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pucksandpower · 6 months ago

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Changing the Game

platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader

Oscar Piastri x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sponsors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

In your rookie season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make them remember your name.

The lights go out, and the race begins.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is his greatest achievement.

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kquil · 4 months ago

Text

REMUS LUPIN | TEMPER

sum. : remus is usually a grump, as dismal as a cloudy day and you're his sunshine, whether he accepts it or not -- he denies it vehemently until his sensitive nerves make him lash out the day of a full moon

length : 2.2k

tags. : grumpy remus ; sunshine reader ; opposites attract ; angst with a happy ending ; remus is a meanie ; reader is stubborn ; a little ooc remus lupin ; fluff ; angst

navi. | more remus lupin

Remus thinks you’re strange. He didn’t know of you until you made yourself known to him, wearing the brightest smile he had ever seen on a person. It was like the sun breaking through a stubborn wall of clouds on an otherwise dismal day. He wasn’t usually the extroverted type, especially with Sirius, James and Peter as his best mates so he was surprised that someone like him managed to catch your eye.

He was perfectly fine with being a silent presence in his close group of friends, appreciating them for their companionship despite knowing of his ‘furry little problem’. He hardly interacted with others outside his small group and preferred it that way. So when you suddenly appeared before him, he didn’t know what to do with you.

You had a horrible preference for appearing whenever he was reading in the library – something he enjoyed for academic and recreational purposes. James, Sirius and Peter never understood his fondness for reading so left him alone whenever he simply wanted to read. He was more than comfortable with having only himself for company until you started sitting with him. That was how you first got to know each other or, rather, how you made him your ‘friend’ but not by choice.

“What are you reading there?” your chirpy voice cuts through the silence that first day. Hoping you weren’t talking to him, Remus ignored you and, instead, brought his book closer to shield his face. “Hello?~” you sang softly after a beat of silence and he could hear the smile in your words. Finally, Remus looks up but only spares you a brief once-over. He was being rude, yes, but so were you for interrupting his reading. Remus also couldn’t stand seeing your bright and sunny gaze for longer than he’d be willing to stare directly at the sun. He’s half convinced he’d burn himself if he looked at you too long.

“Frankenstein,” he answers quietly, hoping you’d leave soon enough… but that was wishful thinking on his part.

“Oh! A muggle book? That’s pretty cool.” there’s a pause after Remus gives an acknowledging grunt but nothing more. Please go away! He remembers pleading to himself as he tried to find where he last left off – you were too distracting, “May I sit with you?” Remus goes to give you a judging look but you’re already sitting in the seat across from him when he looks up. He glares at your happy disposition, unaffected by his obvious disapproval, much to his irritation. His annoyance flares sharply as he emits a low growl from deep within his chest but there’s no response from you. You’re as immovable as a mountain. He has no choice but to accept his fate and does his best to ignore you in favour of reading.

However, in doing so, he had deeply underestimated how determined you were to disturb his peace.

From his periphery, he sees you pausing in your own reading to stare blatantly at him from across the table. Your first few attempts were, somewhat, sneaky but, over time, you eventually gave in to an obnoxious stare. Remus felt like he couldn’t turn a single page without you eyeing his long fingers. Your eyes peek out from over your book and Remus has to fight himself to keep from getting lost in your curious, twinkling eyes.

“What do you want?” he snaps agitated and suppressing the horrible urge to grind his teeth menacingly at you. A disguised effort to resist your infuriating charms. Someone this annoyingly persistent shouldn’t be so adorable.

“Sorry, I umm…. I just wanted to know what your Frankenstein book was about…”

You were polite and sweet with the decency to appear, somewhat, ashamed of your behaviour —it was very cute— but that only seemed to rile Remus up even more, “Read it yourself.” he snaps again and continues reading.

He doesn’t feel bad for snapping at you, which is why he avoids your gaze entirely. In his efforts, he manages to make more progress with reading and doesn’t realise how much time has gone by until the ache in his neck makes him look up and see you asleep atop the table. Rolling his eyes, Remus packs his things and leaves you to return to Gryffindor Tower — he’s not a babysitter so he shouldn’t feel guilty and he shouldn’t look back. But he does alert the librarian about your presence so that she gets you up instead.

Remus doesn’t see you until a few days later when you happen upon him in the library and disturb his peace once again. When he looks up this time, however, his eyes manage to linger on your smile before you direct his attention to a copy of Frankenstein in your hand. It makes him raise a brown in silent question.

“I got the book to read as you suggested,” you ramble on more than is necessary. At least your voice isn’t super annoying, it’s actually quite nice to listen to, “I haven’t read much yet but it’s really good so far. It’s not like anything I’ve ever read before. You have a really good taste in books,” by this point, Remus has already buried his attention back into the pages of his current book and tries to zone you out with only minimal success, “May I sit with you?” that question immediately catches his attention and he almost snaps his neck in half, looking up to firmly reject your attempts.

“No–!” but he was too late as you were already sitting down and smiling innocently from your seat across the table. He frowns deeply and sighs loudly, making his annoyance obvious but you’re unbothered and already have your book open. His eyes narrow, perplexed at how someone can act so brazenly. He notices the stray hair that falls out of place, the slight crookedness of your collar, the focus in your eyes, the softness of your skin and the gentle curve of your face… You’re so annoying! “What edition do you have?” he suddenly asks, his voice rough and disinterested as if he couldn’t care less whether you answered him or not. He wasn’t interested at all; he just needed to desperately put an end to his earlier train of thought. Hopefully, your response would irk him again and he could return to being rightfully irritated by you.

“Oh um…” you flick to the very first page of the book, “I have the 1818 edition, why?” you’re smiling sweetly and he scoffs, turning his head away. His ears had become a bright pink beneath his hair.

“No reason…” The two of you return to reading your individual books while Remus hopes you don’t register the subconscious hum of approval he let out. He’s only happy you’re reading the original, unrevised version.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

The two of you have become an unusual pair that is often seen around Hogwarts. Many have criticised you for always trailing behind the tall Gryffindor, and despite his cold, impartial disposition towards you, Remus is the first to put an end to such ‘annoying’ talk.

“Stop talking about things you hardly know anything about,” he would often use his tall height to glare down at those same, clueless people, demeaning them further. And, although that should have been the end of it, many persisted to the point where James, Sirius, and Peter also stepped in when neither of you were around to defend your unusual pairing.

“Thank you, Remus,” you would chirp at him but receive no response in return. It was odd that, despite his cold shoulder, you persisted. Always wanting to be his friend, always smiling so easily, always greeting him with a friendly tone. It didn’t make sense to him.

Deep down, Remus wants to keep you. He thinks you are adorable; you are a shining light to a monster like him, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Whenever you stand particularly close to him, he savours the warmth you radiate. And whenever you talk, no matter if it is nonsense, he always listens, even if he pretends to ignore you by doing something else entirely. He keeps you at a distance but also wants you close at the same time – he was confusing even himself!

He was grateful for your consistency, however. Grateful until the week of the full moon.

You are consistent, and that was something Remus always appreciated about you. But it has become Remus’ main point of irritation for the past few days. Everywhere he looked, you were there, smiling brightly as always, but his sensitive nerves have grown intolerant of you; as soon as he sees you approach, he turns away and hurriedly escapes your company. It scares him to feel so genuinely irritated by you that he doesn’t dare lash out. In the beginning of his friendship with the Marauders, he had lashed out at them too, but their determination for a close bond kept them together. He knows how persistent you can be, but losing you is a thought that makes his blood run cold and leaves an awful taste in his mouth, worse than any potion.

True to your character, however, you manage to corner him after three days of avoidance, the day the full moon would finally appear in the night sky. It was only a matter of time, but why today of all days?

“You have the worst timing…” Remus mutters to himself as you innocently tilt your head in question. Usually, as perceptive as he is, Remus would have answered your silent question by now, but he remains silent. The still pause stretches on between you, and Remus uses it as the perfect opportunity to turn away and begin walking off. However, you are adamant about not letting him leave and hug his arm to anchor him down — this is the closest the two of you have ever been. Although Remus never raised a hand at you, his violent flinch to escape your touch makes your heart stop. “Don’t. Touch. Me!” he growls lowly through clenched teeth, his expression making you freeze up.

“I-I just…” Under his intimidating gaze, you deflate and confess honestly. “I missed you…I haven’t seen you in three days, and you’re my friend. I was really worried. Did I do something wrong?—”

“If I walk away, then that means I don’t want you anywhere near me!” Remus glares coldly at you, his face crumpled into one that completely replaces his once gentle features. He is unrecognisable. “Leave me alone!” With that, he turns and leaves, a boulder in his stomach and a bitter taste in his mouth, with the still silence ringing in his ears. He needs to get a hold of himself; he can’t believe he lashed out at you like that. Hopefully, you will leave him alone from now on, at least until after he has recovered from his transformation.

Remus was halfway down the hall when the silence was finally broken by a soft sniffle and a suppressed whimper. He stops completely in his tracks. He dreads turning around, frozen in place in his fear that he had made you cry. The soft footfalls that follow as you walk away prompt him to turn and rush to you, desperate to correct his mistake.

“I’m sorry!” he shouts, his heart thundering in his chest as he runs to you. It isn’t until he sees your heartbroken expression and the tears falling from your eyes that he drops to his knees and hugs you around the waist, burying his face in your stomach as he repeats his apology over and over. It is overdramatic, in hindsight, but in the moment, he can’t think of any other way to keep you from completely turning away from him. His lycanthropy has taken so many things away from him, and now he is about to lose the one thing he would fall apart without. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me, love,”

Never before had you heard such affection in Remus’ words than in that moment. You don’t know what compelled him to be so incredibly mean, but his softened, pleading eyes, as he looks up from where he presses his cheek against your torso, have your knees weakening.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Ever since that day, Remus was found to be always trailing after you, always touching you and eagerly leaning down to hear you better. He loves peering intimately into your beautiful eyes and getting to smell your sweet fragrance. He now insists that you sit in his lap every time you join him to read in the library together. Feeling you close and getting the chance to hold you in his arms is an addictive feeling that Remus will never tire of.

“Let me carry that for you, love,” Remus’ soft whisper has you hypnotically handing over your books as heat rises up your neck, “I’ll take you to class, today,”

“You walk me to class every day, Rem,” you giggle and smile as he presses a kiss to your temple and nuzzles your crown affectionately.

“What about it?” there isn’t a trace of malice in his voice, only warmth.

“Nothing~” he doesn’t let you go easily. Before you begin walking to class, he holds your chin and tilts it up ever so slightly, guiding your lips to meet his own in a soft kiss.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” his loving eyes and soft words make you melt. You’ve never had a more perfect morning.

“Good morning, Rem,”

navi. | more remus lupin

a/n : this is dedicated to my darling friend @cheriiepies who's birthday is new years! i hope you enjoy this short imagine/oneshot, my lovely! i just hope i managed to include everything you wanted to me to include. and HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE! I hope you're surrounded by all the love and happiness you deserve on your special day!

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #marauders era #remus lupin imagines #remus lupin x you #remus lupin fluff

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gravedwe11er · 3 months ago

Text

Got hit by a Mecha AU Swerve angst idea in the middle of the night, and I had to put it down on a page. Based on the @keferon Mecha AU and inspired by all the amazing Swerve/Blurr art I see around (seriously, yall are giving me so many ideas and I love it).

More often than not, nowadays, Swerve feels like an imposter in his own frame. His time spent as a human was so short, just an insignificant speck compared to the eons of his real life, his real lifespan, and yet...

Those few scant human years are the realest he can remember feeling.

The medics said it took fifteen cycles for anyone to knock on his door, to even notice his absence. And when someone eventually did, it was just- his boss. One of the engines was giving them trouble, and they needed all servos on deck. That's all.

None of the bots who he talked to every day, the ones he’d worked side by side with for years noticed he was gone. None of the people who would laugh at his jokes and drink with him at the bar had a single thought to spare for him. Nobody missed him, until they needed him for something.

Glum thoughts in the dead of night are one thing. It’s another thing entirely to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s all true.

So of course Swerve figured out the holoform thing again. Sure, it’s still kind of risky, but now that he’s actually doing it on purpose, he’s been taking a few precautions – a good recharge, a full fuel tank, and an automated message to be sent off to the medics after a set period of time, in case he knocks himself out again. Actually, he nearly managed just that, the first time he tried it, overtaxing himself almost to the point of shutdown. The keyword being nearly, though! It did little to weaken his resolve, and after a few more tries, he now has a whole system figured out, one that won’t damage his processor.

Or, it probably won’t, anyway. He’s not about to go ask; someone higher up might order him to stop, which-

Yeah, he’s not doing that.

On this ship, Swerve’s got nothing. He might as well be nothing - he’s a trained metallurgist working as a common mechanic, amongst people who barely even know he exists. On Earth, he’s- well. It’s not like he was exactly a social butterfly, but people invited him for shitty cafeteria coffee, a few pilots liked to stop by for a chat sometimes, and if he fell asleep at his desk, someone would come shake him awake within an hour or two.

On Earth, he has Blurr. And that’s not something he’s willing to give up.

Swerve shutters his optics in his tiny room on the ship, and surrenders gladly to the pulling sensation overtaking his processor as his holomatter generator struggles to cross such a vast distance. Then, with a crackle and a fizz of static across his neural net, he’s gone.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Blurr’s expansive private hospital suite, with the man nowhere to be seen. He’s been hoping for that, though- as a general rule, he tries to catch the pilot between press conferences and physical therapy sessions, so nobody starts asking questions about the dead man loitering around a celebrity’s rooms. Blurr has enough problems as it is.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, Swerve hears several pairs of footsteps approaching the door, and he ducks into the bedroom, keeping out of sight. “Again, thank you so much for the well-wishes,” carries through the walls, barely loud enough to be audible – Blurr’s voice, he thinks. The ‘business’ voice. “But I really have to go now. The doctor will be visiting soon, you understand.”

There are polite sounds of assent, an exchange of a few more pleasantries before the steps retreat back down the hallway, followed by the quiet whoosh of the front door opening. Cautiously, Swerve peeks out of the bedroom.

Blurr stands in the doorway, back straight, with a bright, practiced smile on the visible half of his face. The other, the one with scars and still healing skin grafts, is covered by an elaborate mask, shaped to look like his mech’s helm. He gives the people outside one final wave, and clicks the door shut.

Then he turns around, notices Swerve and slumps.

Now wobbling slightly, the injured pilot leans his back against a wall, gingerly peeling the mask off of his face to revealed reddened, irritated skin. The smile he turns on Swerve is completely different from before, small and tired and slightly pained.

To anyone else, it would look like an insult. To Swerve, it’s a precious thing, a gift the star shares with very few people in his life - honesty.

“Swerve, hello!” Blurr greets him, sounding slightly out of breath. He’s getting the best care money can buy, but even that only goes so far- recovery will slow and painful, and not everything will go back to how it was. There are some scars the pilot will carry for the rest of his life, and just the thought makes Swerve’s holographic heart ache.

“Hi,” he answers enthusiastically, crossing the room to go help the injured man, only to get waved off.

“Thanks, but I’m good. I need to build up my stamina again.”

Swerve frowns a little, but steps away again. “Alright, if you’re sure. Just be careful! You can lean on me if you need to, yeah? I don’t want you to hurt yourself, so if-“

“Swerve!”, Blurr laughs, interrupting his awkward rambling, and he can feel his holoform’s cheeks going red. “It’s fine, really. I’ll ask you if I need help, alright?”

“Alright,” he mutters into the collar of his shirt and follows after the man, ready to support him if he stumbles. Blurr leads them to his bedroom, laying down on the mattress with a pained grimace, once again waving off any of Swerve’s offers to help. Instead, the man pats one side of the bed in clear invitation, and Swerve does his best to pretend his face isn’t looking like an overripe tomato as he sits, their hands almost touching. Judging by Blurr’s teasing little grin, he fails miserably, but- it made Blurr smile. He’d say that more than makes up for it.

They talk, for as long as Swerve’s holoform generator allows and perhaps a little bit beyond that. He asks after Blurr’s recovery, listens to the pilot bemoan the weakness of his atrophied muscles and endless physical therapy sessions. Learns more about the constant press releases, the pressure from command to return back to duty and perform his star pilot act once again. They talk about anything and everything the man wants to share, from the important to the mundane.

