about why the two of you couldnât have started the trip today instead of ending it, but all of her irritation dissolves when she sees you in the hallway, leaving the front door wide open to fling her arms around you. You and Yeji exchange compliments for a while â You look so pretty. No, you look so pretty. I love your hair. I love your hair. â as Sunghoon locks the door and watches with a smile.
âGod.â Yeji sighs, holding you by the waist and craning her neck up to look at you, as you push some of her hair from her face, pinning back her wispy bangs with the palm of your hand. Yeji giggles. âIâm so happy you two are together, even though I have no idea what a girl like you sees in my loser brother.âÂ
Sunghoon rolls his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Despite his mild irritation at Yejiâs words, he finds the sight of you with her so adorable his stomach flutters. Over the top of Yejiâs head, you look at him with a fond smile. âHeâs not so bad.âÂ
It doesnât sound like a compliment, but Sunghoon takes it to heart.Â
Like always, Yeji manages to capture your undivided attention and the two of you giggle and whisper with each other all afternoon while Sunghoon watches, too enamoured by the sight to care about being left out. An hour or so passes like this, until his parents get home from work, excited to see Yeji after a few weeks, and you leave her side, coming to cuddle with Sunghoon instead.Â
Itâs nice being home with everyone, laughing and sharing a meal before his family walks the two of you to his car with at least a monthâs worth of cooked food for you to share at university. Yeji makes you pinky promise that she can visit you and waves with a pout on her face until the car is out of view.
Contrary to what heâd been expecting, the drive back is nice. Your playlist is on, and youâre telling him about all the new songs you added, catching him up on things with Chaewon and Yunjin, and all the things you got up to in the time you spent apart. You tell him about a new cafĂ© that opened up near your place and how youâll have to go together when he has the time, and Sunghoon bites his tongue before telling you that he always has time for you. The first half of the trip goes on like this but you start dozing off around the halfway mark, your sentences becoming few and far between, eventually turning into half-mumbled thoughts that end prematurely.Â
Youâre still asleep when he reaches your flat, head propped up against the window with your soft lips parted, looking too pretty and cosy to wake up. Instead, he drives in circles around your block, deciding to wait for you to wake up on your own. It only takes a half-hour but you blink your eyes open, stretching your neck before looking around and out the car window, recognising the street. You donât say anything, only smiling when you look at him, a small curve of your lips that makes his heart race.
He gets out of the car with you, opening the boot to get your bag before pulling you into his chest for a hug, liking the way your arms settle around his waist. âThank you,â he mumbles into your hair.Â
Sunghoon doesnât follow you when you take your bag from him, only watching from the back of his car. You donât notice until you reach the main door, looking over your shoulder and frowning at him. âArenât you going to walk me up?âÂ
The two of you walk in silence up four flights of stairs as the lift in your building is out of order. Your bag feels much heavier in his hand now than it did outside. At your door, he watches you dig around for your keys, sighing with relief when you find them.Â
âDo you want to come in?â you ask from your open doorway.
âIâuhâI have training in the morning and Iâm already pretty tired, so..â He trails off.
Unfazed, you nod. âRight, of course. I had fun this week.âÂ
âYeah, me too.âÂ
You smile at him, sweet and sincere. âText me when you get home, yeah?âÂ
Sunghoon nods, saying goodbye. Out of habit, he doesnât leave your doorstep until he hears the lock click shut, and walks back to his car with his head down.Â
True to his word, he sends you a text to let you know he got back to his place safely and you read it immediately but donât reply. Itâs empty in the apartment, Jake is out with his football team and the space is larger than usual in his absence. Far too tired to even consider going out and joining him, Sunghoon goes through his night routine, putting his phone on the charger and stepping into the shower where he spends entirely too long wishing he could live in this week forever as he scrubs his body. With brushed teeth and damp hair, he goes back into his room where his phone lights up with a notification; a text, from you.
YNđ«: iâm glad you got home okay, i just got into bed :) i donât want to make you uncomfortable or overstep or anything and you can say no (obviously).. iâve been missing you so much and didnât know how to reach out or if you wanted me to but i had soooo much fun this week and spending time with you again made me happy, so iâd like it if we could keep hanging out, like before yk? ik itâs a long shot ahahaha but just say youâll think about it?Â
hoonie: Youâre not overstepping at all, Iâve missed you too, so bad. I had soooo much fun this week as well and Iâd like it a lot if we kept hanging out, thank you for agreeing and coming along đ If youâre free after Lit tmrw you could come over? Or we could go out and do something, whatever you prefer
hoonie: I missed you so much..Â
hoonie: đ€
The texts greet you as the first rays of Monday morning light filter into your room, instantly lifting your mood. Your bright smile doesnât escape Chaewonâs notice as you find her in the kitchen, bathed in the soft light seeping through the sheer curtains. The kettle is boiling with a loud rumble that fills the whole room and leaves her yelling as she speaks to you.Â
âGood trip?â she asks, coming over and hugging you. âNever leave me for that long again,â she mumbles into your shirt.Â
âIt was a week, Wonie,â you say, rolling your eyes even though you missed her too.Â
She leans away, looking at you with knitted brows. âIt was nine days.âÂ
âThe longest of my life.âÂ
Chaewon pulls air through her teeth, tilting her head and releasing you. âThat bad, huh?â she asks, walking back to her seat at your tiny square table and shooting you a look that tells you to join her.Â
During your trip, you gave her nightly updates over text, so you know she knows how much you enjoyed yourself, but you elaborate anyway, sitting across from her.Â
âNo, not at all,â you say, shaking your head and trying to fight a smile. âI had fun.â As soon as the words leave your mouth, you have to bite your bottom lip to stop the grin curving them; it doesnât work.Â
Chaewon raises a suggestive brow, crossing her arms over her chest. âHow much fun?âÂ
âYouâre disgusting.âÂ
âI didnât even say anything!â she defends, holding her hands up. âI made an implication. It was only a matter of time, you two have that whole.. lifelong best friends to lifelong lovers thing going on, and itâs hot.âÂ
âShut up.âÂ
âYouâre telling me, you spent nine days playing lovers with Sunghoon and you still donât want him? Youâre a lost cause, people would kill for that chance,â she says, tilting her head. âI think I would kill for that chance.âÂ
âDonât touch him.â
âOh?âÂ
âJesus, Chaewon, itâs not like that. Hoonâs too sensitive for your roster.âÂ
âI never said it was like anything, youâre the one whoâs dangling me over the ledge for saying I want to fuck your hot best friend.âÂ
âSunghoon isnât hot; heâs..â You find yourself at a loss for words, unsure how to continue your lie. Of course, Sunghoon is hot, youâve known since you were seventeen and spent the summer at your grandparentsâ house, only to come back to find your previously scrawny best friend having ditched his LEGOs for dumbbells. You sigh. âJust leave him alone.â
Chaewon grins, eyes sparkling as she leaves the table. âOkay,â she says in a singsong voice, leaving you and the irritation in your stomach alone in the kitchen.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut and trying to will away your discomfort. Itâs not like Chaewon would actually try anything with Sunghoon. Right? Even if she did, it wouldnât bother you, nor would it be any of your business. Theyâre grownups and reserve the right to explore their options. Still, thereâs a nagging feeling you canât shake, an uninvited guest in the back of your mind.Â
When you check your phone, you realise you have half an hour before you need to head to campus, so you leave to get ready and text Sunghoon back on the way to your room.
you: sounds good, see u later đ€
After showering, you stand in front of your wardrobe, towel hanging from your body as you pick an outfit. For some reason, you feel under pressure, picking a pair of jeans that do the most for your ass and a low-cut top that Sunghoon once â drunkenly â said he loved on you.
You have the residual sting of mouthwash on your tongue, and one foot out the door when your phone vibrates in your hand.Â
hoonie: Do you want to head to class together?Â
you: sure! iâm omw out, where should i get you?Â
hoonie: .. Iâm outside your building :DÂ
Breathing a laugh through your nose, you donât fight the giddy smile on your face as you make your way downstairs to meet Sunghoon. Through the glass in the main door, heâs standing at the edge of the pavement and kicking a stone between his feet. The top of his puffer jacket covers the bottom half of his face, and the draught nips your skin when the door opens. Two girls you vaguely recognise stumble in with smudged makeup and heels in their hands, smiling at you while holding the door to let you out.
âHey!â you call out, jogging over to him.Â
Sunghoon turns around, his head poking out of his jacket to grin at you, holding a travel cup and an abundance of tinfoil in your direction.Â
âI wasnât sure if youâd have eaten anything yet, you donât normally in the morning,â he says, a sheepish smile spreading over his lips when you take it. âMatcha. Ham and cheese toastie.âÂ
âDid you make these?â you ask, inspecting the familiar cup and appreciating the warmth it provides.Â
He hums, nodding his head.
You ignore the heat spreading over your cheeks and thank him with a hug, grinning when he offers to hold your drink while you eat on the walk. The toastie is still hot, the cheese coming close to burning your tongue as you chew, but you appreciate it wholeheartedly, humming contently with each bite. When youâre done, you shove the foil into your pocket, taking your drink from him and smiling around the sweet taste of a matcha latte as he tells you about his schedule for the day.Â
âIâm meeting with Coach after class to talk about my grades, but Iâm all yours after that.âÂ
âTalk about your grades? Whatâs wrong with your grades?âÂ
Sunghoon groans, head falling back and highlighting the bump of his Adamâs apple. âMy grades are.. I failed my coursework this month, so I have resubmissions during finals, and I think heâll bench me if I fail again.âÂ
He sounds like heâs being serious, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, he is. The news creases your brows because for as long as you remember, Sunghoonâs grades were your parentsâ favourite point of comparison.
âReally?â you ask. He nods. âWhatâs up? Is something the matter?âÂ
A humourless laugh slips out of him before he pulls air through his teeth. âYeah, my best friend didnât talk to me for three months.âÂ
âOh..â Guilt stirs your stomach as you look up at him. âIâm sorry.â
âIâm not blaming you, itâs not like I was trying to talk and you ignored me.â He nudges your arm with his elbow, giving you a warm smile. âBut if you feel as guilty about it as you look, you can tutor me for Lit.âÂ
âDeal.âÂ
Sunghoon grins, wrapping his arm over your shoulders and holding you close; the action itself isnât unusual, but the increased heart rate it brings about is. âYouâre too good to me,â he says, holding onto you for the rest of the walk to class.
At his request, you sit with Sunghoon in the back row, watching as the lecture hall gradually fills up in front of you. He seems well-prepared, with his laptop and a small notepad and pen neatly arranged on the desk in front of him.
Throughout the class, your eyes inadvertently track his every move. He diligently types up colour-coded notes, occasionally pausing to write things in his notepad before continuing to type or stopping entirely to listen. Thereâs something melodic about his actions and the way his fingers run over the keyboard.Â
During a five-minute break, you glance at his screen. What you find is more than just lecture content; itâs a document adorned with Sunghoonâs own musings about Hemingwayâs style and carefully analysed quotations that go beyond the class discussion.
âHow are your notes so good?âÂ
âI picked up the book over the summer when you mentioned it,â Sunghoon replies with a shrug, a shy smile playing on his lips as he leans back in his seat. âI liked it.âÂ
A slow nod is your response, though your thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a breeze. The last time Sunghoon read for leisure, you were in primary school, buddy reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid. But thisâthis is different. You canât help but stare at him, awestruck as you take him in. His eyes are wide, shining amber in the sunlight as he pushes some of his hair from his face, frowning when it falls back where it was.Â
âDonât look at me like that,â he mumbles.Â
Sunghoon takes a new line in his document and points at the screen where you watch the cursor move through the words heâs typing: I wouldâve read and annotated the Bible if you wanted me to..
Thereâs no time to digest what he wrote or the funny feeling in your chest as you reread it before he deletes the whole sentence, pressing his lips together and looking out the window. Speechless, you stare at his side profile, willing your heart rate to slip back to normal. Steep-sloping nose, plump lips flattened into a line, two points of the triangular mole constellation on his face. Analysis worsens your condition, breath hitching in your throat before stopping entirely. Warmth and trepidation blend within you, fuzzy enough at the edges to seem like one thingâa single force that makes your palm itch with desire, desperation, to reach out and run a finger over his features, feel the bump of the mole on his nose â the most prominent â against your skin.Â
You remain this way â silent, watching â even when your lecturer resumes the lesson, and Sunghoon starts typing, writing, and listening again. Polite enough to pretend he doesnât notice your gaze searing into his face.
After class, and his meeting with Coach, you let Sunghoon lead the conversation and the way to your flat, where you find Chaewon and Yunjin sitting on the couch, whispering to themselves while the two of you study at the coffee table. Itâs uncomfortable, an awkward height, too high for the way youâre sitting but you feel calm under the supervision of Chaewon and Yunjinâyou wonât do anything to merit teasing in front of them, no matter how badly you want to feel Sunghoonâs face in your hands or stroke his cheekbones with your thumbs.Â
To the best of your ability, you answer the questions he has for youâheâd written a ton in his tiny notepad during class, his own concerns clear with each neatly-penned iteration of: How to see actions/dialogue for what they are and not what I want them to be? written in the margins and you try not to feel heartbroken for him.
Three hours have passed by when you walk him to the door, the two of you wrapped up in a bubble so secure youâre surprised to find Chaewon and Yunjin still sitting on the couch. They donât say anything about Sunghoon in his absence, or the fact heâd given you his sweater when he noticed you were cold. Youâre not sure why their silence disappoints you.
Instead, Yunjin asks you about trivial things like dinner while Chaewon sits in silence.Â
âWhat flavour for ice cream?â Yunjin asks, rolling her eyes when you tug on the blanket but not complaining. âAnd donât say something ridiculous like mint chocolate, YN.âÂ
âThat happened once! And it was three years ago.. How was I supposed to know you hate fun?âÂ
Chaewon leans into you, letting you curl your limbs around her from behind as you rest your chin on her shoulder, liking the way her clean scent tickles your nose.Â
âMint-cho isnât that bad,â she starts. âItâs a little jarring, sure, but itâs kind of sweet. Like watching people come to terms with their feelings for each other.âÂ
You nod your head, humming in understanding and furrowing your brows when Yunjin scoffs, staring straight at you. Her tone is equal parts cutting and loving, so you know sheâs not trying to insult you, but donât know what she means when she says, âIt must be so nice to be as oblivious as you.âÂ
Yunjin never elaborates, and you never ask, actually feeling the statementâs journey in through one of your ears and out the other when dinner arrives. The three of you share pizza, ice cream, and secrets â the three pillars of 20-something-teenage-girlhood â at the kitchen table, with Chaewon sitting in your lap and picking pepperoni from your slices.Â
Itâs only hours after Yunijnâs gone home, that her words circle back to you, the statement and all of its weight perching on your chest with all the debilitation and persistence of a sleep paralysis demon.