In turn, Blurr asks him about his life, his day, his work on the ship. Which, here’s the thing- he didn’t really notice much it before his coma, but nobody else actually asks about him. Swerve talks a lot, and sometimes, other bots will even listen, but they never ask.

Except for Blurr. Blurr always asks now, and Swerve always talks and talks and talks, and the pilot never seems to mind. Sometimes, he wishes he knew how to express it, to show the man just how much it means to him, but- in a rare twist of events, the words never manage to leave his mouth.

Doesn’t make it any less true, though.

Every small, honest smile, every real, slightly ugly laugh he gets out of the man makes Swerve’s holographic heart beat overtime. He feels so happy, so at peace when by the man’s side, and he never wants to leave.

But he has to. Eventually, it’s always time to go, his systems warning him of impending shutdown and he hates it, he hates it so much, but he says his goodbyes. Blurr’s understanding about it, of course, and the pilot’s cheeky little wave is the last thing Swerve sees before he closes his eyes and disappears.

When he unshutters his optics, it’s to the sight of his empty, windowless habsuite. Getting up from his berth, he feels a fleeting stab of vertigo – some echo of his human self’s instinct, warning him of a dangerous height, which, huh. That’s been happening more and more often. Something to ask the medics about, perhaps.

Then again, why bother. It’s not like he doesn’t know what the answer would be.

He misses Blurr already. Misses the warmth of Earth’s sun and the warmth of companionship, the warmth of a soft human touch. Misses his false life and false body, and the very real joy it brings him.

Sometimes, he wishes he never woke up, instead living out his fake human existence in blissful ignorance until his spark eventually guttered from the strain. Occasionally, he wishes he was human. Actually human, not just the holoform- muscle and bone and sinew, just like the rest of them, just like Blurr. It’s clear he doesn’t belong amongst his own kind, so… maybe it’d be better that way.

Most of the time though, he just wants to be on Earth; true frame, fake body, it doesn’t matter. He wants to hold Blurr in his servos, wants to feel like he matters to somebody, wants to-

He’s not really sure what he wants, exactly. He just knows it’s not this.

#transformers #tf mecha universe #tf mecha au #tf swerve #tf blurr #swerveblurr #lastwrites

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ena-writes-stuff · 8 months ago

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— unscheduled break.

˒ ⌕ with his work consuming more of his time, the special evenings you once shared become rare. feeling the strain of this separation, you decide to visit him during a livestream.

— warnings: smut, female reader, use of his real name

— words count: 2.3k

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He had warned you an hour ago that he was going to start a stream on his secret Twitch channel. It was a well-established routine: every now and then, he would lock himself in his office to dedicate a few hours to livestreaming, attending meetings, or even catching up on emails. During these periods, you chose to stay in his room, using the time to work or study something that needed to be resolved.

Despite the routine often feeling solitary, there was a valuable compensation: when evening arrived, after dinner, you knew you would get to enjoy moments together. It was a special time reserved just for the two of you, a moment you eagerly anticipated. It was during these hours that you could snuggle in his arms, feel his warmth and scent, and be enveloped in a comforting embrace. Sleeping next to him, feeling his scent mix with yours, made everything sweeter and more meaningful. These little things, these shared moments, were what made the wait and loneliness of the day more bearable and gave purpose to the time spent apart.

But, since last week, things had changed drastically. The frequency of your time together had decreased significantly. He was increasingly busy with work, and this extra load was causing a misalignment in your schedules. There were days when you would wake up early in the morning and find his office still lit, with him immersed in his work. It seemed that instead of starting his day by your side, he was beginning earlier and ending later. Other times, you would be woken up in the middle of the night when he tried to get into bed in the dark, after you had spent hours waiting for him and eventually falling asleep.

He had promised to make up for the lost time, to find a way to get things back to normal, but that promise seemed distant and increasingly unlikely. The special moments that used to mark the end of the day, the cuddles at night, now felt like a distant echo of a time that was no longer a reality. The longing for those hours together grew each day, and the time that once seemed so well-balanced between work and personal life was now heavily tilted towards work and stress. The yearning increased, and you had the chance to have a few minutes with him at that moment, if you could manage to stay quiet enough. The desire to be by his side, even for a brief moment, was intense, and your heart pounded with anticipation for the reunion.

So you decided to do something that had long remained just a timid, almost impossible thought at the back of your mind. Entering his workspace, even for a fleeting moment, was a risk you were willing to take. The room was silent except for the constant sound of the keyboard and Alexis' own loud voice. As you opened the door, you made sure the creak was as discreet as possible. The door itself made a low noise, a sharp sound that seemed to fill the space for a moment, but not enough to penetrate the ambient noise and reach the microphone picking up your beloved's voice.

“Hey, babe,” his voice softly echoed as he finally turned to face you. Despite the visible exhaustion on his face, he seemed determined to keep up with his work marathon. The idea of playing Fortnite for two hours as part of the job seemed surreal, but it was the reality of the moment. “I’m still live, and I think after this, I have a meeting with—”

The conversation was taking a direction you were familiar with. Your eyes wandered between your boyfriend’s face, the muted microphone, and his two computer screens. On one of them, the Fortnite game continued; his character was standing still, a clear indication that he had stopped focusing on the game to pay attention to you. The screens' glow reflected off the glass screen, mixing with the fatigue in his eyes.

“I miss you,” you said, your voice heavy with the sincerity of your feelings.

He blinked, as if the simple recognition of your desire for connection had awakened a new level of awareness in him. “I miss you so much too, my dear,” he replied with a tired smile. “Just a little longer, and the stream will end. After that, we can meet and talk more.”

“No,” you cut off the idea, with a slightly whiny tone, not wanting to think about when that would actually happen, allowing yourself the luxury of ignoring any other complaints or excuses he might make. “Here. Now.”

The words came out softly, almost a whisper, as you moved closer, your body gently leaning toward him. Your lips sought his with a touch of delicacy, as if they were made of the same ethereal material as dreams. The kiss started soft and exploratory, the taste of his sweet kiss filling your tongue, as you indulged in a subtle game of intimacy.

Alexis, in turn, responded with an instinctive caress on your waist, his hands sliding slowly in an affectionate gesture. He wasted no time giving in to the kiss he had been longing for, his emotions spilling into a deep and genuine kiss. Each touch, each movement, seemed like an unspoken promise, a reaffirmation of the desire that had grown between you. The moment extended, the connection between you both strengthening with each passing second, while the world around seemed to disappear, reduced to a sequence of soft sighs.

“It’s better if we stop; I think chat is already missing me…” Despite the frustration of losing contact and pleasure, you merely nodded, acknowledging that he was right and that it was the best course of action. The tingling sensation you felt as you dragged the back of his hand across your cheek brought immediate relief, as if a painter was spreading colors on a blank canvas. He really knew you, inside and out. “But I’m really tempted to just…” he whispered, not needing to finish the sentence for you to understand what he was thinking.

He wore a black pair of shorts that contrasted his tanned skin, and on top, he had a tank top, both of which screamed 'comfort' when you looked at him. His dark hair was tied in a ponytail, a move that must have been a daily routine. With a mix of curiosity and boldness, you gently brushed my fingers against the sudden bulge that had formed between his thighs. The intimate contact was undeniable, and after so long of abstinence, he was putty in your hands.

Your palms slightly tingled with the power it gave you; as a studious and outspoken individual, this kind of control was intoxicating, if not a bit unexpected.

“My love, can you please help me out?”

As Alexis’ voice zapped through your system, your legs betrayed you, buckling underneath your weight. Like a marionette pulled by strings, you tumbled to the floor in front of his office chair. A fiery wave of desire blossomed within you, an urgency to kneel and serve him, to satisfy his every whim. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys of his keyboard, his voice quivering as he tried to string together an excuse for the delay. He knew he was failing, couldn't hide the truth: you being to obey, to give in to his demands, all while he broadcasted to his viewers who were oblivious to the situation. The lack of webcam, a small mercy, spared them the spectacle.

Your heart raced, nerves and hunger warring within you. Sweat dampened your skin, the clinging tendrils of your hair a reminder of your flustered state. The thought of pleasing him, of serving him, sent a shiver down your spine as you lowered his pants, the underwear he was wearing followed suit, revealing his erect manhood that seemed to be craving for your touch. With your heart racing, you stood there for a moment, taking in the sight before you, your gaze lingering on the pulsating flesh that begged for attention.

Lovely.

Your mouth moved to his throbbing member, lips wrapping around it as your tongue teased the sensitive tip. You swallowed greedily, desperate to take him in, before pulling back to tease. Your hand joined in, skillfully caressing his length in a rhythmic dance. You were eager and satisfied, ready to serve.

As your eyes watered, you tried to keep your focus, swallowing hard as you felt the thick cock invade the recesses of your throat. The sudden force caught you off guard, but you couldn't show it. Your gaze flicked to Alexis’ face, a silent reminder of where you were, a girl with her mouth full, sucking off your boyfriend that tried his best to focus on the game and not to moan in pleasure. Your hands worked diligently, gripping his shaft tightly. You caressed him fervently, your fingers playing teasingly with his heavy, aching balls. With each stroke, you reminded yourself why you were doing this — for him. Your tongue danced eagerly along his length, willing to give him everything he craved.

You fixated on his every reaction and micro expression, drinking in the visuals he provided. Your attention was abruptly pulled away when he let out a dangerously loud whimper. Your hands flew to his mouth, shushing him. "You're being too loud, baby," You whispered, your lips curling into a soft, amused smile. You watched as he hurriedly muted the microphone, the shuddering moan that escaped him only further fueling your excitement when you saw he unmuted again. "Hush, love. Quiet, remember?" You reminded him, keeping your voice low.

You watched as Alexis nodded, the rocking motion coming to him with ease. You could sense the rising pleasure within him, and though he strained to suppress it, soft whimpers and gasps of air still managed to escape. Your hand found its way to his thigh, gently squeezing and whispering, "Shhh, shh, baby. I know it feels good, baby."

It became increasingly clear that the intense pleasure his body was experiencing was taking a toll on his performance. Sure enough, he lost another match in the game, slamming his hand against the table in what could have been frustration from losing, or an attempt to alleviate the mounting arousal. The tension in the room was almost palpable.

"FUCK!" Alexis screamed, gripping a fistful of your hair and forcefully pushing his erection against your face. In a split second, he decided on a plan — pretending to be so enraged the he’d cut the live stream. He reached for his computer, shutting down the stream as his cock invaded your mouth once again. Now it was just the two of you and that was the perfect moment that you would be able to worship him.

He fixed his gaze in your eyes, being able to see the way you stared at him. The look of his own perdition. He sighed heavily, moving his hip while the low moans escaped. For a moment, he tilted his head back, just feeling the pleasurable sensations that ran through his body when he had your tongue sliding so well through his cock.

You really knew how to drive him crazy with your touches and if for some moment he thought he didn’t, he had been too foolish. His cock went in and out of your mouth easily, he was already in ecstasy, fucking on cloud nine.

There was a sheer ecstasy that washed over his face. His body trembled, a testament to the intense delight that consumed him. Drunk with lust, he succumbed, the intensity of his orgasm palpable between you. He allowed himself to spill any drop of sperm into your throat, letting the overwhelming sensation take over him.

Your gaze drifted to Alexis, who had collapsed into his chair, his body slick with perspiration. His heavy breaths echoed in the silence of his office. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a smear of moisture in its wake. You couldn't help but notice the flushed hue that spread across his features, a testament to the pleasure he'd just experienced.

Observing him in this vulnerable state brought a twisted sense of satisfaction, knowing that he, the studious and outspoken one, was now rendered weak.

He finally looked down, his eyes expressing a mix of concern and regret as he observed the uncomfortable situation you were in. "Shit, I'm sorry, my love…" he murmured, his voice laden with remorse, as he carefully lowered himself to hold your hands. With a gentle and protective gesture, he began helping you to rise, offering support and trying to alleviate the discomfort you had been enduring for the past few minutes. "Come here, sit on my lap," he said with a voice that conveyed tenderness and a genuine desire to make you feel better. He adjusted his position to ensure that you were comfortable and secure, his gaze fixed on you with a care that seemed to say more than words could express.

And that’s how you both finally managed to enjoy the lost time. You were comfortably seated on Alexis's lap, feeling the softness of his touches and the sincerity of his affection. Each tender kiss on your shoulder and each sweet word whispered in your ear seemed to fill the space between you with a renewed and profound intimacy.

As you settled into Alexis’ embrace, a new perspective began to emerge.

Maybe interrupting him at work from time to time wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

#quackity x reader #quackity fanfic #quackity smut #quackity #quackityhq #alex quackity #quackity drabble #quackity imagine #quackity x y/n #quackity x you #qsmp x reader

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c4teyezz · 1 year ago

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my fav jjk men with babies lol

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my fav jjk men x afab!reader

i kept the baby gender neutral for yall in case, i dont want ppl coming to me like “nO hE wOulD dEfinEtly hAve a-“ shut.

note: on nanamis part it mentions reader being pregnant 🤰

characters: gojo saturo, geto suguru, sukuna ryomen, higuruma hiromi, nanami kento, kusakabe atsuya, toji fushiguro

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Gojo Saturo

- spoils the baby 24/7 and the things the baby has are the best of the best, the price doesnt matter to him

- idk why but he likes taking a big whiff of the babies hair then going like “ahhhh!” after and then kissing their scalp

“look babe i just bought some new clothes for our little one” gojo said smiling up at you as you entered the room. gojo is sitting on the foam rug thing with the baby laying down on it

gojo held up the baby carefully while supporting their neck at the same time to show you their fit. “thats so cute!” you responded then sitting down with him, you look at the tags that gojo ripped out from the clothes “saturo what did i say abt rubbish- $200!? WE SHOULD BE USING THAT MONEY FOR THEIR FOOD”

Geto Suguru

- i feel like hes gonna be a fairly strict but not too strict of a father

- he loveeessss wrapping them up in his robes, hugging/carrying them around like that wherever he goes in the house

“ah-! let go of my hair!” suguru demanded but not doing anything to stop it, the baby just giggles at their fathers reaction not knowing that their lowkey hurting their dad bc obviously theyre just a baby…

you take a quick pic of the sight thats in front of you, giggling along with your baby

“damn this thing is strong!” he said

“dont call your kid a thing!”

Sukuna Ryomen

- he mostly watches you take care of “the brat” he calls them, but is willing to help as long as you give him clear instructions on what the hell hes supposed to do with “it”

- i can see him holding his kid upside down with their legs when theyre like 6 or something and sometimes he drops them on purpose before quickly and successfully catching them, he has no intentions of hurting them, hes mostly doing it to fuck with you. i mean he made the kid laugh so lol

“what the fuck its crying” he pointed out to you as you rock the baby gently in your arms

“yeah i can see that… and stop calling them ‘it’, theyre not some sort of rare space specimen”

Higuruma Hiromi

- even tho in the manga hes portrayed as the classic “no humor, cold, tired man in a suit” kind of guy, i honestly dont think hes just that, hes just like that in professional settings and when things are serious. i can see him make light jokes, like he did with itadori, so he’d definitely do the same with his baby

- he likes gently scratching the babys back, as he knows its relaxing i mean who doesnt like a good scratch on the back sometimes. he doesnt mind when the baby starts fiddling with his tie, but when the baby chews on if he definitely gets a bit grossed out

“bah!” hiromi jokingly surprised the baby which made the baby flinch and cry at their father, hiromi laughed at the baby’s raction “sorry” Hiromi gently apologised while smiling at them, then went back to scare them one more time by covering his face then quickly uncovering his face “boo!”

this time the baby laughed with their father and you recorded the fun moment

(this is also inspired by a reel i saw on instagram, it was so cute 😭)

Nanami Kento

- HANDS DOWN THE BEST FATHER DUH WTF??? do we even have to argue???? since the baby hes been cutting his alcohol drinking as he doesnt want the baby’s sensitive lungs to suffer from the smell. he also lovessssss skin to skin, when the baby popped out and it was his turn to hold the baby in his bare chest, he was over the moonnnnn

- ngl he would mostly take care of the baby more than you, his excuse is since you carried the baby for 9 months, so its his job to support and deal with the baby most of the time mwah mwah

you stare at him feeding your baby their bottle, whose also safely tucked in his loving arms

“kento can i feed them now?” you asked him

“go rest honey, you deserve it” he responded, kissing you on the forehead

“thats my baby youre hogging!”

Kusakabe atsuya

- omg he likes making the baby dance, the baby cant walk yet, so he’d hold them up and make them look like theyre dancing by making them look like their doing that default baby dance toddlers do or gently swing them side to side

- loves placing them on his chest as they sleep as he fiddles with their tiny hand. also he strictly calls them by their shorter version of their name or a random nickname that suits them

“mmph! stop trying to grab my lolly!” atsuya told the baby as it tried reaching for it, eventually the baby caught the stick of the lollipop and forced it out of their dads mouth and putting it into theirs

“hehe gross”

fushiguro toji

- he plays with them by making them pretend that theyre boxing with their hands

- naps naps napsssssss, he always puts them on his chest so that they can nap together on the couch. but sometimes when toji snores, he lets out a loud snore which scares the baby into waking up crying lmfaoooooooo

“hell nah”

“toji just wipe their ass already, im trying to show you how change their diaper”

“fucking hell…” toji muttered as he slowly lifts the baby by their legs

okay maybe hes not the best when it comes to helping sometimes, but at least hes willing to try

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maayong gabii lahat!!! (good evening everyone!!!)

hehe i just wanna say thank you guys for the likes, reblogs, comments, and followers so far :))))

damo nga salamatttt (thank you so muchhhh)

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sticky-sugar · 9 months ago

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ask you something. (iwaizumi hajime x reader) chapter three

>> the floodgates have opened, and you're both a little more desperate than expected <<

tags/cw: very suggestive, innocent reader, possessive iwa/reader, slightly perverted iwa (he will in fact get worse <3), brat tamer!iwa

chapter two || masterlist || chapter four

he tastes like black coffee, bitter and sharp.

‘will you show me?’ you’d asked, waiting with bated breath for him to fill in the blank.

he hadn’t, and you’re convinced even now that he’d done it on purpose. ‘show you what?’ is all he’d muttered. but he’d shifted closer to you on the couch, his thigh burning against yours.

‘what happens at parties.’

he’d angled his body toward you, and you’d leaned closer. you could feel his breath on your skin, the heat radiating from his bare chest.

‘all of it?’ he’d whispered. your heart has lurched into your throat then, beating uncomfortably. ‘or just a little bit?’

your breath had caught, and your face had warmed to the point of being impossible not to notice.

you hadn’t answered him.

he hadn’t needed you to.

‘just a little bit, then.’

his hand had cupped your face, hot from the mug, and he’d turned you toward him. you’d closed your eyes, unable to meet his.

his kiss feels the same as it had a year ago.

you don’t know what to do with your hands, so you leave them in your lap, trembling as they fist the fabric of your pants. he’s careful with you, mouth gentle and sweet, just like you’d known he’d be.

his voice may be rough, but that’s all it is. you still wonder — what if — but you don’t think this is the time to push it. you don’t think this is the time to do anything but try not to faint. your head is staticky and light, and your body tingles as your limbs go numb, so it’s a non-zero possibility.

he angles his head, and you lean into it, settling your shaking hands on his chest. his lips are patient, pushing and then pulling back just a little, just enough to make you chase him. you try to keep your wits about you, but iwaizumi hajime’s mouth is warm, soft, and tastes like coffee, so your wits are the last thing you’re willing to hang onto.

when his teeth nip at your bottom lip, a test, your breath catches and then falls out in a stuttered mess. he tries again, pulling your lip between his teeth and running his tongue over it. you gasp, starting to pull away. he doesn’t let you, sliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, keeping you there.

“open your mouth,” he whispers against you, loud in this dark apartment.

“what?” you squeak, feeling his heart pick up under your palm as he scoots closer. his tongue slides across the seam of your lips, and you recognize that you were right — it hadn’t felt good at the party, but it feels good now.

“open.”

your heart skips, but there’s a fire burning in the pit of your stomach, lighting up when he talks to you like that. when he’s not so careful with you.

and when he groans quietly because you’re listening to him — because your lips part for him, because you do as he says — you know that listening to iwaizumi hajime is something you’re good at. you can do that, for as long as he needs you to.

his tongue swipes across your lip again, a warning, and then it dips hesitantly into your mouth, his head angled and his hand — searing hot — pressed against your spine. your breath stutters and stalls when his tongue brushes against yours, and he retracts it quickly, his own breath labored in your mouth.

when you return the gesture, slipping just into his mouth and then retreating to safety, you feel something shift with him. he has your permission now, your invitation to keep going.

he pushes his body against yours, and your hips are being grabbed and pulled in his direction. you’ve got your knees on either side of his thighs before you can put together that he’d lifted you into his lap.

you gasp again but don’t pull away, too caught up in your own heartbeat and the heat of iwa’s hands on your hips, seeping into your bones. he leans up into you, mouth hard on yours and breath heavy in between every rough push of his lips. you latch onto him, letting him nip and bite and suck. letting his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and effortlessly good at provoking the addicting pulse of your own heartbeat between your thighs.

you whine and moan, too overwhelmed by these new sensations to have a sense of how loud you’re being, how loud your noises sound when they echo off of his walls. you’re wriggling without realizing it, your body reacting to him and wanting more. you shift your hips this way and that, and you push your chest flush to his, mindlessly craving the feeling of him.

he doesn’t laugh or comment or give any indication that you’re too much for him. he just holds you down in his lap while you move and swallows as many of your moans as he can. he just belts his arm around your waist tighter when you whine his name, that needy ‘haji’ echoing off his walls, too.

he just lets you pull away when you do, only steadying you so you don’t fall, because you’re gasping and burning with things you’ve never felt before when something hardens against your inner thigh.

“sorry,” he says roughly, his breathing uneven and forcing his chest to rise and fall in jagged pants. “can’t really help that part.”

you stare down at him with wide eyes. his cheeks are burning red, and his eyes are hazy and he won’t look at you properly, and his lips are wet and swollen and pink, so pretty in the dim light of the room. he’s got both hands on your body, still but firm, and his head is leaned back against the couch while he catches his breath.

“can i stay here tonight?” you just ask, quiet and nervous. his eyes fly to yours, alarmed and surprised, and you rush to explain. “my roommate asked me not to go back…”

“oh,” he breathes, relaxing a bit. “i thought you meant-“ he swallows. you try not to piece together the rest of his sentence, but it’s hard not to. “yeah, that’s fine. you can stay.”

“i can take the couch,” you offer. it’s empty, and he knows it’s empty, because he just smiles to himself and looks off into the kitchen.

“oh, you’ll take the couch?” he teases, snorting under his breath.

you purse your lips, ears burning. “if you want me to.”

“and if i don’t?”

silence stretches between you, and that burning feeling in your gut returns. your breath runs shallow, and your hands press just a little harder into his chest.

“then i guess i won’t.”

his eyes dart to his bed, still ruffled and warm, and then back to you. that olive green is heated — it melts you to your core, and you stand from his lap shakily. his eyes graze over you, landing on your trembling thighs and the way you press them together. he smiles to himself, clearly satisfied, but doesn’t say anything about it.

you do.

“uh-“ you stumble back when he stands, nearly tripping over his coffee table. he just grips your arms tight and pulls you back to him, chest to chest. “i’m not sure… what i’m-why i feel so-“

“you’re not sure?” he asks, quiet and dangerous against you. when you shake your head, unable to look him in the eye, he just grins, a little wicked. “none of those boys before me made you feel like this?”

none of those boys before me.

not quite friends, not quite more. not willing to specify, not willing to talk about it.

“no,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut. “first time.”

his inhale is sharp, sharp like the harsh tug of nerves in your navel.

“maybe you should sleep on the couch,” is all he says in response.

you don’t feel rejected, oddly enough.

—

things are back to normal. things are finally back to normal.

when hajime wakes the next morning, you’re still curled up on his couch. the small part of him that had worried that you would leave while he was asleep is appeased, and he makes you both fresh coffee and breakfast. he tries not to jump when he feels your forehead press between his shoulder blades, your body warm from sleep against his back while he cooks.

“can i shower?” you mumble sleepily. “got class at ten, and i look like a stripper.”

hajime snorts, glancing at the clock on the stove. it’s a quarter to nine. he nods. “grab whatever you want from my dresser.”

“thank you,” you breathe, and he thinks he feels your fingers ghost over his waist when you push off of him.

when you emerge from his bathroom, steam spilling into the room with you, he has to remind himself that you wearing his clothes isn’t new. he has to remember that he’s seen you like this before, that it’s normal.

you’re fixing a pair of his athletic shorts, adjusting the material on your hips and shifting his t-shirt around on your shoulders until it falls right. you smell like him, he thinks, when you sit beside him on the couch and pull the plate of eggs and bacon into your lap.

“thanks, haji,” you say sweetly, digging in.

god, your skin looks so good when it’s moist like that. he wants to run his tongue over your throat, to lick away the condensation and drops of water still lingering there. he wants to push his hands up against your torso and grope you while you whine his name, fingers hidden and doing terrible things under his own t-shirt. he wants to-

“haji,” you breathe, and he blinks hard, snapping out of it. you’re pursing your lips, your little smile overtaken by the warm rush of heat in your cheeks. “why are you staring at me?”

“i’m not,” he says immediately, lying straight to your face. “you smell nice.”

“i smell like you,” you giggle.

“well, then, i smell nice,” he barks, snatching his plate up and turning away from you, not even bothering to acknowledge how stupid he sounds. “what time’s your class?”

“ten,” you say, leaning forward with a teasing grin. “like i said earlier.”

right. you had said that earlier.

“well,” he snaps, hearing the edge in his own voice. he was right — you aren’t sensitive to it anymore. he doesn’t know why he doesn’t like that. “hurry up, then. i wanna go to the gym before my class.”

“okay,” you chirp, humming while you eat. “what’s your schedule today?”

that’s the first time you’ve asked since you got here.

“uh-“ he stutters, trying to remember his plan for the day. “class until two. clinic hours until four.”

“i’m busy until four, too,” you mumble. “i was thinking of going to that hiking club organizational meeting.”

he snorts into his coffee. “you hate exercise.”

“well, maybe i wanna branch out. try new things.” you say it jokingly, but he still cuts a hard glance at you.

if you’d said that to him yesterday, he would have thought you’d meant trying new things aside from him. away from him. try new people that aren’t him. he would have hated it, would have panicked.

today, he only watches you shrink under his gaze, embarrassed and shy and swallowing hard as you try not to be seen by him. he watches you come to understand the implications of your own words, alone in his apartment with him.

“never hurts to try new things,” he says simply. you meet his eyes, wide and laced with something he wants so badly to place as desire.

“yeah,” you mumble, nodding and fiddling with the string on his shorts. your breath is short, almost a pant, and hajime is only a little embarrassed to realize he’s half-hard in his sweats. “wanna try new things.”

everything’s back to normal.

—

at noon, he gets a text from you, asking if he wants to eat lunch with you and your friends.

his heart surges with excitement, because you really aren’t avoiding him anymore, and he responds that he would if he weren’t stuck in lab. but that he’ll pick you up and walk you to your next class if you want.

another test, just to make sure.

‘you don’t have time to eat??’ you say, and hajime can’t tell if this is a worried text or an accusatory one. if you’re upset he’s not eating or upset he’s not spending time with you.

he thinks of you being a little irrational, a little needy or angry with him for something he can’t control. pouting up at him with those pretty little lips, calling him ‘haji’ with a little attitude.

he has to turn away from his lab partner so he doesn’t see how hard hajime’s getting.

‘no time,’ he texts back, vague and offering nothing else. just to see. just to check. ‘but i’ll pick you up. is that fine with you?’

‘i guess.’ a minute passes, and then— ‘ill bring you some food, okay?? you gotta eat.’

you’re just worried, sweet and soft and pretty as ever. not giving him attitude. but, if he ignores that last message, he can pretend you are. he can pretend you’re as needy as he wishes you’d be, that pout sitting in front of his eyes while he finishes running the bio lab.

he makes it to the dining hall by 12:45, texting you quickly. you come outside with your friends, holding a tupperware of dining hall food, and he turns away, steadying his breath and trying to make it look like he hadn’t just run across campus for you. you introduce him to your roommate, and he smiles handsomely down at her. he doesn’t need to impress her — he’s been your best friend since you were learning to walk — but he knows girls talk. he wants her to think he’s good for you.

she shoots you a look of approval and whispers ‘so this is your man’ when she thinks he’s too busy opening the tupperware to notice, and hajime knows he’s cleared the bar. you nudge her, and he makes a point of getting distracted by the chicken stir fry you packed for him, just so he can hear you mumble ‘shut up’ in that embarrassed way he loves so much.

“thanks,” he says plainly, capping the plastic container. “i would’ve had to subsist on clinic granola bars until dinner.”

you pout, and he laments that it’s sweet but not the one he craves. “that’s no good,” you say, stepping close — too close to be friendly — and tugging on his sleeve. “don’t they teach you about nutrition in the exercise major?”

“sports science,” he corrects with a mocking edge, and then he flicks his eyes to your roommate. she’s watching the two of you with her arms crossed, a knowingly smirk spreading across her face. she can see something you can’t, something hajime wishes you would. “and the clinic granola bars are nutritious.”

“i’ll get you something from now on,” you say with finality, so deliciously close to demanding, and he just lifts his brows with a smirk.

“yes, ma’am,” he whispers, forcing a grin down when your face starts to radiate heat.

“okay,” your roommate says, clapping. “i’m leaving.”

you turn to her, eyes wide. “we’re going to the same class.”

“yeah, but-“ her eyes find his, and he knows she can see how badly he wants to be alone with you. “-i’m not in the mood to third wheel. that guy from last night is ghosting me.”

“third wheel-“ you protest, mouth open dumbly, and she just kisses you on the cheek.

“see you in ten, babe.”

you turn to him once she’s gone. he doesn’t bother to hide the smug grin on his face.

“coffee?” he says innocently, checking his watch. “i can make it happen in three minutes.”

you flush, but you don’t do more than mumble ‘jerk’ under your breath before following him. he laughs, picking at his new lunch while he walks you.

neither of you address why he’s so smug, why you’re so embarrassed.

why the air between you is so charged, something so very acknowledged and unacknowledged at the same time, something so obvious that it’s left unsaid.

—

you find him in the library after your club meeting. ‘third floor stacks’ is what he’d texted you when your meeting had gone over time, and you’re wandering the dark aisles of the empty stacks now, searching for him.

“third floor stacks,” you mutter to yourself. “couldn’t be more specific?”

“did you need me to be?”

you scream, the sound sharp and echoing, and whirl around. iwa’s poking his head out of one of the aisles, one you’d already looked into. you must have missed his shadow in the dark.

“haji, no one uses the stacks.” you stomp over to him, huffing in annoyance as you drop your backpack at your feet. “it’s creepy and dark and full of spiders in here.”

“it’s also where the books are,” he teases, and you realize he’s got a small stack of health sciences textbooks at his feet. “how was hiking club?”

“good,” you say, surveying the shelves around you. “there’s a retreat in a couple weeks. getting to know each other or something.”

he hums, crouching and scanning the titles. “sounds fun – if you like hiking, i guess.”

“i could like hiking.”

“you could, yeah. but do you?” he chuckles when you sniff in annoyance at him. “let me know when you figure it out.”

“there’s a meeting this weekend,” you offer. “going to a trail nearby, something for beginners, apparently.”

“take enough water. and food. and a hat and sunscreen.” he rattles the list off distractedly, and you get the feeling he’s reading out of a mental textbook.

“i’m asking if you wanna go,” you sigh, standing over him and digging the toe of your shoe into the linoleum. he blinks away his to-do list now, his eyes clearing as he looks up at you.

when he stands, towering over you now, it takes everything in you not to wither. because he’s got his short sleeves rolled up to his shoulder, a habit since high school, and his jeans are dark and fit him just right. and there’s writing on the inside of his left forearm, the call numbers for books he needs scribbled impatiently in black pen.

and he smells good and is standing close and has eyes that make you want to fold like a lawn chair. and he’s smirking, those stupid lips curling in a way that makes you ache for him, and his warmth — the heat he always radiates without trying — is washing over you. making you feel drunk.

drunk, still hoping uselessly that he can’t tell. hoping he can’t see the fog in your head, reflected in some traitorous haze in your eyes. hoping you’re not drooling, because it feels like you are.

hoping you’re not imagining that he’s stepping closer to you, his gaze cast down his nose and burning right through you.