âI think Iâm getting sick,â you say as soon as she opens her door. âItâs been coming on for a while now, at least a week, maybe more.âÂ
Unimpressed and exhausted, Yunjin looks down at you through half-closed eyes. âDo you..â She pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing. âDo you have any idea what time it is right now?âÂ
âYes. Itâs three a.m.âÂ
âExactly. See a doctor if youâre sick, Iâm going back to sleep.â
âThis is an emergenââ Yunjin cuts you off by pinching your lips together. âItâs three in the morning,â she reminds you. âYou canât yell like that in my hallway, come in.âÂ
You nod, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes next to hers. âSorry,â you whisper when the door is closed.Â
Using her hand, Yunjin lifts your chin, squinting as her eyes adjust to the light when she flips the switch to inspect your face. âYou donât look or sound sick,â she mutters, flicking the light back off and going to her room. âWhat are your symptoms? And why did you come here?âÂ
You donât have an answer for her last question so you ignore it, following her and tripping over a pair of her shoes in the process. âMy cheeks start burning like crazy and my heart races, sometimes it gets hard to breathe.â
âYou seem fine to me.âÂ
A shoulder-slumping sigh slips from your lips. âThatâs the thing. Iâll be fine and then Sunghoon shows up with his pretty smile and perfect hair and I feel like Iâve run a marathon.â You know how it sounds, choosing your wording meticulously to let Yunjin be the one to say the words out loud instead of youâitâll be easier to confront that way.Â
From the doorway, you watch as she arches a brow, her interest piqued. âOh?âÂ
âI know.â You nod, head bobbing rapidly in furious agreement. âItâs only a matter of time before I cough up a lung and die in his bedroom.â
At your words, Yunjin doesn't reply, only lifting her duvet and getting cosy underneath. You feel like youâre glued to the spot, waiting for her to say something, anything, but nothing comes. All she does is pat the empty spot in her bed.Â
âWhat are you smirking for?â you ask, entering the room properly and closing the door.Â
Her response only comes after youâve taken your jacket and hoodie off, sitting next to her under the covers. âItâs nothing,â she says, laughing.Â
âTell me.âÂ
Yunjin sighs, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. You think itâs meant to be comforting but itâs the opposite. âYouâll be fine, I promise. Lovesickness isnât deadly.âÂ
Feeling the weight of her reassurance, you settle down properly and sigh when your head hits the pillow. Lovesickness. Hmm.Â
Closing your eyes, you try to sleep but canât help tossing and turning as Yunjin snores behind you. You pat blindly around the end table for your phone, grabbing it and wincing at the brightness of your screen. Chewing on your lip, you open Google, looking up âlovesicknessâ and frowning immediately at the results. Endless negativity fills the screen, terrifying words like âunrequited loveâ forming a pit in your stomach. Thereâs nothing negative about what you feel for Sunghoon, nothing unrequitedâyou think.Â
It was obvious during the trip, painfully so. In the way heâd tuck your hair behind your ear when his parents werenât there to see, or how he slipped up and called you âbabyâ in the bathroom, blushing when you said it back. You canât fake something like that.. Can you?
Yeonjun did.
Shaking your head, you open Instagram to distract yourself. Jakeâs story comes up first; heâs at a party where Jay is losing a game of beer pong, and at the other end of the table is Sunghoon grinning with a bright red lipstick kiss on his cheek. You lock your phone, using your hands to press on your belly to stop the stirring.Â
Oh, you think. Lovesickness.Â
When you wake up, the first thing you do is check Jakeâs story again. The video is still there and that terrible stir in your stomach churns on, burrowing deeply into a pit of canyon-like proportionâso vast thereâs a safety railing lining its edges.Â
You eat breakfast in silence with Yunjin, zoning out mid-chew to figure out the origin of these feelings and how to handle them. Suddenly, the moment hits you clear as day, vivid like youâre watching it on a screenâit was your third night at his parentsâ house, after your walk.Â
You felt bad about how you acted, and what you said, so went straight up to your room. With nothing but the bedside lamp turned on, it was dimly lit, shadows cast on the walls as you sulked, replaying everything in your head. Guilt wrapped its long arms around your body, making you feel sick as you thought about it all. About the hurt etched over his face with every word you said, and the frown that stuck around for the rest of the walk as his hand clung limply to yours.Â
There was a knock at the door, so gentle you almost missed it, and Sunghoon was standing there when you pulled it open, chewing on his lip with a mug in his hand. Steam skated over the opening, a rich chocolatey smell hitting your nose but the real kicker was the mug itself. In its place on Jake and Sunghoonâs mug tree, it was unassuming, a regular white mug, but upon meeting hot water, the face of young Sunghoon appeared, grinning with his tiny glasses on. It was a gift from one of his old coaches and though he never used it, it was your absolute favourite cup in the world.Â
You felt soft around the edges when you looked up at him, his eyes wide and unsure as you met his gazeâhe brought that mug three hours across the country so you could use it again. The thought shifted your heart into a comfortable position, settling in your chest with overwhelming warmth and an increased rate.Â
âHi,â you said, clearing your throat.Â
âHi,â he repeated, holding the mug out for you to take. âItâs still hot so be careful.âÂ
Nodding, you covered your hands with your sleeves, taking the cup from him and asking if he wanted to come in. Sunghoon nodded, shutting the door behind him and standing by the bed, watching you set the hot chocolate on the bedside table as you sat down. The two of you stayed like that for a while, with him only moving when you patted the spot next to you on the duvet. Your train of thought escaped you as soon as he sat down, the warmth of his familiar fresh, citrusy scent taking over and becoming the only thing you could register. The smell of summers with him, long days at the beach and short nights spent on the couch at random parties, cuddled into his side with his arm over your shoulders. The smell youâd come to associate with comfort and homeâwith Sunghoon.Â
âItâs not fair for me to treat you like shit just because Iâm annoyed, I shouldnât have spoken to you like that earlier. Iâm sorry.âÂ
A crease ran over Sunghoonâs thick brows as they tugged together, he shook his head. âYou donât have to apologise. I roped you into this whole thing and didnât even try to think about how you would feel. Iâm sorry.â His eyes carried a mix of regret and sincerity, mirroring the weight of his words.
âAnyway, I only came to bring you that,â he said, pointing at the cup. âAnd to check up on you, Iâll get out of your hair for tonight.â Sunghoon wiped his palms on his pants before standing up, reaching behind him to pick up the cloth he brought. For a moment, he stood there, staring down at it in his hand while you thought about telling him to stay, telling him that you wanted him in your hairâwhatever that meant. But he spoke before you had the chance. âYou left this, at mine, after.. well, you know. Iâm sure you left it intentionally, I mean it was folded up perfectly on the end of my bed, so I know you did, but it didnât feel right keeping it, you always wore it more than me.âÂ
Sunghoon extended his hand, holding it out to you and you knew exactly what it was as soon as the fabric touched your skin after so long. It was the shirt Jay bought him for Christmas in first yearâthey were roommates still trying to get a feel for each other. For a few weeks, Sunghoon had been pestering you about what he should get for Jay, saying it didnât feel right not to get him anything, and you suggested a targeted t-shirt, one youâd been laughing at all day after seeing an ad for it on your timeline. Sunghoon was sceptical, but bought the red shirt anyway, hoping Jay would find BEING DAD IS AN HONOUR, BEING PAPA IS PRICELESS funny. He did. And Jay bought Sunghoon a targeted shirt too, your favourite. It was black and two sizes too big, with I NEVER DREAMED IâD BE A SEXY FIGURE SKATER BUT HERE I AM KILLING IT written over the chest.Â
âGoodnight, YN,â Sunghoon said, crossing the room to leave but hesitating before closing the door. He poked his head through the opening and sighed. âI really am sorry.â
That night, you fell asleep in the shirt, the thinning, yet cosy, fabric wrapped around you like a hug as your heart started to beat a new rhythm, one that eerily echoed the five-foot-eleven figure skater who you let break it.Â
This morning, Yunjin claps her hands in your face, seeming irritated when you look over at her. âYou have class in an hour, what are you doing?â Before you have the chance to speak, realisation covers her face. âOh, the feelings.âÂ
You nod solemnly, too caught up in the butterflies raiding your stomach to come up with something to say.Â
At lightspeed, you scarf down the rest of your food, apologising for showing up so late as you head out the door. When you get home, you take the fastest shower of your life and feel grateful Chaewon isnât around to tease you about the smile you canât wipe from your face thinking about Sunghoonâyouâll text her later.