“i dunno about that,” he says, barely above a whisper. “it’s not really my thing.”

“you’re athletic,” you argue weakly, hearing your own words slur in your ears. “be athletic.”

“i play club volleyball twice a week.”

“but you don’t hike. different muscle groups.”

“is that right?” he chuckles. the sound goes straight between your legs. “you got a source for that?”

“haji,” you whine. you know how you sound, but you’re starting not to care. you’d been desperate to hide your feelings for him before — your attraction, spilling off of you in thick waves. now you’re just desperate for him, and he’d shown you last night that that’s okay. that it’s allowed.

it shouldn’t be allowed. you’ll stop trying to control yourself if it’s allowed.

“yeah?” he asks, and you know for sure this time that he’s stepping closer.

“please?” you say, tilting your mouth up toward his, an invitation.

he doesn’t take it. you wait a moment, just in case, but he just stares down at you expectantly. you frown.

“haji,” you ask again — beg, really.

he just lifts his eyebrows. “you haven’t told me what you want.”

your frown deepens. he watches it happen. “you know what i want.”

“do i?” he smiles, tilting his head to the side and pretending to be confused. your impatience grows. “i’m not sure i do.”

you can’t help it. you stomp your foot. you stomp your foot like a spoiled princess and glare up at him. “don’t be mean-"

and then you gasp, loud and echoing in the aisle, because he’s grabbing you by the hips and pinning you roughly to the shelf.

“h-hey,” you stutter, laughing nervously up at him. he’s staring down at you with molten eyes, excitement dancing in his gaze and making his hands tighten on your waist. a shock of nerves courses down your spine. you don’t know what this is, but there’s a tug in the pit of your stomach that tells you you don’t hate it. you don’t hate it at all.

“who're you talkin’ to like that?” he asks, laughing quietly in your face. “you’ve never been the bratty type.”

“‘m not bratty,” you argue. the tick of light in his gaze makes it clear that you’re making it worse. “i’m telling you what i want-”

“mm-mm,” he argues, dipping his head low and brushing his nose against yours. his eyes drop to your lips. “you’re really not. but you’re free to remind me.”

“haji,” you complain, feeling embarrassed. embarrassed that he’s pegged you for what you are — desperate.

when his lips brush against your ear, you latch onto his biceps to keep yourself upright.

“you’re never this shy, you know,” he whispers. “you’re usually a little too honest.” you pant against him, arching your back and pressing your chest against his. something hard pushes against your hip, but you know now that that’s a good thing. that it’s good when iwaizumi hajime feels like that.

“ask me,” he breathes, dropping his lips to a spot under your ear. his breath makes you shiver. “ask me what happens in the stacks.”

your breath catches audibly, and you shift unconsciously against him, all too aware of the quiet grunt he lets out when you press your hips against his.

“h-have you ever been here with a girl?” you ask, your face on fire and your eyes pricking with humiliation. “in the s-stacks?”

he smiles, irritatingly pleased. you realize that the rough edge doesn’t need to be in his voice for you to feel pushed around by him. bullied by him.

you don’t know how to tell him that this is the feeling you’ve been waiting for.

“no, i can’t say i have,” he mumbles, shaking his head. your heart jumps at the admission. “do you wanna try it out with me?”

“yes,” you breathe, immediate and wanton and embarrassing. “yes, please.”

his lips are so rewarding, brutal and rude on yours. he forces his tongue past the seam of your lips without warning you, but you open up for him gratefully, and he moans into your mouth, praise to your ears.

“haji?” you ask when he breaks away, breathless and unable to think about much except for the searing hot line he’s kissing down your throat.

“hm?” he asks distractedly, and you realize only when his teeth scrape against your skin that he’s marking the same place that the blond guy had last night. covering any trace of another man on your skin.

“you’ve really never been in here with anyone?” he shakes his head, and shivers start at the crown of your head and spill down your body when he passes his tongue over the spot he’s just bitten down on. “then—how many girls have you been with?”

he snorts when you ask, but you can feel his arms tense under your fingertips. he sets one hand on the shelf behind you, caging you in. “you really want me to answer that?”

he’s nervous. he doesn’t want to tell you.

you definitely want to know now.

“yes,” you say, your voice wavering — because he’s sucking on a spot that makes your knees weak — but you say it with certainty. “tell me.”

he sighs, rough and a little frustrated, and pulls away to look you in the eye. his brows are furrowed.

“four. but you can’t be mad.” you are mad. your chest swells with jealousy, green and ugly. he must see it, because his mouth — pretty and swollen from kissing you — sets into a hard line as he stares down at you. “you dated after i left, y/n. you can't be mad.”

he’s mad, too.

that shouldn’t make you as giddy as it does.

you lift your brows, leveling him with a smug smile. your nerves flip in your stomach, strong and swooping over each other in uneven turns, but you lean up into his face, anyway. “not mad.” he scoffs in disbelief. your heart dances when he glares down at you like that. “just want you to teach me.”

his eyebrows fly to his hairline, clearly surprised with the turn this conversation’s taking. but there’s something in his eyes that conflicts with it. something that makes you think he might have been wanting you to ask.

when he looks at you like that, asking doesn’t seem so hard.

“please, haji?” you whisper, holding out against the heated look he’s giving you. “teach me?”

he looks devastatingly interested, eyes stuck on your mouth, but he still protests. he still protects you, still keeps you innocent.

“if you cross that line with me, you can’t take it back,” he murmurs, almost like he's reluctant to say it.

you just lean into him, arms around his neck and fingers tangled in his hair. “don’t wanna cross it with anyone else.”

“christ,” he breathes, his sigh warm and promising on your skin.

footsteps sound behind him, only a few aisles away. iwa steps away from you, eyes hot on yours as he leans against the opposite shelf. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you glance at it quickly. your roommate’s asking about dinner.

when you look up again, he’s trailing his eyes down your body shamelessly. you just bend and scoop up your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. his eyes find yours, brows lifting curiously.

“bye, haji,” you whisper teasingly, grinning when he narrows his eyes at you.

you hear him sigh loudly when you turn the corner, his breath coming out in a sharp ‘fucking shit’. your face burns with nervous excitement the entire walk to dinner.

taglist: open! add yourself here

@gangsterthomasbrodie @feiwelinchen

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #hq smut #hq x reader #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime

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ghostsandguns · 4 months ago

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Living with Soap is wonderful. You love getting to spend so much time together—from waking up to his warm kisses and cozy snuggles, to watching him cook dinner, and ending the day curled up together on the couch enjoying a movie.

However! It also means living with:

Soap who always forgets to turn off the light when he leaves a room. You know he doesn't do it on purpose, but some days you come home to find the lights on. In every room. And he's not even there. You've started to leave little sticky notes on light switches as gentle reminders.

Soap who's always walking around in his underwear. And not the loose, sleepwear kind—no, I mean those tight short ones that hug his crotch and butt perfectly. He's completely unphased by the idea of the neighbours catching a glimpse. Sometimes you have to physically stop him from answering the door like that.

Soap who loves his showers scalding hot, making every shared shower a battle of wills. The water feels like lava to you, but he insists it's ''perfect.'' He only lets you turn down the heat a bit, if you let him fuck you against the wall.

Soap who has an ever-growing collection of trinkets from every country he's visited. Whenever he goes on a mission, he brings something back—a small statue, a magnet, a dried wildflower he picked up along the way. It's adorable, but the overflowing shelves and his cluttered desk would argue otherwise.

Soap who's essentially given Ghost unlimited access to your home, complete with a spare key. You've walked into the living room half-dressed on more than one occasion, only to come face-to-face with the behemoth of a man. Not that he's ever been surprised at your state of undress; he simply sits down on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, while Soap pours him a cup of tea.

#soap #johnny mactavish #ghost #johnny soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x you #johnny mactavish x reader #ghoap #simon riley #cod #call of duty

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justcruisingaroundrevived · 1 month ago

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So. You ever heard the song Final Girl by Graveyardguy? It's basically a dude talking about getting off on stalking and terrorizing this girl who he thinks is all innocent and sweet only for the song to reveal that the girl is just as messed up as the guy, if not even more. So, with that song in mind, could you perhaps write a fic about yandere Pete with a fem reader who actually enjoys the disturbing displays of "affection" and loves playing the innocent victim for him despite being just as twisted as he is. The type of dynamic where he'd send her those gorey and disturbing love letters, and she'd frame them and swoon over every bloody Polaroid photo he'd send. Every animal bone in her mailbox is cleaned and displayed on her dresser. Every threat of violence seems like a declaration of love to her. Maybe she'd even do things on purpose to drive him crazier. Leaving her clothes drying on the clothesline for just a little longer than needed so that he has ample time to steal them. Pretending not to notice when he stares at her so he can fantasize for even longer. Yeah.

God I love your work so much I really hope this isn't too deranged of a request. Okay thank youuuu!!

signed,

- Pete's final girl <3

Do You Wanna Be The Final Girl?

Summary: Yandere! Pete x Willing! Reader

TW/CW: Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, stalking, animal bones, preserved body parts, implied erection, Pete being a pervert

A/N: A lot of you want to die, and that’s kind of real <3

Reblogs are appreciated!

* You first notice him looking at you in class. Doodling in your notebook, you looked up and saw him

* Red baseball cap, blue jacket, skull shirt. His eyes looked straight into your soul. You swore he was drooling a little while doing so

* Admittedly…he was kind of cute. You don’t know, something about the way he stay fixated on you while doing the most mundane tasks was something

* Then came him staring you while you were at your locker. His friends were talking about nerdy shit, and he was still focusing on you. It was like you froze him in place

* Okay…he had a staring problem, but so what? Maybe there’s something behind you that he’s invested in (you know you’re lying to yourself, but whatever keeps your mind busy

* The final straw was a package sent to you. Opening revealed the complete skeletal form of a bird.

* Strangely, you didn’t freak out. Sure, most people would be calling 911 right now and report the creepy horror kid’s sending them bones of animals

* You, on the other hand, were flattered. Finally, a guy that wasn’t afraid of expressing his emotions and actually had the balls to open his heart like that!

* You displayed the bones proudly, and wrote in your journal about him

* Could you consider it a cat and mouse game? Maybe

* He dropped his schedule one day, and you took note on what his breaks were.

* Pete started to see you more often. It was like when he was there, you were there as well. Pretending to be busy (you were just looking at your locker) and felt your heart go out of your chest when you felt those same eyes on you

* It was so exhilarating, honestly. You had a secret admirer, and sure, it may be stalkerish, but who cares?! He was a catch

* Sadly, looking in his direction met him hiding from you.

* Every time he sent you weirder stuff (like a preserved mouse heart or a pig’s kidneys), it was proudly displayed on your desk. Some nights, you look at them and admire them. He was such a sweetheart, honestly! He even started to memorize your favorite animals

* And those “love letters” kept you going for the entire week when you were feeling down

* You finally got to talk to him when the teacher partnered you two up.

* Admittedly, it was weird. For someone so brave, he was weirdly silent with you

* Looking away at you, becoming red face while you talk, and mainly focusing on the blank piece of paper

* You said your goodbyes, and “left” your hoodie.

* Pete was shaking at this opportunity. You always had that hoodie on, and just leaving it here?! It was like the gods answered his prayers

* He looked left and right…he picked it up…

* And he smelt. Every sweat, lotion, body mist, food you had for lunch today. EVERYTHING was on your hoodie.

* He may or may not have a tent forming in his pants

* You? Watching him in the corner. God, it was so exciting seeing him act like a creep. His true nature. It was like watching all of your dreams come true

* “Fuck tease” he growled. He stuffed your jacket into his bag and ran out of that library

* Even his thick accent was so fucking hot!

* God, you can get used to this

#the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville #eltingville club #eltingville #pete dinunzio #eltingville comic #eltingvile club #eltingville pete #the eltingville club pete #pete dinunzio x reader #pete eltingville #eltingville club x reader #tec x reader #yandere pete dinuzio #yandere tec #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere character #yandere

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 1 month ago

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Hello! deeply enjoy your writing and portrayal of characters! We've had sick reader but if you feel up to it may I ask for reader looking after sick shadow milk cookie? I don't know if he could get sick as easily, but there's also a possibility that he's pretending bc he wants to be doted on and doesn't know how to ask for attention directly lol, whichever way you want to take the scenario! Tysm!

Thank you! I'll make this a reverse fic of that one I wrote (where Smilk gets the "spice sickness" instead but Reader's got not clue if he's actually ill or making it up)

.............

"Oooohhhh...the paaaaiiin. This may be my final hour, my dearest. The curtain calls! Tell Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie they were the best minions anyone..could ask for....."

"...Shadow Milk Cookie, c'mon. You're not dying." You shake your head, amused by the antics your partner currently displayed as he laid in bed, snuggled beneath a handful of blankets. Even without all his ruffles and usual jester outfit on, he felt unusually warm--like he'd melt at any moment.

Somehow he contracted an illness from the storm that was raging over the Land of Spice, having a coughing fit nonstop ever since you two returned to the spire. Rumor Weaver caught wind of his condition and was gossiping about it to the other inhabitants, suspecting that Burning Spice Cookie had given it to him on purpose after they had a disagreement.

Of course, he allowed her to believe what she wanted, as right now he felt too "sick" to do anything else except wallow in bed and have you tend to his every need.

You were almost certain that this was his way of obtaining your affections and attention. He's too prideful to ask you for a simple kiss like a normal cookie would.

It was hard to know which parts of this he was faking, although judging from his watery eyes, specs of spice flakes in his blue dough, and sniffles..there was some truth to his ailment. And the fact that he was willing to trust you enough to be seen like this indicated how serious it was.

"Eat some of this." Picking up a bowl of cool lassi--which a Kulfi child had given you before your departure--you stirred it around a little bit. "It'll soothe your aching throat."

You offered him the spoon, but he just looked at you in disgust. "You don't think I can feed myself?"

"....well, if you insist on-"

"I'm kidding." With a small grunt, he sat up and waited, his cheeks appearing a bit flushed. You couldn't tell if it they were reflections of his sickness or emotions, although he didn't say anything more.

"Very well." You chuckled, spoonfeeding the creamy yogurt to him, tilting his chin up. "You know...I'm starting to think you enjoy this."

"Heh...feel like I'm tormenting you yet? Forcing you to tend to my every need?" He quietly rasped. "You don't seem all that concerned that I might just be faking 99 percent of this."

"Sure, maybe. But I'm just focused on the one percent chance that you possibly aren't."

He remained unusually quiet after that, even as you helped him finish the remaining lassi. His throat did feel a lot less scratchy, but he decided to lay back down, already feeling exhaustion catching up to him.

As his hair spilled all over the pillow, many blue eyes blinked up at you, half-lidded just like his actual eyes were.

You hummed and set the bowl back on the nightstand, taking this as your cue to get up and leave him be-

When suddenly he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down onto the bed beside him. Before you could even ask what on earthbread he was doing, he had his arms wrapped around you tightly, keeping you trapped in his hold as he cuddled into your chest.

"Who said you could leave?"

"I-I..uh..." You were a bit flustered. "I figured you wanted to rest"

"Yeah, but...I just...I don't wanna be alone. Please stay.." He quietly expressed, sounding a little sad and worried that you were going to try to leave him anyways.

Maybe he was actually delirious from the spice sickness, and his true feelings were finally being laid bare in front of you. But you decided not to question it and instead smiled.

"Oh, Shadow Milk Cookie. You could have just asked." You chuckled softly, hugging him closely as you rested your chin on top of his head. "I'll stay as long as you want me to. But if this gets me sick, I'm blaming you, alright?"

"......."

"Dearest?"

His lack of response indicated that he had quickly fallen asleep, which surprised you considering how often he was on-guard, or touted that he never needed sleep.

Then again, you didn't wanna question anything and spoil this rare moment of intimacy. So you just kept watch over him until sleep eventually came for you, too.