You run to campus, feeling the brisk autumn wind beating against your face while the rest of your body overheats under your jacket, hoodie and long sleeve. Despite the discomfort and ache in your lungs, you donât stop until you reach the door of your lecture hall, huffing and puffing into the faces of classmates who donât take any notice. Of course, in a stroke of pure luck, your lecturer is late, and you realise bitterly, that all of your huffing and puffing was in vainâyou would have gotten to class with time to spare even if you walked.
Itâs not a total waste though; you use the time to update Chaewon.Â
you: i have news wonie.. i like sunghoon
wonie: âŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ.. fork in the kitchen yn whatâs the news?Â
wonie: OHHHH news to YOU.. can i call?Â
She calls you immediately. You answer without thinking because your lecturer still hasnât arrived, and thereâs no one sitting close enough to hear or notice you taking a call.Â
âAre you going to tell him?!â Chaewonâs voice is so loud you wince, pulling the phone away from your ear.Â
âI donât know.â You shrug even though she canât see you, still holding the device at a distance just in case. âI donât have any confirmation that he still.. likes me. Itâs been a while, and I was pretty mean that day.Â
Chaewon groans and you can picture her throwing herself onto her bed, exasperated. The rustling that comes through the receiver only frames the image, hanging it up. âDid you have to tell him to get a grip?âÂ
âYou know..â You trail off, chewing on your bottom lip. âIn hindsight, probably not.âÂ
A beat passes, sheâs thinking. âDonât worry,â she says. âIâll help you.âÂ
âI.. have never been so worried in my life.â You sigh, picking at your freshly painted nails. âBut I know youâll do something no matter what I say, so do what you want, Wonie, but please be subtle about it.âÂ
Chaewon squeals down the phone. âI love youuuuu!â And itâs the last thing she says before kissing the mic a few times and hanging up.Â
Slumping in your seat, you donât have any time to stress about Chaewonâs plans because your lecturer walks in, with a travel cup in her hand and a paperback tucked under her arm.Â
She apologises for being late, running a hand through her hair as she announces that youâll be watching a film, an adaptation of a book you read at the start of termâIan McEwanâs Atonement. You spend the first hour of the movie falling in and out of sleep until a text comes through from Sunghoon, and sheer excitement keeps you up.
hoonie: Wanna study together after class?Â
you: of course!!!!!!Â
hoonie: đ€
The rest of the movie goes by in a drag, and you come away from it with a mild irritation towards Saoirse Ronan.
you: class just finished, heading to lib rnÂ
hoonie: Shit, still in the locker room, sorry !!! Omw, can you get a table?Â
you: iâll try..
It takes a while but you find an empty booth on the second floor, and set your bag on the plush green seat to take pictures of your surroundings to send to Sunghoon. You sit on the side facing the stairs so he can see you when he arrives. The thought of seeing him makes your heart race and you try out a few natural-seeming poses for when heâs here, cycling between resting your palm under your chin and sitting with your arms crossed a few times until the top of his head comes into view.Â
Seeing him knocks the wind out of you as he approaches the staircase, taking them two at a time with his damp hair clinging to his forehead and neck. It doesnât help that heâs wearing a tight black vest, and his sweats are hanging low on his hips. A breath you didnât realise you were holding slips out when he lifts his head, spotting you immediately as a grin spreads over his lips and he raises his arm to wave, the veins in his forearm peeking out to say hi too. You canât tell if itâs his lack of winter wardrobe or your newfound appreciation for him thatâs making his biceps look so huge but itâs hard to look away, even when he reaches the table.Â
âAre you hot?â you blurt out.Â
Sunghoon laughs, raising a brow and something about the way heâs looking down at you makes your cheeks burn. âDepends whoâs asking.â He takes his backpack off, leaving it on the table as he sits down, dumping his jacket and hoodie in a pile beside him.
âIâm asking,â you mumble.Â
âThen, yeah, Iâd hope so.âÂ
Is he flirting? It sounds like heâs flirting. Flirt back! âNice arms.âÂ
He looks down at his biceps for a beat before looking at you warily. âAre you flirting with me?â He canât fight the smile twitching at the corners of his lips but he tries his best, pressing them into a straight line.
âA little. They are nice though,â you admit.
Sunghoon grins. âThanks, Iâve had them for a while now.â
You canât come up with anything to say, too distracted by the way his smile reaches his eyes, lighting up his whole face and forcing a flustered heat to spread over your cheeks and neck. Itâs only when you look away from him that you remember what youâre here for. Itâs a study date, not a study dateâthereâs a difference.Â
You hand Sunghoon the material youâd printed for him over the weekend, excerpts from texts youâd studied in class, so he can practise close reading and proper citation. As he makes his way through them, you canât help stealing glances, smiling at the way his tongue sticks out a little while he focuses, or how he twirls his pen in his fingers while heâs thinking. You arenât making the best use of your time together, copying out the slides from class yesterday, but you canât help noticing the way he watches you when he thinks you canât see. The small smile on his face while he does so only flusters you, an odd weakness settling in your knees as your cheeks heat up.Â
After a while, Sunghoon sighs, running a hand through his hair. âCould you stop watching me?â
âIf you noticed me watching, that means youâre watching me.âÂ
He shrugs, chewing on his lip. âWell, yeah. Iâm always watching you,â he says like itâs a given. âBut you donât normally watch back, itâs distracting.âÂ
âYouâre distracting.â
A playful smile curves his lips as he arches a brow, smugness painting his face. âAm I?âÂ
Too scared to verbalise your response, you nod slowly, hoping you donât look as wound up as you feel.Â
Sunghoonâs eyes flick over your face, flashing with something you donât recognise. At least not from him. He sits back in his seat, assessing you and eventually shaking his head.Â
âYou know,â he says, eyes glowing with something you do recognise: cockiness. âIf my sexy arms are getting to you that much, I can always put my hoodie back on. Wouldnât want my little tutor getting distracted, would I?âÂ
Oh.Â
Your stomach turns with want, mind reeling from his tone and the way his gaze lands on your lips. Sighing, you roll your eyes and try to seem unaffected. âSunghoon, I never said your arms were sexy.âÂ
His phone starts to go off, buzzing against the table and he turns it over immediately, screen down on the surface as he shifts his focus back to his work. He chews on his lip while he does, eyes flicking back and forth between his phone and the words on the page. Curious, you lean over the table, elbows propped up as you rest your chin in your hands. He doesnât spare you or his phone, which vibrates another four times, a glance.