Even if you also contracted the spice sickness because of this, it was well worth it.

#ive finally beaten back the writer's block again yippee <3 #clanask #anonymous #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk cookie x reader #smc x reader #sickfic #sick fic #fluff

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 6 months ago

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Let's talk Galadriel x Sauron Sexy Times (Freudian symbolism)

@rey-jake-therapist inspired me to write this, and then a few other users started to question about it. Buckle up, this is going to be wild.

According to Tolkien legendarium, can Sauron and Galadriel "do it"? The short answer is: yes. As long as Sauron is in physical form, it's entirely possible. And he can even get her pregnant, too (but it would cost him). Not only that, but they might have already done it back in Season 1, actually.

The long answer is more complicated. Why? Eldar customs, probably decreet by the Valar. I already talked about this shortly in this post. Tolkien’s writings about wedding, love and sex among the Eldar (Elves) can be found in “Morgoth’s Ring, Part III. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: (II) The Second Phase: Laws and Customs among the Eldar.”

Right away, Tolkien makes a distinction between Elves and Men: according to him, Men are horny as hell. Elves not so much: they like sex (the act): "the union of love is indeed to them great delight and joy." Casual sex is a no; and for the Eldar sex = marriage. So much so, that a couple is considered married if they exchange vows to the Valar (Tolkien never specified these vows, only that Manwë is mentioned) and have sex (no feast or celebration required): this usually happens when the couple is in flight, and exile, and wandering.

All textual evidence seems to point out that the purpose of this act is to have children:

“. . . the act of procreation, being of a will and desire shared and indeed controlled by the fëa [soul], was achieved at the speed of other conscious and willful acts of delight or of making. It was one of the acts of chief delight, in process and in memory, in an Elvish life, but its intensity alone provided its importance, not its time or length: it could not have been endured for a great length of time, without disastrous "expense" . . . it is longer and of more intense delight in Elves than in Men: too intense to be long endured.”

Elves, usually, don’t have many children (Fëanor being the exception: he had 7 sons), because they spent a lot of both their body (hröa) and soul (fëa) creating them, and Elven pregnancies can last from 1 year up to 100 years (wild). They don’t need a magical pregnancy test, because both parents know when a child was conceived. This date is also the day they celebrate their birthdays (and not the day when they were actually born). They also don’t have children during war time.

The eternal bond (= marriage; because divorce is forbidden) between Elves happens during sex; when they have sex for the first time their bodies and souls become one (= “union of souls”), and it’s a more intense physical and spiritual experience than for Men. Elves who have not had that union together have not yet established that incredible bond.

After children, the Elves also lose interest in having sex all together, and devote themselves to “higher pursuits”. Meaning, once children are born, the couple is now celibate: with the exercise of the power (of generation), the desire soon ceases, and the mind turns to other things... they have many other urgues of the body and of mind which their nature urges them to fulfill.

According to Tolkien, "Elf libidos" only last for a period of one to several hundred years (in their immortal lives). And they look back at the memory of this time with nostalgia. By nature, Tolkien writes that the Elves are seldom swayed by the desires of the body only, but are by nature continent and steadfast. Meaning: they are able to control their urges.

Now, here's the catch.

Sauron, being a fallen Maia of Melkor, doesn't care about any of this. He doesn’t follow the Valar rules, and he hates the Eldar.

In "Unfinished Tales", Tolkien does point out Galadriel as an exception to all of these rules: Celeborn was the lover of Galadriel, who she later wedded. Again, Tolkien doesn’t goes into details here, so we don’t know if “lover” was purely romantic (kissing, for instance) or full-on sexual, really. Either way, it’s been established in “Rings of Power” just how “alien” she is among her kin, overall. And she is a rebellious spirit, going against Gil-galad, her High King, on several occasions, and against the Valar themselves.

Well, she ended up marrying Celeborn after him being her lover, but they only had Celebrían thousands of year later, though. And “Rings of Power” also created another question mark here, because Galadriel only mentions her husband one time: he saw her dancing, they got married, he went to war, and she never saw him again. In the lore, Galadriel and Celeborn, being royalty, most likely had a feast (ceremony). So… does this mean that in “Rings of Power” canon, Galadriel never had her “union of souls” with Celeborn? And that explains why she fell in love with Halbrand/Mairon?

In the lore, we also the have the “little” detail of Elves only having “libido” for a short period of time in their immortal lives.

This is sexual awakening right here. We’ve seen Galadriel being proud, strong-willed and rebellious, but in this scene she looks like a “teenager” (even though she’s thousands of years old, already). Mairon made her speechless with that look. And we also see Galadriel flirting with him after this.

But in “Rings of Power”, Sauron and Galadriel had their “blood marriage ritual” too, and this was their “union of souls”.

Now, we need to look at what Tolkien created in his legendarium: where sex = children, and, most likely, any sexual act that goes against that is frowned upon (consider a corruption to Eru’s creation).

But Mairon, being corrupted by Melkor, doesn’t have any problems in indulging in sexual acts what don’t result in any children (conceiving a child would also cause him to bind himself to his physical form at the time, and he probably doesn’t want that). Galadriel herself isn’t on the mindset for children, also, and she already rebelled against the Valar, herself.

Tolkien estate said no sex scenes, but we sure had a lot of sexual innuendo going on between Galadriel and Mairon, ever since Season 1:

First with Halbrand aka Repentant Mairon: with whim Galadriel had her “sexual awakening”. He pulls her out of the water, and she’s pretty much naked before his eyes. I already wrote a post about the physical attraction between them, so I won’t get into that here.

Freudian symbolism is associated with sex representations, and was developed by both Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung (dreams can reveal a person’s deepest unconscious wishes and desires), but it has been widely used in pop culture and cinema to illustrate several ideas.

Why is this sneaky bastard grinning about?

Well, in Freudian symbolism the mouth is also a symbol for the female genitals, while the spoon is a phallic symbol. The act of eating symbolizes sexual intercourse (= interaction between male and female symbols). What’s why Mairon is grinning: he’s fantasizing all kind of sexual scenarios here.

In Freudian Symbolism, knifes/daggers/lances/swords (any object resembling the penis in shape or that can be used to penetrate the body and cause injury) are phallic symbols. Meaning, they represent the penis. An erection (in which the penis raises itself against the force of gravity) is usually represented in connection with an air element (it can be ballons, airplanes, missiles, rockets, flying, snakes, etc.).

The Freudian symbolism behind this scene? Mairon has a boner, and Galadriel is touching it.

Recently, this scene has been talked about a lot (in reference to Celeborn being called a "silver clam"), but that's not the only symbolism happening in here:

The Númenórean smiths tease Mairon, and ask him how close is he with the "she-elf." This Maia is eating ("sexual intercourse") clams, here. Worldwide, the clam is a clitoral symbol, meaning it represents the female genitalia. What does this means? Eating Galadriel out is, probably, what Mairon wants.

Jealous Mairon peacocking for dominance:

Galadriel is right in front of his salad handling all of these swords (phallic symbol). And he wants to assert his dominance, here. The only “sword” she’ll be handling around here is his. And he’s the best at it, too.

Then, in Season 2:

Right off the bat, Sauron is using a snake themed armor. In Freudian symbolism, the snake is also a phallic symbol, representing sexuality, temptation, and erection; and also repressed sexual desires. Sure this is meant to illustrate him as the "great deceiver", but it’s possible to “kill two birds with one stone”, and he only uses this armor in this particular scene.

Now, we have to forget the fight, and concentrate on the dialogue and the symbolism here.

It has already been noted by many fellow fans that this fight is meant to illustrate Galadriel and Sauron history in Season 1 (the places where Sauron injures Galadriel). And I agree: the entire fight scene was Sauron taunting Galadriel with their shared past.

Fighting tactics speaking this whole move is very strange. Symbolically, it's pretty much on the nose, as they say: a crown (clitoral symbol) penetrating a sword (phallic symbol) = sexual intercourse. And Sauron does this very aggressively and right in front of her face. Then, he spins the crown and one sword in on his shoulder, and the other on Galadriel’s = they are joined.

Want details? Galadriel is on top (just like Tolkien intended), and then Mairon becomes “the lost king who could ride you” to finish.

And then we have Sauron sounding his most aroused and unhinged yet, while saying these words, with this expression on his face:

The next dialogue is Galadriel accusing him of everything between them (back in Season 1) being a lie, and another of his illusions. To which he replies (with Halbrand’s voice):

Then, enters Halbrand: he speaks to her almost whispering, a bit breathless, too, like a lover, and Charlie puts emphasize in two bits of his dialogue: “at your side” and “that feeling”. And the expression on his face: Halbrand looks desperate, tormented, yearning and nostalgic.

Which makes me ask the question: if this fight is meant to illustrate their past history... does this mean that these two have been sexually intimate already!?

Where, you might ask? In Eregion, of course. Where we have Mairon naked on a bed being healed, and both he and Galadriel stayed there, according to Elrond in 2x01, “for weeks” (which might suggest a whole month or more).

Some time after his “healing” and being working with Celebrimbor, we also see Mairon getting “touchier” with Galadriel, and whispering on her ear. What changed? When and why did he got so comfortable doing this?

We, the audience, assume that Mairon goes immediately to Celebrimbor’s forge after he wakes up, but is that true?

Celebrimbor asks him “shouldn’t you be resting?”. This can imply he had already awakened from the healing and he should be getting some rest instead of wandering around. And Galadriel, being in love with him, would surely want to be in the room when that happens. But he’s searching for her, instead. And the last scene we saw from Galadriel, was her and Elrond in the room where Mairon was being healed by the Elves.

And this is when they start to look at each other more passionately, too, like actual lovers (and not "just friends"):

Not only that, but he was already planning on forging two rings (surely, one for himself and other for Galadriel). In Elven tradition, the betrothals exchange two silver rings (in this case it would be mithril).

This would also provide a new layer to Sauron commanding his (new) Orcs to destroy Eregion right in front of Galadriel, to get a reaction out of her. He’s petty like that.

This could also explain Charlotte Brändström’s words of how Halbrand “really seduced her”, and how much in love with him Galadriel is.

Galadriel heartbreak on 1x08 and Season 2

Galadriel went through all seven stages of grief in Season 2, concerning Halbrand aka Sauron. We saw her crying or on the verge of tears. She was heartbroken, believing she was deceived, and all that she experienced with Halbrand was a lie. And she wanted to kill the motherf*cker, all by herself, until the bitter end. Do you have something to hide there, Gal? She even thrown Elrond under the bus with Adar in 2x06 just to get a chance to do it.

It has been noticed by some fellow fans, that Galadriel would, often, touch her lower stomach whenever having visions from Nenya, and we saw her planting seeds, too. This highly implies fertility. Now, this doesn’t mean she’s actually pregnant, mind you! But it can symbolize previous sexual acts.

It’s also worth mentioning that, in Freudian symbolism, jewels (such as rings) represent a beloved person.

What is Galadriel so afraid of? Wasn’t Halbrand “only a friend”?

When Sauron appears in 2x08, Galadriel is absolutely terrified, unable to move. She’s not scared of him, per say; she dreads that he might still be on Halbrand form, and she isn't certain on how she would react to that. But he’s in Annatar form, and she doesn’t have any emotional connection to it. Still, she’s only able to attack him when he had his back turned on her. And then, her expression when she sees Halbrand is very telling:

Sauron and Mirdania

Of course the “great deceiver” who manages to “deceive even himself” got himself a Galadriel doppelgänger when he returned to Eregion to put his “rings of power” masterplan in motion. And he only gets touchy with her whenever he thinks of Galadriel.

He also disposed of Mirdania when Adar arrived at Eregion (with Galadriel herself on a cage).

This whole business with Mirdania is something physical on Sauron’s part, because he sees the resemblance with Galadriel. And the fact that he touches her so tenderly is interesting to say the least, because (1) we’ve seen Sauron hating being touched throughout Season 2 (even by Mirdania herself), and (2) he’s an immortal spirit from the Unseen world (Maia); he doesn’t actually have any of these needs... Unless he's remembering touching Galadriel herself, and his sexual desire for her.

And what's the last injury that Sauron inflicts on Galadriel on their 2x08 fight?

Full-on penetration. And he doesn't go gentle with it, either. And it ends with him literally ejaculating (blood) inside of her (chest), aka blood binding.

This is pretty much what Tolkien wrote in “Unfinished Tales”, except the lover here is Halbrand/Mairon/Sauron, and he wants commitment (marriage).

Galadriel denies him in Season 1, and again in Season 2. And then, he forces them to bind together, all the same. This could also explain why Sauron was so certain she would actually bind herself to him, in spite of all the evil stuff he has done in Eregion.

And we have this “lovely” description of Sauron during his war with the Elves (which will be Season 3):

Now Sauron's lust and pride increased, until he knew no bounds, and he determined to make himself master of all things in Middle-earth, and to destroy the Elves, and to compass if he might, the downfall of Númenor. He brooked no freedom nor any rivalry, and he named himself Lord of the Earth. A mask he still could wear so that if he wished he might deceive the eyes of Men, seeming to them wise and fair.

Sauron’s lust will know no bounds in Season 3, good to know. He already bore a hole in Galadriel for the rest of him to slither in, so, only Eru knowns what kind of mind palace shenanigans will he be up to… symbolically.

#a while back I did joke a lot went down off screen we didn't get to see #saurondriel #haladriel #sauron x galadriel #galadriel x sauron #galadriel x halbrand

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whiterosesforher · 2 months ago

Text

𓍼 ⋮ FALLING FOR THE RUSE ( S.JY )

𝒾 : may i present to you dearest reader, Sebastian Hastings, Duke of Hastings, a man of charm and wit, your biggest mystery to uncover. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】 ♯ 𝓳𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞), 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐝𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🩷 this is a fanfiction inspired by the duke and i, originally from the bridgerton series book and show. most elements are purposely altered.

𝓌𝒸 : 33.3k

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

You stand before the large mirror in the drawing room, your soft blue gown hugging your figure perfectly, the delicate flowers woven into your curls sitting like a crown atop your head. The maids bustle around you, smoothing the fabric, adjusting every last detail, ensuring you look flawless.

To anyone else, you might appear to be the perfect picture of grace and beauty. Yet, as you catch your own reflection, doubt lingers in your eyes.

Your mother, Violet, sits quietly in a chair nearby. She offers you a small, kind smile, the kind that would usually soothe you. But today, it doesn’t. It is the start of your second season, and you still haven't found a match yet. Unsuccessful to marry a respectable man at the age of nineteen.

“You look radiant, my dear,” she says softly, her voice warm but tinged with something deeper, something that mirrors the unease in your chest. You let out a long, shaky sigh and run your fingers over the edge of your gown. “Radiant,” you echo, the word falling flat on your tongue. “Radiant for what purpose, Mama? I’ve already endured one season, one dreadful season of rejection. What’s to say this one will be any different?”

Her smile falters, her hand rests on your arm, soothing you in a way only she can. “This is not rejection, my dear. It is simply that what you’re searching for is rare. A love match is no simple thing to find, especially when many are willing to settle for less. What you want is extraordinary, and that takes time.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you look at her. You know what she's saying is true, but you can't help but envy the kind love that your parents had. “You and Father had that. Everyone saw it. They envied it. And I—” You pause, the lump in your throat growing. “I want that, too. I cannot imagine settling for anything less. But what if...” The words taste bitter on your tongue. “What if it’s impossible for me?”

Your mother’s hand squeezes your arm gently, she chuckled lightly, “Oh, my darling, it is not impossible. It is simply uncommon. Your father was one of a kind, and men like him do not come around often. But I promise you, when the right gentleman does come along, you will feel it deep in your heart.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to hold back the frustration bubbling within you. “Last season, I felt like some prized horse on display, Mama. All they saw was my title, my dowry, our family’s reputation. None of them truly saw me.” Your voice breaks slightly. “How am I supposed to find love when all they care about is what I represent, not who I am?”

Her eyes glisten as she listens, her heart breaking alongside yours. “You are right to want more,” she says softly. “And while the process may be painful, it is worth enduring for the chance at true happiness. I know it feels unbearable at times, but do not lose hope.”

Your mother stood beside you, her hands gentle as she fastens the final pin in your hair. Your dark locks now gleamed, swept into an elegant updo that frames your face so well. You look absolutely beautiful, you thought to yourself.