âAre you going to get that?âÂ
Sunghoon shakes his head. âItâs nothing.âÂ
You hum, letting just enough curiosity seep into the sound that heâll elaborate without being asked to. It doesnât take long for him to deliver.
âItâs just Chaewon,â he says, running his hand through his hair and lifting his head. Sunghoon smiles. âWeâve been texting a lot these days.âÂ
âCool.â You nod a few times, aiming for nonchalance but hitting bobblehead as you wait for him to continue. He doesnât, only humming in response, nodding too.Â
After a beat, he picks up his phone, angling it just high enough that you canât see the screen. He reads the messages, an exhaled laugh coming from his nose as the tips of his ears reddenâFuck. This is worse than you thought.Â
Chaewonâs commitment to girl code runs deepâsheâs been rebuffing Jake since first year when she overheard a girl sheâd never seen before telling her friends she thought he was cute. So you know without having to read the texts that nothing sheâs saying is even remotely flirty, you can smell the auto-caps and use of the word âbuddyâ from across the table.Â
What you hadnât counted on, however, was the potential for Sunghoonâs feelings to shift. If they really have been texting more, can you rule out the possibility that he might like.. her? Chaewon is a catch, beyond a catch, and youâd already turned Sunghoon down. Brutally. Of course, heâd move on, he has moved on.Â
The rest of the study session is spent manifesting, writing Park Sunghoon over and over in the back of your notebook. You fill three pages while brainstorming ways to snatch a lock of his hair until he suggests that the two of you call it a day. He walks you home, telling you about how Jakeâs been bribing him with food to get a ride to the LEGO store across town for the new Marvel set.Â
âWith or without the meals, I wouldâve taken him, but his ramen is my favourite, so..â Sunghoon says, climbing the last step of your building and holding the door open for you. âHe even brought a slice of tiramisu to the rink for me after practice.âÂ
âYouâre terrible,â you say, frowning up at him as you search for your keys. âDo you want to come in?âÂ
Sunghoon chuckles, shaking his head. âI have a meeting with one of my lecturers soon, Iâd have to leave inââ He pauses, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. ââeight minutes.âÂ
âIâm cool with that if you are,â you mumble, suddenly shy.Â
A bright smile spreads over his lips and he nods, following you in.Â
Chilled by the harsh wind, the only thing on your mind is a hot drink as you lead Sunghoon to the kitchen. He shakes his head when you offer him one, sitting on the countertop and exhaling into his palms before rubbing them together. You canât help but frown at the sight, feeling guilty that you canât change the weather to suit him. At your thought process, your brows raise. Wow, you think. Is this who you are?Â
You busy yourself with the selection of hot drinks you and Chaewon have accumulated, eyeing each container from top to bottom. A purple tub of Cadburyâs hot chocolate that youâre sure is on the brink of expiration, coffeeâsachets of the instant stuff youâve grown to like since leaving home, Earl grey from one of many brands, or the fancy silk tea bags Chaewonâs mum brought home from a tripârooibos or plum-apple-cinnamon.Â
Craving something sweet, you settle for hot chocolate, pulling the heavy container from the cupboard next to Sunghoonâs head and setting it beside your cup. Heâs on his phone, scrolling too fast to take in anything heâs seeing and he shakes his head when you ask if he wants something to drink.Â
On the dish rack, Chaewonâs mug catches your eye, so you pick it up to dry it off and put it down next to yours. âIâm going to check if Wonie wants any,â you say, wiping imaginary crumbs from the counter onto the floor.Â
Sunghoon only clears his throat, shaking his head. âSheâs not home, one of her acrylics popped off so sheâs at the shop waiting for a cancellation.âÂ
The information itself isnât jarring but hearing it from Sunghoon is. You put on what you hope is a neutral smile and nod, taking milk from the fridge and assembling your drink on autopilot while thinking of ways to redirect the conversation.Â
âIf you knew youâd have to go back to campus so soon, whyâd you walk me home?â you ask, watching your cup spin in the microwave. âI couldâve walked on my own.âÂ
Sunghoon is already looking at you when you turn your head, his cheeks puffed out with air as he blinks slowly. Because I love you, is what you hope heâll say. You think you need him to say it.Â
âBecause you donât have to do anything on your own when you have me,â he says instead, and itâs infinitely better.Â
The words seep through your every fibre, his intonation and lucid affection making a home for themselves in your heart, spreading warmth from head to toe. Your smile becomes a radiant grin, only brightening when he shakes his head, smiling down at his feet.Â
Sunghoon hugs you in the kitchen when itâs time for him to leave, his arms holding you tight to his chest as he rocks you back and forth. You inhale his scent, all warm citrus under freshly washed cotton and something exclusive to him.
Wiping the smile from your face feels impossible. You donât let go when he does, and a sweet laugh â a giggle, you think â tumbles out of him as he mumbles that he really has to go. Still, you cling onto him, taking clumsy steps backwards, with your arms locked around his waist, to your front door, smiling as you watch him put his shoes on.Â
âYou donât have to walk me downstairs, honestly,â he says, looking down at you in the doorway.
âI want to.âÂ
His lips quirk up at the corners, a full smile breaking through and causing your stomach to flutter with so much force youâre sure itâs visible through your shirt. His eyes fall to your lips, lingering, before he clears his throat, looking away.Â
âIâll text you when I get to the door, promise.âÂ
You lock your pinky with his. âSend a selfie, just so I know itâs you and not someone else using your phone.âÂ
Sunghoonâs head falls back in a laugh. âShould I just call you? That way you can make sure I get back to uni in one piece.âÂ
You nod.
âThat wasnât anything with Chaewon earlier, I just needed advice on some girl stuff..â He trails off, searching your eyes. Itâs obvious that heâs telling the truth, that he wants you to believe him. You do. âI wasnât sure if that was something I could talk about with you.âÂ
Girl stuff. Hmm. You try not to read too much into it and look at the bigger picture insteadâyour best friend is going through something and doesnât feel like he can come to you about it.. You squeeze his pinky reassuringly, a flutter in your stomach when he smiles.Â
âYou can talk to me about anything,â you say, meaning it.Â
Sunghoon presses his lips together, humming and unlinking your fingers. âNext time,â he says after a beat, waving at you.Â
You shut the door, locking it while watching through the peephole, he leaves as soon as the lock clicks shut. In the kitchen, your hot chocolate is cooling down, and your phone rings in your back pocket. Sunghoonâs calling.Â
Hanging out with Sunghoon. Making sure he sticks to the time-blocked schedule you made for him. Quizzing him on biology terms until he gets restless. If the last two weeks were an episode of Family Feud, those would be the top three answers to the question: Name something YN is doing right now.
Thankfully tonight, itâs the first one.Â
Youâve been sitting on the couch for so long, Jake has both left for football practice and arrived from football practice. Conversation ebbs and flowsâan hour or so of nonstop talking, followed by another hour or so of comfortable near silence.Â
Itâs during a quiet hour that Sunghoon sits up straight, clearing his throat before saying, âLet me ask you something. He retreats to the other side of the couch, turning to face you with his whole body. âI donât want things to be weird after I ask, so no matter what your answer is, I wonât bring it up or ask again.â
Arching a curious brow, you nod. âYou can ask me anything,â you say, meaning it.