She glanced at you through the mirror, “Now you look completely flawless, my dear,” she complimented while smoothing a strand of hair that dared to fall out of place. “Today is your day. I just know it.”

Dorothea turned to you, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama. I truly hope this season will finally bring what I’m looking for.”

“You will find it, Dorothea,” your mother's words never fail to comfort you, “I have no doubt.”

The peaceful moment was interrupted when the door to the room burst open with a dramatic thud. “Dorothea!! You. Must. Make. Haste!” Elisa's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, as she stormed in, punctuating every word with an exaggerated stomp of her foot, glaring at you. Both you and your mother flinched at the sudden intrusion, but when Elisa came into view—her cheeks flushed with urgency, her hands on her hips like a soldier commanding an army—you couldn’t help but break into a fit of laughter.

“Elisa!” you exclaimed in shock and amusement. “What?” Elisa shot back at you, her tone exasperated. “You’re going to make us late! Again! Do you want everyone in the ton to think we Bridgertons have no sense of time?” Her mock scolding sent you into an even severe fit of laughter, shaking your head fondly at your sister’s theatrics.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” you replied with a teasing grin, fixing your gloves before walking beside her. Elisa crossed her arms, satisfied, though a playful smirk tugged at her lips. “Good. You’ll thank me later when we're not late to the ball and the ton won't stare and silently judge us.” As you and Elisa moved past the door, you heard your mother's soft call, stopping you on your tracks for just a moment. She walked with two of you, her hands on you and Elisa’s arm.

“Good luck, my darling,” she whispered to you, “May this season bring you everything your heart desires.” Oh yeah you hope so too, in fact you hope so hard you're willing to waste all the pennies you have at this point to throw them all in a wishing well. “Thank you, Mama.”

As you descend down the stairs, the others are already there looking at you in admiration, especially your brothers. Though as annoying as they can get, they are your biggest supporters. Benjamin held your hand as you walked down the last few steps of the stairs, and then offered his arm to you that you gladly accepted, linking your arm with his.

The first ball of the season was a whirlwind of sparkling chandeliers, lively music, and the subtle hum of whispered conversations. You entered with grace alongside your family. This time, your brother, Atticus, is the one escorting you. It was your second season, and while you tried to focus on optimism, the sting of last year’s failure still lingered.

You’d heard all the murmurs about you, on how you were far too clever, far too independent, and, most frustratingly, far too overshadowed by your brothers. But tonight was going to be different. It had to be.

As soon as you enter, it's like all eyes are on you. Gentlemen from left and right setting their eyes on you, giving you hope that you might find someone tonight who would interest you. You were instantly entertained as you watched the pairs dancing on the ball dance floor.

“They’re all staring, mother,” Atticus said as he watched each staring gentleman with a stern gaze. There's his protective nature again, you internally sighed. You could only hope your brother won't ruin this for you again.

Your mother, Violet, had whispered from behind you “Allow them to come to you, dearest.” And you smiled, eyes twinkling as your beauty didn't fail to attract attention once again.

It started off well enough. A gentleman approached with a tentative bow. You recognized him for you had already encountered him before, he's Lord Ambrose, a Baron. He has a smile on his lips, and you appreciate the sincerity in his eyes.

“Lady Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton,” he greeted, addressing you and your mother with a polite nod of his head. But when he turned to your brother, you can see him swallow awkwardly, “Lord Bridgerton,” he nodded at Atticus.

Your mother chimed in from behind you, her tone joyous as she offered a smile to the man, “I believe you have already been introduced to my daughter Dorothea, Lord Ambrose.”

The man nodded at your mother once again, “Uh yes, we met at your brother's levee,” he specified, pertaining to Atticus who's right beside you now with a cold stare.

You started up a conversation, wanting to be approachable for tonight to open opportunities, “If I recall, my lord, you had just won your first race at Newmarket.” You said with a soft chuckle, and you were about to congratulate him.

But your nuisance of a brother interrupted, “His first and only, I believe,” Atticus said in a passively rude tone while wearing a fake smile, that made your smile falter as you turned to him. Your eyes shooting up to silently tell him “You’re unbelievable.”

You immediately saved the awkward tension and turned your head once again to Lord Ambrose, “Well, in that case let us hope his lordship has found himself a new horse.” Ambrose chuckled, appreciating your warm and kind personality.

And here goes this evil maggot ruining your chance for a match once again, oh how you want to rip Atticus’ hair at this point when he interrupts once again, looking at him in disbelief as he run his mouth while staring intensely at Ambrose.

“I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you at our club lately, Ambrose,” he paused and you were about to open your mouth to say something but he beat you to it, “Should it have anything to do with the unpaid balance you left on our betting books last winter?”

He jabbed in a passive aggressive way, airing out Ambrose’s dirty laundry regarding his history of debts and gambling that ruined your mood altogether.

Even your mother Violet who's just behind the two of you witnessing this was so taken aback her eyes widened and her head snapped to Atticus, her eyebrow raising so high.

Ambrose fell silent, and with a tight lipped smile and one last polite bow, he walked away.

“Ambrose is a cheat. A man of any honor ensures his debts are fully paid.” Atticus remarked while scanning the whole room for anyone who dares to come approach you.

You let out a dismayed sigh, “I didn't realize–”

“Well, how could you have done that? It is the very reason I am here, sister.” He said in a convincing manner, “Let us take a turn about the room.” Your brother escorted you to roam the room, your hand securely linked to his arm as you observe every gentleman there is.

A gentleman dancing with someone on the dancefloor nodded at you, acknowledging your presence. “He is rather pleasing,” you commented to which your brother scoffed, “That’s Mr. Lewis, he is rather here to shuffle about hunting fortunes. Trust Lewis knows of your sizable dowry. Leave him be.”

You nod your head to a gentleman from a distance talking to a lady, “I presume you know of him too?” he smirked, “Mr. Worthington. Second son. We shall find better.”

A gentleman walked past the two of you, bowing his head a little to you as he passed, “He is of dubious parentage.” Atticus commented.

A familiar voice called the two of you, “Atticus! Thea!” it was Benjamin, with Caleb following him as they joined you.

“Did Mother tell you yet? About my tour? I am to begin in Greece,” Caleb announced excitedly. Ah of course, your brother Caleb has always been the wanderlust, always wanting to be free and to explore.

Maybe it is the reason why he's still unmarried. Although to be fair, all your brothers are unmarried. And if you're to secure a match this season then you would be the first one to get married among your siblings.

Your mouth fell open in happiness and surprise, “Greece? How adventurous, Caleb!”

“On guard!” Atticus hurriedly said to Benjamin and Caleb as they all scattered to turn and walk away in different directions.

But they are stopped in their tracks as the Lady Danbury approaches, her cane making thud noises on the floor with each step, “Too late. I already noted you.”

Your brothers turned around with a sheepish smile, like young boys getting caught by their mom after doing something reckless.

“Lady Danbury.”

“Good evening!”

“Lovely to see you, Lady Danbury.”

They all said in chorus while bowing. Lady Danbury is a close friend to the current Queen and to your mother, Violet. She has acted like a godmother and helped you and your siblings when your father passed too early.

You bowed to her too with a genuine smile, “Miss Bridgerton, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason why I've yet to see you on the dance floor?”

“All in good time, Lady Danbury,” Atticus answered for you, making the woman frown, almost rolling her eyes before leaning to you to whisper, “You poor thing,” before walking away.

The night falls deeper and you still haven't been asked out to dance, your brother whose arm you are holding to, successful in warding off interested men.

You looked around the room, your feet sore from doing nothing but standing. You turned to him, “I am quite parched, Atti.”

“Then I shall fetch you a glass of lemonade,” he tried to move but you stopped him, “No. You have already done so much for me tonight. I shall return in a mere moment.” You assured him and he let you go alone.

Walking to the refreshments table and grabbing yourself a glass of lemonade. You sipped from the tiny glass they came to serve the lemonade with.

When all of a sudden, an agitating voice disturbed your only alone time tonight. “Small glasses,” he simply said with a grin. You bowed your head to acknowledge him with a forced smile, “Lord Berbrooke.”

“Tiny little things, are they not?” He continued as you awkwardly chuckled before answering, “The glasses? I suppose.”

“Then the matter is settled,” he said with an even bigger smile that made you confused, eyebrows furrowing with a confused smile, “Pardon? I'm not entirely sure which matter are we discussing, my lord.”

He took a step closer but still maintained a distance, “You’ve always been so attractive to me, Miss Bridgerton. Ever since I was a twenty year old boy and you were…”

Your eyes widened, your whole body weirded out by this man, and you couldn't help the hint of disgust on your face as you continued his sentence for him, “When you were twenty and I was just… five?”

He only chuckled in response and slurped on his lemonade loudly while creepily staring at you. What the hell is wrong with this old man? You thought to yourself before thinking of an excuse to get yourself out of this situation.

��My brother, he summons me. Adieu.” You hurriedly squeeze yourself past the crowd, heartbeat quickening as you heard Berbrooke’s voice call out behind you, “Miss Bridgerton?” He repeated as you continued to walk fast and he slowly followed you, “A moment please! Miss Bridgerton?”

You turned your head to him, seeing he's following you, you quickened your pace even more. Not noticing you'd bump hard into an unfamiliar gentleman. You yelped, and your eyes widened.

“Pardon me” “Forgive me” you both said in chorus. You looked back at Berbrooke who's trying to approach you again but is getting swarmed with the other guests greeting him and trying to converse with him.

You held the arms of the gentleman you just bumped into, “Tell me your name,” you eagerly said with a panicked smile, the only thing that can ward off Berbrooke this time is if you're entertaining another man. If only your brother Atticus was here. Now you want to slap yourself for not letting him come with you.

The man gave you a smirk, almost scoffing at you, “Am I honestly to believe you do not already know my name?” You glanced at Berbrooke again and saw him getting closer so you faked a really loud laugh and hit the man's arm, pretending you're talking to him and he just said something funny to you.

The man squinted his eyes at your weird behavior and sighed, “If you desire an introduction, madam, I do believe accosting me to be the least civilized of ways.” You look at him in disbelief at his attitude, “Me? Accosting you?” He cut you off, still annoyed and cocky, “Truly you ladies will try anything to get my attention including bumping into me and pretending not to know me.”

This man. He thinks this is all a plan just to speak to him? You've only spoken to him for a minute yet he's already making your eyes twitch in annoyance, you want to take your heels off and use it to slap his face. Who does he think he is? You're a respectable lady, surely you will not try such thing just to get the attention of whoever this babbling baboon is. Does he think himself so handsome that you'd get desperate for him? He wish!

“Sir wha– who do you think you are?! What is your name?” You challenged, ready to report this man to your brothers. “Hastings!” Your head snapped to your brother jogging towards your direction, seemingly calling the man with you.

“Bridgerton!” The man responded with a joyful tone. They shook hands in a boyish way and pat each other's back, “Come here, old friend!” Old friend?! This baboon is your brother's friend?!

“I heard news of your father's passing– You're no longer just Sebastian Hastings, you're the Duke of Hastings!” Your eyebrow raised, ah so he's a duke, no wonder he's cocky and arrogant with that pretentious smile he has. “The Duke of Hastings, is it?” You said sarcastically, still glaring at Hastings.

“Right, Hastings, this is my sister.”

“Your sister?”

Atticus turned to you with a smile, “Dorothea, Hastings and I know each other from our days at Oxford. He is the nephew of Lady Danbury, who came to visit London for some business. Well I expect to see you at our club some time.”

“Indeed, Lord Bridgerton. Evening. Miss Bridgerton.” He bowed at you and your brother which you returned only out of politeness. You walked away with Atticus, leaving to retire for the night as your feet are already exhausted.

The rising sun came into view from your window signifying an early morning and you were already wide awake, lying on your back and staring at the ceiling, anticipation buzzing through you. Today would be different, you are a hundred percent confident.

A soft knock on the door broke your thoughts. “Miss, you’re awake!” Your maid, Rose, stepped inside with a bright smile.

You shot up immediately, a grin already forming on your lips. “Yes, yes, I am! Go to the kitchen at once and have the cook prepare plenty of biscuits. I’ll need enough for...” You paused, imagining the footmen overwhelmed by an army of callers at the door. “For a dozen callers today!”

The maid nodded and rushed out as you stood, quickly readying yourself for what you hoped would be a triumphant day. By mid-morning, you sat in the drawing room, perfectly poised in one of your favorite gowns, excitement shimmering beneath your practiced expression. Violet sat across from you with little Heather, and Elisa is seated next to you.

And yet... nothing. No carriage wheels on the gravel. No eager footsteps on the stairs. No callers. It's like your brother has successfully insulted every man that set their eyes on you.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to let your disappointment show. But your mother noticed, of course, and offered a reassuring smile. “I’m sure someone will call later, dearest. These things sometimes take time.”

You nodded and kept your smile in place, but the disappointment was becoming harder to ignore. Until finally, the sound of the door opening reached your ears. The footman entered with perfect posture, announcing, “There’s a caller for Miss Dorothea Bridgerton.” Your heart soared, and you couldn’t stop the eager smile that bloomed across your face. But the next words shattered it instantly.

“Lord Nigel Berbrooke.” The room fell silent.

Nigel stepped in, his usual clumsy gait and overeager grin making you instantly regret all the optimism you’d felt this morning. Your mother, always a gracious hostess, quickly covered for your stunned reaction with a polite smile. “How lovely of you to call, Lord Berbrooke,” Violet said smoothly. “We have freshly prepared biscuits and refreshments. Please, do sit.” She rose from her seat, gesturing for Elisa and Heather to move. “Elisa, perhaps you’d allow some room for his lordship?”

You tightened your grip on Elisa’s arm without thinking, silently pleading her not to go. You didn’t even have to look at her to know she understood you. Elisa smiled coyly, tilting her head. “I believe I should like to stay, Mother.” Violet’s gaze sharpened, her voice carrying an edge of authority as she replied, “I believe you should like to go.” Elisa froze for a moment before reluctantly standing, shooting you a look that screamed ‘good luck, dear sister.’

“Well then… I believe I should go,” Elisa said with exaggerated sweetness, though her eyes twinkled with mischief as she made her way to the other side of the room along Heather and Violet. And now, with nowhere left to hide, you were forced to face the worst caller imaginable. “Miss Dorothea,” Nigel began as soon as he took the empty seat beside you. That ridiculous, self-satisfied grin stretched across his face as if he thought this was his moment of triumph. “I just know, you and I were destined for each other.”

You stared at him, your mind blank with disbelief. How could one person be so staggeringly delusional? You said nothing, too stunned to form a response. From across the room, Heather failed spectacularly at stifling a laugh. The sound broke free, loud and unladylike, earning her an immediate look from Violet. Heather’s lips pursed tightly, and she sank back into the couch, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. Meanwhile, you remained trapped beside Nigel, who was oblivious to the fact that his mere presence was a form of torture.

You started to talk to yourself in your thoughts instead, why is there no one else here? Why is this... whatever creature this is, sitting beside you, thinking he has a chance? What did you do to deserve this punishment?

Nigel continued to ramble on, but you barely heard him. You were too busy questioning every decision that had brought you to this moment, stuck in your own personal nightmare.

Over the following days, the Bridgerton drawing room became emptier than a ballroom during the last dance of the night. It wasn’t due to any lack of biscuits or refreshments, nor because you lacked charm or beauty.

No, the blame for the desolation lay entirely with your older brother, Atticus, who had taken it upon himself to supervise all callers. The result? A wave of men leaving before they even stepped foot into the drawing room, their nervous apologies echoing through the halls before the footmen escorted them out.

By the end of the week, even your Mother's well-practiced optimism began to falter. The grand doors to the drawing room remained frustratingly still, while you sat in a perfectly poised manner, clutching a book you’d read far too many times to actually be reading anymore. You glanced out the window for the hundredth time, the sight of the empty drive confirming your fears.

Your heart began to weigh heavier each day, especially as the whispers of society reached your ears.

On one such morning, you stayed in bed long after you had awoken, lying still beneath the covers and staring at the ceiling as your thoughts swirled like a storm cloud.

The damning words of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers rang in your head:

“Of the many young ladies making their second appearances this season, Miss Dorothea Bridgerton remains among the loveliest. And yet, one cannot help but notice her distinct lack of callers. Is it mere bad luck or perhaps a trend that will lead to yet another unsuccessful season for her?”

You knew of this, of course, because Elisa had gleefully barged into your room the day before, holding up the latest paper as though it were some treasured artifact. Elisa adored Lady Whistledown, practically worshipped her, and her enthusiasm made the sting of the remarks all the more painful.

“What nonsense,” you muttered to yourself, replaying the words over and over in your mind despite your protests. A distinct lack of callers. Unsuccessful season. Failure.

A sharp knock on your door interrupted your downward spiral. “Miss?” You recognized your maid’s voice but couldn’t summon the energy to respond. Another knock, gentler this time. “Miss Dorothea, are you well? Shall I bring you something?” You sighed and forced yourself to sit up. “No, no. I’ll be down soon. Thank you.” The maid’s retreating footsteps gave you a moment to compose yourself, though the weight on your chest remained.

Your future seemed uncertain—hopeless, even. Atticus’s overprotective interference, the whispers of society, and the damning words of Lady Whistledown were too much to ignore. You wanted a love match, a marriage like your parents had shared, but how could you hope for that when it seemed no one was even willing to call on you?

Shaking your head, you pushed the covers back and swung your legs over the side of the bed. If there was one thing you’d learned from your mother, it was that Bridgertons didn’t give up easily, no matter how bleak things seemed.

Still, as you began to dress for the day, you couldn’t help but wonder: How on earth am I to change this?

You descended the staircase, the weight of your earlier thoughts still lingering as you entered the drawing room. Unsurprisingly, it was empty once again. The silence of the grand room was almost deafening, and your steps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you paced back and forth.

Finally, unable to keep the thoughts to yourself any longer, you turned to your mother, who sat near the window, embroidering with an air of serenity that only she could maintain in such dire circumstances. “Mama,” you began, your voice slightly hesitant but growing with determination, “perhaps we should attend the upcoming Salisbury ball by ourselves. And the Merriweather tea as well.”

Your mother glanced up at you, her expression both curious and sympathetic. “You know, without Atticus,” you added pointedly, your hands gesturing in frustration. Violet sighed softly and set her embroidery aside, giving you her full attention. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, dearest.”

“And why not?” you asked, already sensing that you wouldn’t like her answer. “Because Atticus has already replied on our behalf,” she explained, her tone gentle but firm. “He’s taken it upon himself to manage all of our social events for the season. Through June, at least.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean to say for the entire season?” Violet offered an apologetic smile, but it only made your frustration bubble over. “Great,” you said, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Guess I’m remaining unmarried!”

Without another word, you flopped down on the couch, crossing your arms and glaring at the door as if willing your overbearing brother to appear. And, as if on cue, Atticus strode in moments later, completely unaware of the storm brewing in your chest.

He looked from you to your mother, his brow furrowing slightly. “What’s the matter now?” You didn’t answer, only narrowed your eyes further at him.

Atticus raised a brow, clearly unimpressed by your silent protest. “If you’re so intent on sulking, perhaps a ride will cheer you up,” he suggested casually. You sighed, weighing your options. Stay here and fume in silence or begrudgingly agree to humor him? After a moment of tense silence, you rolled your eyes and stood.

“Fine,” you muttered, brushing past him. “But only because there’s absolutely nothing better to do.” Atticus smirked, clearly pleased with himself, and gestured for you to follow him outside.

The two of you rode side by side through the quiet, open park, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves steady and calm. It would’ve been a serene outing if not for the unmistakable tension that hung between you and your older brother. The gentle breeze did little to soothe your simmering frustrations, and as your horse trotted forward at a leisurely pace, you decided to address the elephant in the room.

“You know,” Atticus began, his tone conversational, as if he had no idea how livid you were. “Berbrooke is harmless. There’s no need to worry about him. I’m certain there will be others.” You rolled your eyes, the mention of Nigel Berbrooke only fueling your irritation. “Oh, Atti,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm, “thank you so much for your vote of confidence. But perhaps you’ve forgotten—Lady Whistledown has been writing about me.”

At this, Atticus cast you a sidelong glance. “And?”

“And,” you continued, your tone sharp, “she’s already spreading the word that I’m ineligible. That I failed to find a match last season, and that it looks like I’m failing again this season. From the looks of it, what man would want such damaged goods now?”

Atticus scoffed. “You speak of Lady Whistledown as if she’s the voice of the rest of the ton.” He waved a dismissive hand. “They’re just gossips, speculations. Hardly anything of substance, and certainly not true.” You sighed in frustration, gripping the reins tighter as your horse continued its steady walk. “But they are true,” you snapped. “And do you know why they’re true? Because of you, Atti!”

His brows furrowed, and he shot you a warning look. “I beg your pardon?” You didn’t back down. “You’ve managed to scare every single suitor away,” you said firmly, your words laced with equal parts anger and despair.

Atticus straightened in his saddle, clearly unimpressed by your accusation. “I’m protecting you,” he countered. “It’s my duty as the head of the house and as your older brother.” But you weren’t about to let him hide behind that excuse again. “And what of my duty?” you interrupted, your voice rising with the intensity of your emotions.

Atticus opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance. “You have no idea what marriage means to a woman,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly. “You have no idea how we live, what it feels like for your entire life to depend on one single moment. I was raised to do this, only to fail. Women are wives and that’s all they are. If they cannot find a husband, they are worthless. I am worthless.” You expressed the sad reality of being a woman in this society. A woman who's dreaming of a love match that seemed to look only more impossible to achieve now.

“Worthless?” he repeated incredulously, clearly taken aback by your words. “Dorothea, you are a Bridgerton! A member of one of the richest families in London. Impeccably rich, in fact. How could you possibly be worthless?” You turned your gaze ahead, refusing to look at him. Your tone grew quiet, the anger replaced by something far heavier. “Maybe it would be better if I were not.”

Before he could respond, you kicked your horse into a faster pace, pulling ahead and leaving him behind. The sound of the hooves striking the ground grew louder as you rode farther, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and your brother. Atticus called after you, but you ignored him, your mind racing with thoughts of frustration, despair, and a longing for something he simply couldn’t understand.

You loved your brother, truly. But his stubbornness, his refusal to see what he was doing to you, was more hurtful than protective. He thought he was shielding you, but in reality, he was only pushing you further into the shadows, away from the life you so desperately wanted to claim for yourself.

“Duke Hastings will be joining us for dinner tonight,” your mother informed you with an air of casual excitement.

Your brow shot up so high it nearly disappeared into your hairline. “The duke? Why?” you asked, skepticism laced in your tone.

Violet only grinned, an all-knowing glimmer in her eye. “Lady Danbury suggested it, I had the cook prepare a gooseberry pie for dessert specially for him. It's his favourite.” She replied simply before turning to oversee the evening preparations.

By the time the dinner commenced, you found herself seated beside Sebastian, much to your growing irritation. You picked up the knife with a bit more force than necessary, cutting into your meal with sharp, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, the conversation at the table swirled around the latest talk of the ton.

Giovann spoke up. “I still say Lady Whistledown must be one of the Fontaines. They’re too nosy for their own good.” Elisa scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s absurd. Lady Whistledown clearly has wit, and none of the Fontaines can spell wit, let alone embody it.”

Sebastian observed the lively debate with mild amusement as Violet interjected gracefully. “Forgive this unruly debate, Your Grace,” she said with a warm smile, gesturing toward your siblings. Sebastian waved off the comment with a charming grin. “Nonsense. I find it entertaining,” he replied, his deep voice carrying a note of humor.

Violet’s smile widened, pleased by his response. “In that case, you should join us for dinner more often, Your Grace. You are always welcome here.”

“Giovann, stop stealing my peas!” Heather exclaimed, her small voice rising sharply. “You cannot tell me what to do. I am older than you,” Giovann shot back mockingly, grinning at her indignant expression.

The table descended into playful chaos as the siblings bickered, while Violet and a few others carried on their own conversations, ignoring the commotion. Dreadfully, Sebastian has turned his attention to you even though you are focused on your meal.

“You look rather displeased,” Sebastian commented, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. Your hand halted, pausing your cutting to glance at him sharply with a raised brow. “Do I?” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sebastian smirked, leaning slightly closer. “Well, you are sitting beside me. I’d like to think that surely makes you happy,” he teased, his tone infuriating you.

You stared at him, utterly unimpressed. This man truly believed every woman was hopelessly taken by him simply because of his title.

Hah, what a thick faced scumbag, “Wow, of course,” you started sarcastically. “Because a lady is only allowed to smile when she’s seated beside a duke.” You tilted your head, gaze icy. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am anything but interested in you.”

Sebastian chuckled, raising his brows in mock surprise. “Good,” he said, his smirk deepening. “Good!” You echoed.

Your synchronized reply drew a few curious glances from the rest of the table, you didn't even notice your siblings got silent, too immersed in how annoyed you are.

You swear to God that no amount of charm or title would ever compensate for how insufferable this duke is. How is he even your brother's best friend?

The warm glow of the lanterns illuminated the grounds of Vauxhall. Music drifted on the breeze, mixing with the chatter and laughter of the ton. The lively energy filled you with wonder as you walked amidst the glowing lights, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you looked up the lights.

But that peace was short-lived.

“Lord Berbrooke’s baron lineage spans over 200 years,” Atticus’ familiar voice cut through the night, making you turn toward him. His expression was firm, his tone businesslike as he approached you. “He has no debts, and he’s quite skilled at hunting,” he continued, as if reciting from a list.

You blinked in confusion. “What are you talking about, Atti?”

Atticus didn’t give you the chance to fully process his words. He cut you off with a tone that brooked no argument. “Lord Berbrooke is legitimate. He will be good for you. You are to marry him.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a heavy fog, your breath hitching in disbelief. “What?” you managed to say, your voice laced with protest. “Atticus, no—”

“Enough,” Atticus snapped, his gaze unwavering. “It’s done. You should be grateful. I had to find you a husband, and it would be far easier for everyone if you simply fell in love with him.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in frustration and disbelief. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. Without waiting for his response, you turned and marched off, your thoughts swirling in a haze of anger and fear.

You sought refuge in a quieter part of the gardens, the cheerful music and laughter fading into the distance. Among the hedgerows and moonlit paths, you paced back and forth, your mind racing. How could Atticus do this to you? Marry Lord Berbrooke? The idea was unthinkable.

But your stolen peace didn’t last long.

“Miss Bridgerton,” a voice called, startling you. You turned sharply to see none other than Nigel Berbrooke emerging from the shadows, his awkward gait and smug expression unmistakable.

You sighed heavily, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Nigel, not now,” you said sharply, rubbing your temples in exasperation.

“Oh, dropping the honorifics so soon, are we?” Nigel said with a chuckle, his grin widening. “I don’t mind. After all, I’ll be your husband soon enough.”

You glared at him, your voice icy. “You are not my husband, and I will never marry you. My brother he– he made a mistake.”

The smugness in Nigel’s face darkened, his demeanor shifting in an instant. He took a step closer, his tone lowering dangerously. “You’d do well to thank me,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m your last hope. No one else wants you, Miss Bridgerton.”

The words hit you like a slap, but your anger quickly burned brighter than your pain. “Let me go,” you warned as his hand suddenly gripped your arm.

He ignored you, his fingers tightening. “You should—”

You didn’t let him finish. Instinctively, your hand shot up, pinching his face with such force that he yelped in pain. Before you knew it, Nigel’s legs wobbled, and with a dull thud, he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

You barely had time to catch your breath when a low chuckle broke the silence of the garden. “I must say, Miss Bridgerton, that was an impressive facer you planted on poor Berbrooke.”

Your head snapped up to see Sebastian, leaning casually against a nearby tree, his arms crossed as he regarded you with a smirk of amusement.

You froze in place, panic bubbling to the surface. “Your Grace, this isn’t what it looks like,” you stammered, your words rushing out in a flurry. “He—he wouldn’t let me go, and I didn’t mean—”

Sebastian waved a hand, dismissing your explanation. “No need to explain,” he said, still smirking. “From where I’m standing, he clearly deserved it. Though I have to admit,” he added with a playful glint in his eyes, “I didn’t think you had such a powerful right hook.”

You were silent, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, and Sebastian seemed to notice your unease. His smirk softened as he straightened up. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

The knot in your chest loosened slightly at the question, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. You told him everything: Atticus’ high-handed decision to marry you off to Berbrooke, his interference with all your suitors, and the cruel whispers of Lady Whistledown’s latest issue.

“She wrote about me being ineligible again,” you finished, your voice low and strained. “This is my second season. Atticus has scared away every single gentleman, and now no one will have me. I’m ruined.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment, his sharp eyes studying you. Finally, he said, “You deserve better than that.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t matter what I deserve. The entire ton sees me as damaged goods now. And thanks to Atticus, they might be right.”

Sebastian tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Not necessarily,” he said after a pause.

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I have an idea. A plan. A ruse, if you will. It would benefit us both. You see, I’ve been fending off overzealous mamas and their persistent daughters since I arrived in London. They’ve been throwing themselves at me like moths to a flame, and frankly, it’s exhausting. You, on the other hand, need to make yourself... unavailable. Make the men of the ton want you again. And what better way to accomplish both than a little pretend romance?”

Your brow furrowed, his suggestion catching you off guard. “You’re suggesting that we—what, pretend to be courting?”

“Precisely,” Sebastian said, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Think about it. If everyone believes you’ve caught the attention of a duke, it will raise your desirability tenfold. As for me, it will keep the determined mamas and their daughters at bay.”

He continued in a persuasive tone, “We’ll both get what we wanted. Me, unavailable, you, desirable.”

You hesitated, your heart racing at the prospect. It was a daring plan, and yet... there was a certain logic to it. “And you think this will work?”

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Oh, it will work. But we’ll need to sell it. Starting now.”

Before you could respond, he offered you his arm. “Shall we?”

You stared at him for a moment, your nerves bubbling to the surface. But then, with a deep breath, you placed your hand on his arm and allowed him to lead you back toward the lively Vauxhall scene.

The moment you stepped into view, the music and chatter seemed to dull as heads turned in your direction. The crowd’s gaze followed the two of you as Sebastian guided you onto the dance floor, his expression calm and confident.

Your heart pounded as he turned to face you, bowing slightly before taking your hand. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

You nodded, your gaze locking with his as the music began. The dance started slowly, your movements tentative as you adjusted to the attention of the room. But Sebastian leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible over the music. “Look at me as if you’re in love, Thea. And I’ll do the same. We need to make them believe it.”

You swallowed hard, your nerves still thrumming, but you followed his lead. The steps of the dance brought you closer together, your gazes locked as if the rest of the world had faded away. There was an unexpected intimacy in the way he looked at you, his eyes warm and reassuring.

“Good,” he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Now, imagine you’ve just heard the most wonderful compliment. Something that makes your heart flutter. Let it show on your face.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes slightly, but you did as he instructed, softening your expression as you gazed at him.

“There,” he said, his tone approving. “You’re a natural.”

The dance continued, and with each step, you felt your confidence grow. The room was watching, and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel daunting.

When the music ended, Sebastian bowed to you, and you curtsied in return. The applause of the crowd seemed to echo around you, and as you glanced around, you saw the intrigued and impressed faces of the ton.

Sebastian offered you his arm again, leaning in slightly as he said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

You couldn’t help but smile, your earlier worries momentarily forgotten. “It was... effective,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, his voice low and amused. “Because this is only the beginning.”

The park was alive with the hum of conversation, the laughter of children, and the rustle of parasols as the ton gathered for an afternoon of leisure. You sat with your family on a neatly arranged picnic blanket, trying to feign interest in the endless chatter around you. The previous night’s events still loomed large in your mind, no matter how much you tried to push them away.

Then, as if the day couldn't get more taxing, a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“Lady Bridgerton,” Sebastian greeted with his usual confident ease. His presence was impossible to ignore as he approached your family, his dark eyes locking on you. “Might I have the honor of promenading with Miss Bridgerton?”

You nearly groaned aloud but quickly masked it with a polite smile. Your mother, clearly pleased, didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied warmly, glancing at you. “Dorothea, dear, go on.”