Sunghoonâs face is impressively blankâminus the motion of sharp teeth worrying plush lip, thereâs absolutely nothing behind his eyes that seem to stare right through you.Â
Eventually, he asks, âCan I kiss you?â He says more. Big, scary words like for closure and moving on, but they donât register. They donât matter.Â
Your heart pounds at the base of your throat as you find interest in your hands that sit in your lap. Even without looking at him, you canât get over the slight crease he had in his brow and the slight tremor in his hands.Â
âFor closure,â you repeat, though your voice doesnât sound like itâs coming from you, muffled under the thump of your heart.Â
Sunghoon nods. âFor closure.âÂ
A humourless laugh sneaks past your throat as you look at him. You shouldnât have. In the lamplight, Sunghoon is golden and glorious. Warm light casts one side of his face, diffusing gently over the steep slope of his nose, highlighting his moles and the look in his eyes, gentle and curious all at once. Unwillingly, your gaze falls to his lips, parted, tempting.Â
One firm nod of your head brings Sunghoonâs hand to your face, his palm cupping your cheek with soft skin as his thumb traces your cheekbone. You grow anxious under his stare, under the drag of his eyes over your features, taking them one at a time like heâs committing them to memory.
Leaning in, your eyes flutter shut as your lips meet his and he freezes, mouth completely still on yours. Delicately, your tongue traces the seam of his lips, soft and plump, until they part for you, moving with yours. Sunghoonâs kiss is unpolished when it reaches you. Itâs hesitant but tender, clumsy but sweet, heâs trying and heâs perfect; your favourite.Â
The kiss is.. itâs everything. Itâs the racing of your heart, the thudding, the vibrant buzz you can hear, feel humming against your ears. Itâs a rush of blood to the head, a lightness all over that pulls you out of your body. Itâs Sunghoonâs soft lips curving into a smile against yours, his gentle hold on your face never letting up as he holds you as close as he can manage, and itâs every bit as lovely as the rest of him.
Palpable is the heartbeat of your friendship, beating to a lull under the surface of the kiss, fizzling out into nothing, a steady silence, flatlining to give way to something more, something bigger.Â
Every brush of your lips against his is a revelation, a confession. Youâre all Iâve ever wanted, you tell him with your kiss. Youâre everything I need. His free hand finds yours, locking your fingers and squeezing, the action timed well enough to make you think he hears you, to make you think heâs saying, weâll be okay, I still love you.Â
With that, he pulls away, a delicate tension piercing the air. Blown eyes and laboured breathingâheâs beautiful, fuzzy around the edges with warm orange and all of the love in your heart. Breathless, you chew on your lip, cognisant of Sunghoonâs hand in yours and the sparkle in his eyes as he looks at you.Â
Belatedly, you squeeze his hand back, smiling. âWas it everything you ever dreamed of?â you whisper, part teasing, all curious.
Abruptly, Sunghoon stands up, letting go of you in the process. âI have to go.âÂ
You want to stop him, you think youâre supposed to. To grab him by the arm and kiss him again, to yell in his face that you love him until he understands. But you donât. Instead, you stay seated, staring at Sunghoonâs back and following him with your eyes out of the room and down the hall until heâs out of sight.Â
Itâs your first time being so upset after a kiss, and you canât tell if itâs his leaving or the mention of him moving on thatâs tripping you up so much. Thatâs causing melancholy to crawl from the shadows, sinking its jagged nails into your skin to pull you under.Â
You love him. Heâs gone.Â
Eyes stuck on the doorway, time stretches over the room around you, thick and malleable, wet and cloyingâclay stuck under your nails for days as the fire in the kiln rages on.Â
Sighing, you get up and wait at his door. You ball your hand into a limp fist, knocking weakly. Sunghoon doesnât reply. You try again, harder. Still nothing.Â
Barging into the room, you find him sitting on the end of his bed with his face in his hands.Â
âDonât move on.â The words come out before you realise and Sunghoon lifts his head, squinting at you.Â
âHuh?â He tilts his head, watching closely as you approach him, tipping it back enough to meet your eyes when you stand over him.Â
You take a breath, holding it until your head starts to spin. âI donât want you to love someone else, Sunghoon. Please donât move on.âÂ
The stillness that follows is disconcerting, a long quiet you can feel on your skin, amplifying the blank stare on his face as he looks up at you. His eyes flash, a spark of hope behind them so bright it stings to look at.
âDo you..â He trails off, his lips moving to form the next word though stopping short.
âI do,â you whisper, nodding. âIâm sorry for taking so long.â
An exhaled laugh comes from his nose as he grins, shaking his head. âYou like me?â he asks, excitement and disbelief fighting for authority over his voice, his hands holding your waist and pulling you down into his lap.
âI love you,â you admit, settling on his thighs.Â
âYou do?â His eyes are wide and gleaming, searching every feature on your face before settling on your own.
You nod. âSo much.âÂ
Sunghoonâs chin tips up, his lips pressing against yours, excited pecks that canât turn into much more for the smiles on your faces. You rest your arms on his shoulders, hands clasping behind his head, nervous fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.Â
âSo.. will you be my boyfriend? For real?âÂ
Tilting his head, he tries and fails to fight a smile. âI will. Iâm a little bummed though.âÂ
âWhy?â You raise a brow, and the word tips up at the end with it.Â
âI wanted to be the one to ask you.â Sunghoonâs honesty warms the room, endearing you completely.Â
You grin, loving the heat spreading over your cheeks. âAsk me anyway.âÂ
âPlease can I be your boyfriend?âÂ
In the weeks that followed, it became immediately clear that boyfriend Sunghoon operated on a pendulum swinging between sexual ferality and terror. Heâd get distracted during study sessions at home, finding more interest in biting at your neck than stream-of-consciousness prose, but closed his eyes if a sex scene came on TV. Heâd buck his hips against yours while making out but flinch at the sight of condoms in the store.
He wasnât ready to have sex and didnât know how to tell you, so you took matters into your own hands, asking if you could wait until after his results for resubmission came in, saying you didnât want the distraction for either of you. Sunghoon agreed, pecking your cheek and holding you tight to his chest.Â
The only thing was that your lecturer hadnât given him an exact date, so every morning, you held your phone in a vice grip waiting for Sunghoon to update you, and every morning, you got the same text: Nothing today, baby âčïžÂ
This morning, youâre brushing your teeth when he texts you, in all caps: NO FUCKING WAY I GOT A 98 !!! LOOK !!!
When the picture comes through, itâs of him in the mirror and you choke on mouthwash at the sight. Heâs smiling, bright and beautiful, in a black vest that heâs holding up a little to show his stomach, though his palm is in the way of his toned abs, and it cuts off right at the top of his grey sweatpants.Â
Your mouth goes dry as you click on it, fixating on every little detail you can find: the thickness of his fingers against his phone, the dip in his collarbones, the breadth of his shoulders and the cinch of his waist. In a fit of desperation, you try swiping at the bottom of your screen, willing the picture to magically extend. It doesnât.Â
hoonie: Finger slipped.. You like?
you: mm..Â
you: 98??? HOLY SHIT, LOOK AT YOU!!!
hoonie: All you.. do you like the picture?
you: i love itâŠâŠâŠâŠ.
hoonie: My girl đ€
Another picture comes in, and sure enough, through the glare of his laptop screen, you see: Course name: The Modernist Movement: Joyce, Woolf, and Hemingway. Marks Awarded: 98.0.
you: well done baby !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
hoonie: Thx đ
hoonie: Can I have my prize now ha ha .. haha đ
you: just for that emoji, no you absolutely cannot.
Your resolve isnât strong enough when it comes to Sunghoon, because purple devil emoji and all, you show up at his door with condoms in your bag and a bouquet of lilies behind your back.Â
The door creaks open and Sunghoon greets you with a grin. âHey, gorgeous. You proud of me?âÂ
You beam at him, holding out the flowers. âIâm very proud, Hoon, well done.âÂ
âI donât want to ruin the moment,â he starts, taking the bouquet from your hands and sniffing the flowers with an approving smile. âBut hearing you say youâre proud of me is awakening something I didnât know existed.â
âA good something?âÂ
âMm,â he hums, arms finding your waist before he pecks your lips. âA very good something.âÂ
Sunghoonâs words hit your lips and your core, a desperate heat flooding your stomach as he kisses you deeply, his body pressed tightly against yours while he pulls you into his apartment. He kicks the door shut with his foot, slipping his hand under your jacket to settle in your back pocket, not quite squeezing but holding your ass as gently as he can manage.Â
He breaks away from you, love in his eyes as he stares down into yours, catching his breath. âI donât think we own a vase.âÂ
In his kitchen, you rifle through cupboards to find something to hold the flowers, eventually finding a whiskey decanter in the cupboard under the sink, and holding it up for Sunghoon to see.
âOh, yeah,â he says. âItâs Jayâs. Itâll work right?âÂ
You nod, taking it to the sink to rinse it. Sunghoon wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder watching you fill the decanter with water and flower food before grabbing the bouquet. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your neck and you struggle to stay focused as you cut down the stems on the flowers, arranging them neatly.Â
âCan I take a photo?â he asks when youâre done.Â
Heâs smiling when you turn around to look at him, a soft curve of his lips that makes your heart race, a deep tenderness in his eyes when you meet them. You smile too.Â
âTheyâre yours, baby, do whatever you want.âÂ
âA photo of you with the flowers,â he clarifies.Â
Warmth settles in your chest, a grin spreading over your lips from ear to ear. You nod, taking the decanter in your hands when he lets go of you, holding the flowers up beside your face and smiling for his camera. As his phone shutter clicks away, you steal glances at his face behind it. Heâs watching the screen with a smile, telling you how beautiful you are.
âI want pictures of you too,â you say, handing the flowers over.Â
âIâm yours, baby, do whatever you want.âÂ
Sunghoon poses for your photos, smiling sweetly in some and sniffing the bouquet appreciatively with closed eyes for others. Heâs glowing and heâs beautiful and your heart triples in size while taking picture after picture until your phone tells you it has ten percent.Â
âThank you, YN,â he says. âIâve never gotten flowers before, I love them.â His arms settle around your waist, lips pressing against yours before you have the chance to respond.Â
You try anyway, mumbling against his lips that you love him. In response, Sunghoon grins, but the feeling of his cock growing hard against you is distracting, a lust-coated thorn in the side of the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. With locked lips and uncertain steps, the two of you bump into corners and trip over your own feet, stumbling to his room and parting only to tear his hoodie over his head.
Breathless, you pull away, eyes trailing over him and picking up on everything, from the tremble in his hands to the lust-addled worry in his eyes. Heâs nervous, you thinkâthough it escapes you, the last word coming out like a question.
Sunghoon scoffs, his hands resting on your waist under your shirt, skin clammy against yours. âOf course, Iâm nervous.âÂ
âYou donât have to be.â
âI just want to be good for you.âÂ
âDonât worry about that, let me take care of you, Hoon.â Your palms drag up his torso â firm abs through soft cotton, defined chest over racing heart â to rest on his shoulders. âSit,â you say when he nods.Â
He gulps, taking a seat on the end of his bed under your gentle push, eyes widening when you sink to your knees between his legs and reach for his drawstring, pulling the ends to untie the knot.Â
âWait,â Sunghoon says, breathless, scrunching up his face and dropping his head. âLet me calm down, baby. At this rate, Iâll come just seeing your hand on it.âÂ
You giggle, resting your head on his thigh and wrapping the drawstring around your finger.
âIâm serious, YN,â he mumbles, laughing as he takes his vest off. âI need a minute.âÂ
Sunghoonâs eyes are pressed shut as he tries to collect himself, lips pouty and kiss-bitten, slightly parted with ragged breaths slipping out. You wait patiently for him. Heâs so pretty like this, with the crease in his brow and the pretty pink flush dusting his cheeks as his chest rises and falls. You canât help but smile, leaning into his touch when his hand rests on top of your head, his blunt nails grazing your scalp. After a while, he seems more at ease, his eyes finding yours and he smiles shyly, telling you heâs ready now and lifting his hips from the bed to let you pull his sweats and underwear down.Â
Free from the constraints of fabric, his cock slaps his stomach with a wet sound as the tip meets his skin, leaving a pearlescent streak over his abs. The sight makes your mouth water and you canât look away. âPretty,â you whisper.
Wrapping a hand under his tip, you swipe it with your thumb, taking time to memorise the flutter of his eyelids, the bobbing of his Adamâs apple, and the soft sigh he lets out. You stroke him slowly, liking the way his breath picks up as his brows knit together before you take him in your mouth. Itâs a tight fit but you do your best, spurred on by the way he tugs at your hair and stutters through a holy fuck as you take as much of him as you can.Â
Sunghoon goes silent, only squirming when you use your hand to stroke him near his base. Self-conscious about his lack of vocal affirmation, you look up at him through your lashes, and the pure bliss on his face is unbearably attractive. His eyes are rolled back under furrowed brows, his mouth hanging open as he throws his head back.
âAm I doing okay?â you ask, using the moment to catch your breath.
He nods, inhaling shakily and screwing his eyes shut while his hips buck up into your fist. âIâm.. Youâre doing such a good job, baby, so good.â
Satisfaction courses through you from the praise, a high that dulls the ache in your jaw. Still watching him, you massage his balls in your palm, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his tip when he whines. You tongue at his slit until he thrusts back into your mouth, tip hitting your throat, and he gasps when you gag, his arm coming up to cover his eyes. A belated apology slips from his lips, mumbled as he strokes your hair with a shaking hand and goes quiet again. When you speed up, his breath stutters, the muscles in his thighs contracting around your head as you suck and lick and drool on his cock.Â
A moan of your name, and his hand holding your hand down, are the only warnings you get before Sunghoon comes, spilling his load right down your throat. Whining, his hips buck up against your face, pushing further and further until he falls back onto the mattress.
Your throat is hoarse and aches while you use the back of your hand to wipe at your lips, enjoying whatâs left of his taste on your tongue. Deep red tints his neck and chest, a pretty flush gleaming under the sheen of sweat on his skin. Heâs mesmerising, as he tries for air through swollen lips and looks up at you through squinted eyes. He reaches for you, cute grabby hands tugging your shirt and pulling you down so youâre lying next to him with your head on his chest.Â
âYouâre amazing, baby, so good for me,â Sunghoon whispers, eyes fluttering shut as you drag your nails over his torso, feeling the subtle heave of the slick, sculpted muscle over his stomach and chest.Â
Pride heats your chest, satisfaction rolling over you like a wave. âReally?â
He hums in affirmation, nodding his head.Â
âYou were so quiet, I couldnât really tell,â you add, hungry for more praise.Â
âThe walls are so thin in here, I just got used to being quiet,â Sunghoon says, frowning. Hand meeting your chin, he tips your head up towards him, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and mumbling, âIâm sorry. You were perfect, I swear.âÂ
Itâs a sweet kiss. Until lips move harder and hands get lower, desperate as he thumbs the top of your leggings, palm unmoving but a dangerous heat blooms in your stomach anyway.
âCan I..â Sunghoon pinches you softly through the material, unsure eyes boring deep into yours.Â
You nod. âYou can.âÂ
Slipping under your waistband, his fingers skate across your skin dipping between your thighs. He grazes your slit, satisfaction clear in the groan he lets out as he feels the wetness there, pulling it over the length of your slit to cover your clit. Your breath hitches, a strangled gasp, pleasure and surprise meeting in your throat under the pressure of his thumb on your clit, the gentle sting of his finger pushing into you.Â
What Sunghoon lacks in experience, he makes up for with the sheer length and thickness of his fingers. Itâs almost jarring, itâs enough to force your eyes closed and bring a sigh rumbling out of you, ache and relief settling between your legs, where he curls a finger against your walls and drags slow circles over your clit.Â
âCan you take these off, baby?â he asks, hand away to touch your leggings.Â
You donât waste a second, sitting up to pull them off, throwing them and your underwear across the room. Sunghoon licks his lips, tugging at the hem of your shirt.Â
âAnd this? If you want..âÂ
You nod, pulling it off immediately to let it join the rest of your clothes in a heap on the floor. The way he gulps is a confidence boost, his dilated pupils taking in every inch of your body, though his gaze always pulls back to your braâwhite and lacy, thin enough for your nipples to push through the fabric and Sunghoon canât seem to get enough, though he waits until youâre lying down again to touch you.Â
Sunghoon props himself up on his elbow, leaning over you. âYouâre beautiful,â he whispers, dragging a finger over the lace at the top of your bra, toying with the material and the little bow sitting between your breasts. His eyes flick up to meet yours. âSo beautiful,â he repeats.Â
Hiding your face in his chest, you mumble, âThank you,â into his skin while trying to ignore the heat spreading over your body wherever he touches you. His hand trails from your arm to your waist, resting on your hips to slip over your ass for a beat, where he grabs and squeezes the flesh there before coming back around to slot between your legsâyou lift one of them, resting it over his body, and heâs smiling sweetly when you look up at him.
Sunghoonâs movements are unchanging, though the sensation is heightened by the unbridled desire in his lidded eyes that urges white heat to lick over every inch of your skinâthis time he pushes two fingers into you.
It doesnât get better than this, you think. But it does, quickly.Â
Leaning over you, his eyes flick across your face, one feature at a time as he chews on his lip. Reaching up, you push some of his hair from his face, holding it back and saying, âRelax, baby.âÂ
âDonât want to hurt you.â
Moving your hand, you blink when his hair flops back over his forehead, tickling your eyelashes. His eyes are focused now, staring straight down into yours, want and worry flashing behind them.Â
âYou wonât, I promise,â you say, locking your pinky with his, feeling relieved when he smiles.
Sunghoon pushes in slowly, his name slipping from your lips when he exhales shakily, head falling forward. The sting, the pleasure, make it hard to breathe, molten desire taking hold of your lungs as he carves out a place for himself as far as youâll take him, all the way to the hilt as slow as he can manage.Â
A moan tears out of him, lewd and whiny as his hair tickles your collarbone, head falling into the crook of your neck. His skin is hot and damp against yours, his breath burning your shoulder as he tries to calm down. Itâs difficult to register much else, tethered only by the sound of his voice when he asks, âAm I hurting you?âÂ
âHoon,â you whisper.Â
âCan you look at me, baby?â He lifts his head, resting a hand on your cheek. You blink your eyes open, gaze locking with his, where concern pushes through his desire. âAm I hurting you?â he asks again. âAre you okay?âÂ
You nod. âIâm okay, just..â You sigh. âFull. Need a minute.âÂ
Sunghoon kisses you, lips moving gently with yours, passing breathy whines between your mouths until you feel yourself relaxing. Pulling his plush bottom lip between yours, you suck on it, nodding. âWant you to move, baby,â you mumble.Â
He scans your face, eyes meeting yours as he pulls his hips back. Heâs slow, so slow with his thrusts that your belly turns with want, your fingernails sink into the taut skin of his back, and jagged sobs fall out of you with each drag of his cock along your walls.Â
Everywhere his skin touches yours is set ablaze with scorching heat, goosebumps pushing past the surface as his breath fans your neck and his sharp teeth graze your skin. He bites hard enough to sting, and you wince as his tongue flicks over your bitten flesh to soothe you.
You were so worked up earlier, writhing against the sheets and coming undone in his palm, so bliss quickly pushes through the ache between your legs. âGood, Hoon, feels so good,â you manage, struggling to convey how perfect it is.
âJust want to make you feel good.â His words melt into each other, vowels soft and elongated as they curl around each other. Heâs working up a steady rhythm, his tip consistently nudging you where you need itâthe spot that makes the room blur around you. âThatâs all I want.âÂ
Before long, the knot in your stomach pulls you up from the mattress, arching your back towards the ceiling. Mouth to mouth, chest to chestâitâs the closest youâve ever felt to someone else, the closest youâve ever been. The thought alone knocks the wind out of you, and his persistent whining does nothing to help.
Your want and adoration for Sunghoon run bone-deep, inching up your spine and creeping over your shoulders, intertwined with an all-consuming pleasure that turns the heat in your stomach molten as a shudder zips through you. Even though you canât find the words to let him know, he lifts your hips from the bed to fuck you deeper, harder, into the mattress until shaky orgasms pull both of you under.Â
You let him fall into you, fingers curling around his hair, whispering I love you into the skin of his neck as he comes, most of his weight on top of you while you catch your breath, relishing in the fullness you feel as the last waves of your high pull back. You stay like this for as long as he needs, his head coming up from the crook of your neck to smile at you before pressing his lips to yours. A sleepy haze fills the room around you, tongue swiping tongue as you giggle happily into his mouth.Â
After a while, he gets up, tying the condom to throw it away and comes back with his shirt. He uses it to clean upâgentle between your legs, pressing kisses to your calves while he does. Sunghoonâs tenderness wraps around your heart, and love clouds your vision, forming a blurry trail that follows all of his movements, glowing like something from a dream, ethereal, an apparition.Â
The bed dips beside you, his arms around you, pulling you in so his chin rests on your head. You push your cheek into his chest, hoping the two of you will meld into oneâthe thought makes you warm all over, a fuzziness that reaches every part of your body while he presses kisses into your hair, rubbing your back.Â
âI love you,â he says, voice as soft as the rest of him. âIâm glad I exist.â
mama park: Hi lovely đ missing you lots, wondering when youâll be home for XmasâŠâŠâŠ..love ma
Sunghoon stirs, nose scrunching as he snores softly into the quiet of a winter morning. His chest rises and falls steadily under your head and he doesnât move when you sit up. The lamp on his desk is still on â neither of you could be bothered getting up to turn it off last night â and under its dim glow, you admire him. Perfect lips gently curvedâlong lashes kissing the skin under his eyes.Â
Love hits you from all angles, warmth all over from head to toe despite the chill in Sunghoonâs room. You canât help but grin, leaning up to nose along the underside of his chin, his natural scent so soft yet dizzying as you nuzzle into him. He stirs again, turning his head this way and that before resting, you feel a bit bad, deciding to leave him be and text his mum back.Â
you: hi mum !!! missing you sooooooo much :((( will be home asap
mama park: BTW Sunghoon told me everything. I raised such good actors LOL make sure he looks after you and keeps you happy!
you: iâm so sorry we lied to you..
you: but iâm really happy with him and he loves me a lot
you: i love him so much .. never been so sure of anyone in my life
© zreamy (2023), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let my know your thoughts !
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