You rose from your spot on the blanket, smoothing the front of your gown as you pasted on the brightest smile you could manage. “Your Grace,” you said, your voice level, though internally, you sighed.

Sebastian extended his arm, his smirk already in place. “Shall we?”

Taking his arm, you allowed him to lead you away from your family and the crowd of spectators, the two of you stepping into the designated promenade path. As soon as you were a safe distance away, the mask of propriety fell, and you glanced up at him with a knowing arch of your brow.

“Four balls,” he said abruptly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You scoffed, your brow furrowing. “Six,” you replied firmly. Sebastian’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he glanced down at you. “Four is plenty. I’ll not subject myself to more than that. Any more and it would look tedious.”

“Tedious?” you repeated indignantly. “You forget, Your Grace, that this arrangement isn’t just for your benefit. Six balls, and you’ll send flowers after each one. Expensive ones, mind you.”

“Expensive flowers?” he repeated, a laugh rumbling in his chest. You tilted your chin up, your tone sharp with sarcasm. “If you were truly courting me, you’d buy out every florist in town.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re relentless, Miss Bridgerton.” You gave him a pointed look. “And you’re insufferable, but I suppose we’re even.”

“Fine” he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll agree to expensive flowers every day but we will only go to four balls together. Consider it my final offer.”

You rolled your eyes but reluctantly relented. “Fine. But this arrangement stays between us, especially after last night.”

His smirk faded, his expression softening. “You’re worried about Berbrooke?”

You nodded, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “If anyone finds out I was alone with two men last night, one of whom ended up unconscious, I’ll be completely ruined.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his tone steady as he replied, “No one will find out, Dorothea. I won’t allow it.”

Though his words were reassuring, you couldn’t shake the knot of worry in your chest. Still, as the promenade continued, you kept your focus on him. The eyes of the ton were on you both, whispers flitting through the air like the rustle of leaves.

“Keep your gaze on me,” Sebastian instructed under his breath. “Smile like you’ve just heard the most charming thing I’ve ever said.”

You arched a brow. “You’ve yet to say anything remotely charming.”

His grin widened, but he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Pretend, then. You’re quite good at that.”

Despite your nerves, you allowed yourself a soft laugh, your expression warming as you followed his lead. The whispers grew louder as the two of you returned to the center of the ton’s attention, a picture-perfect couple strolling with easy grace.

The drawing room was abuzz with the quiet activity of your family. You sat at the piano, letting your fingers glide over the keys as you played a light melody. Your brothers lounged on the sofas, and Heather sat poised with her embroidery in hand. Violet paced near the table, sharing her thoughts about last night’s events.

“Two dances? With the Duke?” Heather asked, her voice tinged with amusement and curiosity, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Your mother nodded, helping herself to a small snack. “He was quite taken with your sister, Heather. All eyes are on Dorothea.” She walked over to you, a plate of toast in hand, her expression warm and expectant.

You paused your playing just long enough to shake your head politely. “I’m not hungry, Mother.”

From behind you, Caleb’s teasing voice broke the moment. “Are you sure they’re not eyeing her because she dances funny?”

Before you could respond, Benjamin chimed in, his laughter low and mischievous. “Or perhaps a tear in her dress?”

Your fingers stilled on the keys as you turned sharply to glare at them, your patience wearing thin. “Very clever,” you said dryly, rolling your eyes before resuming your melody, determined to ignore them.

The peaceful atmosphere shattered moments later as Elisa burst into the drawing room, her face flushed with urgency. “How does a lady become with child?” she asked, her voice loud enough to make the entire room freeze.

Your hands stuttered over the keys, the abrupt question catching you completely off guard. Violet blinked, clearly startled, and stammered, “E-Elisa, what a question!”

You furrowed your brows, the question lingering in your mind. It was, admittedly, a good one.

Come to think of it, you actually have no idea what to do to have a child, or what the actual process is. All you know is it happens when you're married.

You turned toward your younger sister and, with genuine curiosity, said, “You need to be married, right?”

Elisa nodded vigorously. “Exactly! But what do you do to have a child?”

“Enough!” Violet interjected, her voice firm yet flustered. She quickly tried to redirect the conversation. “Elisa, that is more than enough. Dorothea, dear, you were playing so beautifully. Do continue.”

Reluctantly, you turned back to the piano, though the exchange was far from over. Elisa plopped herself onto the couch between Benjamin and Caleb, her questioning gaze now fixed on them. She nudged their arms, “I take it you two know the answer?”

Benjamin pressed his lips together, clearly suppressing a smile. “Do not look at me,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Caleb, on the other hand, grinned mischievously. “Have you ever visited a farm, El?”

Benjamin immediately smacked the back of Caleb’s head, his laughter barely contained. Violet’s glare was swift and sharp. “I hope you two are not encouraging improper topics of conversation.”

Benjamin held up his hands, his expression feigning innocence. “Not at all, Mother.”

Caleb, however, stood with a sly smile. “In fact, Benjamin and I were just about to take our sticks out—”

“Caleb Bridgerton!” Violet exclaimed, her tone scandalized.

Caleb laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “A round of fencing, Mother. A perfectly proper activity.”

Benjamin chuckled as he stood to join his brother. “Of course, Mother. Nothing improper.”

Their laughter trailed behind them as they left the drawing room, leaving you shaking your head and Violet muttering under her breath about the impropriety of her sons.

A footman stepped in, bowing slightly. “Callers for Miss Dorothea, ma’am,” he announced, his tone polite but carrying a hint of surprise.

You immediately stood, your face lighting up as you let out a squeal of delight. The plan was working, and it's working better than you could have imagined.

Violet looked up, her expression both pleased and puzzled. “But the Duke– he is already calling on you, dearest,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged playfully, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Well, I suppose now I have more callers,” you replied, your voice light with amusement.

Curious, your family crowded by the window, peering out at the astonishing sight. The usually serene street in front of your house was now bustling with carriages, footmen, and gentlemen waiting to call on you.

The once-empty drawing room was rapidly filling with visitors, each gentleman carrying lavish bouquets, some of which were already being arranged in vases by the maids.

Your little sister Heather nudges you with a smirk. “You’ve created quite the stir, sister,” she teased, her tone a mix of pride and mischief.

The atmosphere turned lively, the room filled with polite conversation, though you couldn’t ignore the nervous energy building within you. It was everything you and Sebastian had planned, but you hadn’t quite expected it to be this overwhelming.

You were indulged in conversations of multiple gentlemen each waiting patiently to get a turn to talk to you.

You didn't even notice your brother and Berbrooke entering the busy scene, too emerged in your conversations.

Nigel’s face turned red with fury as he took in the crowd of gentlemen surrounding you, the extravagant bouquets scattered around the room.

“This is outrageous,” Nigel muttered under his breath before turning to Atticus. “You said you wanted this handled quickly! You gave me your word, Bridgerton!”

Atticus’ jaw tightened, his tone firm,“And I intend to keep it,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room. Atticus turned to him, his expression unreadable. “For now, you must leave as well, Berbrooke. Along with everyone else.”

Nigel’s face twisted in anger. “What are you playing at, Bridgerton? You said—”

“I said,” Atticus interrupted, his voice low and authoritative, “that you are the only one I would consider for my sister. That decision has not changed. Now go.”

The door slammed shut with a finality that made you flinch, your heart pounding in your chest. Atticus stood before you and your siblings, his face dark with irritation, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “I should like to know what’s going on,” he said, his tone sharp as his gaze swept across the room.

Violet, clearly unimpressed by his entrance, snapped back, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowing. “I would like to know the very same. Perhaps we might begin with why you chose to interrupt such an exquisite morning?”

Atticus ignored her retort, pointing directly at you. “Because she’s already engaged to someone,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your mother’s expression changed in an instant, her surprise evident. She turned to you with wide eyes. “The Duke has already asked for your hand?”

You stepped forward, meeting her gaze, your voice firm as you shook your head. “I am not engaged, Mama.”

Atticus turned to you, his glare sharp and his voice warning. “Do not be disrespectful, sister.”

That was it. You’d had enough. The frustration that had been building all morning finally spilled over. “Disrespectful?” you said, your tone laced with disbelief and fury. “I can’t imagine a greater disrespect than what you’ve done to me! Promising me to Nigel Berbrooke without my permission?!”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Violet’s eyes widened, and she let out a horrified gasp. “Atticus, tell me you did not!”

“Oh, but he did, Mama!” you exclaimed, your voice rising with your anger.

Atticus cut you off, his tone defensive and resolute. “Nigel is a fine choice. I looked into him. He is well-connected, wealthy, and perfectly suitable.”

Violet’s voice rose, her disapproval evident as she addressed your brother. “You promised your sister to that man? Your sister has charmed a Duke, Atticus! You must know this changes everything.”

Atticus groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Do not tell me this little rebellion is because of Hastings,” he said dismissively.

“They are courting!” Violet shot back, her voice filled with certainty.

“They danced together!” Atticus countered, his voice rising with incredulity. “Caleb does the same with Pearl. That doesn’t mean they’re courting!”

“They promenaded together this morning,” Violet retorted, her tone sharp. “And he sent flowers—to both Dorothea and myself.”

“Expensive ones,” you interjected, crossing your arms as you met your brother’s glare.

Atticus sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as though trying to stave off a headache. “The Duke is not a serious suitor,” he said, his voice calmer but no less resolute. “I have known him since we were boys. He is my best friend, and I am well aware of him. The contract has already been drawn up. Dorothea is to marry Nigel.” His declaration was final, and without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the drawing room, leaving the door ajar behind him.

You stood frozen, your anger giving way to dread as you turned to your mother. “Mama…” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

Violet moved toward you, her expression softening as she enveloped you in a reassuring hug. “Don’t worry, dearest,” she said with a confidence that you couldn’t quite share. “The Duke will handle this.”

You rested your head against her shoulder, but guilt gnawed at you. The entire arrangement with Sebastian was nothing more than a ruse.

There was no reason for him to intervene on your behalf, and you sure knew deep down that he wouldn’t.

Your arm is locked in Atticus’ in a ball. What is even new in this situation? It has always been this way.

As you entered, you were greeted by the sight of Lady Danbury, the formidable woman’s eyes gleaming with mischief as you face her.

Standing beside her is her nephew, none other than Sebastian Hastings. When his gaze lands on you, something playful sparks in his expression.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he says, bowing slightly. “A dance?”

Before you can speak, Atticus stiffens at your side, his mouth about to open but Lady Danbury with her matchmaking habits, interrupted.

“Oh, Lord Bridgerton!” Lady Danbury interrupts, her tone as smooth as the finest silk. “I do believe I saw a footman bring in a tray of ratafia. Be a dear and escort me to fetch a glass, won’t you?”

Atticus falters, clearly torn between his protective instincts and the commanding presence of Lady Danbury. She doesn’t wait for him to decide, linking her arm through his and steering him toward the refreshment table. You bite back a grin as they disappear into the crowd, leaving you blessedly free for the first time tonight.

Sebastian steps forward, extending his hand to you. “Shall we?”

You nod, slipping your hand into his. As he leads you to the dance floor, the weight you’ve carried all evening seems to lift. The music swells around you, and for the first time in far too long, you feel light. Truly light.

“I think,” you murmur as you take your places, “that we should make Nigel Berbrooke believe you’re on the verge of proposing.”

Sebastian raises a brow, a teasing smile curving his lips. “On the verge, you say? I’ll have to ensure I don’t lose my balance during this dance, then.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, the sound startlingly genuine. As the music begins, Sebastian’s hand rests lightly at your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the steps.

The rhythm of the waltz carries you both, and for the first time, you’re not counting the movements in your head or worrying about your posture.

“Are you always this insistent?” he asks, his voice low and playful as he spins you. “Six balls, expensive flowers, and now a proposal?”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with mock seriousness. “I only insist on what’s necessary, Your Grace.”

His laughter is quiet but rich, a sound that feels like it was made just for you to hear. As the dance continues, you notice the way his eyes linger on you, not just as part of the ruse, but as if he’s truly looking at you. The thought sends a strange flutter through your chest, one that you had hastily push aside.

The world around you fades, the crowd and their prying gazes melting away until it feels like it’s just the two of you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this…happy.

The ballroom, so often a source of dread and obligation, feels almost magical tonight. You don’t even care if Lady Whistledown is scribbling furiously in the corner, let her write what she will. For once in your life you are actually happy.

As the music swells toward its final notes, Sebastian leans in slightly, his voice a soft murmur near your ear. “I must say, Miss Bridgerton, you do look rather convincing tonight. Almost like a lady truly in love.”

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze once more. His teasing smirk is there, of course, but beneath it, there’s something else. Something you don’t dare name. Your heart stirs, a traitorous thing, but you quickly force it back into submission.

“And you,” you reply with a lightness you don’t quite feel, “almost resemble a gentleman worth falling for.”

His grin widens, and as the final notes of the waltz play, he dips his head slightly, just enough to make it seem like a private moment. “Almost?”

The applause breaks out around you, and reality crashes back in. You step apart, but not before catching the amused glances of those watching. The dance has done its job. For now, you’ve ensured that the ruse will continue.

While Sebastian escorts you off the dance floor, you are wondering if it’s truly the ton you’re trying to convince… or yourself.

“Tell me, Hastings,” Atticus began, his voice low but sharp. He reached for a glass of wine, though his grip on the goblet betrayed his irritation. “Do you mean to embarrass my sister? Is this some elaborate jest at her expense?”

Sebastian leaned casually against the table, swirling his wine glass with deliberate ease. “Embarrass her? I wouldn’t dream of it, Bridgerton. In fact, I daresay I’ve done far less to harm her reputation than you have.” He tilted his head, his smirk biting. “Marrying her off to Berbrooke? That’s quite the choice.”

Atticus’ eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensing at the insinuation. Before he could respond, another voice joined the fray.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Nigel Berbrooke’s figure waddled into view, his face red with indignation. He gestured animatedly, his words dripping with frustration. “I must insist you handle this situation at once. We had an agreement!”

Atticus exhaled sharply, his patience visibly thinning. He turned to Berbrooke with a cold glare. “The matter is handled,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the din of the ballroom. “I’m just here to remind the Duke,” he added, casting a glance toward Sebastian, “that this is none of his concern.”

Sebastian arched a brow, clearly unfazed by the warning. His attention shifted to Berbrooke, the edges of his lips curling into a devilish grin. “None of my concern, you say? I beg to differ. After all, I find it rather curious that Lord Berbrooke here failed to mention the cause of his rather striking black eye.”

Berbrooke stiffened, his face paling as he instinctively reached to touch the faint purple bruise beneath his eye. “I… It’s nothing of consequence.”

Sebastian chuckled darkly, his gaze boring into Berbrooke. “Oh, but I think it is. Shall we tell Bridgerton how you earned it? Or shall we let him figure it out for himself?”

Atticus’ eyes darted between the two men, his suspicion growing. He stepped closer to Berbrooke, his voice a low growl. “What is he talking about, Berbrooke? What happened?”

Berbrooke faltered, his composure crumbling. “I—it was a misunderstanding,” he stammered.

Sebastian’s smirk deepened. “A misunderstanding? You mean the part where you attempted to force Dorothea to return your affections in the gardens at Vauxhall? Resulting to her punching you and giving you that black eye?”

Atticus froze, his breath hitching as the weight of his best friend’s words sunk in. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and for a moment, the rage in his eyes was palpable.

He took a step toward Berbrooke, who immediately shrank back, “You—”

Sebastian moved swiftly, placing a firm hand on Atticus’ shoulder to restrain him. ��Easy there, Bridgerton. Not here.”

Atticus’ jaw tightened, but he relented, stepping back with visible effort. His voice, however, remained icy and dangerous. “The agreement is nullified,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “I suggest you never show yourself again to my sister if you wish to avoid tasting the fists of me and my brothers. Is that clear?”

“I will bury you with my own hands if you so much as look in her direction, Berbrooke.” Atticus took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself, before turning to Sebastian. “You knew about this.”

Sebastian met his gaze evenly. “I did. And I’m surprised you didn’t.”

Atticus’ face darkened, but he said nothing further, striding away from the table with Sebastian following closely behind.

As they walked, Atticus ran into you. You gave him a smile, a smile that fell when you noticed the storm in his eyes.

Atticus stopped in front of her, his shoulders sagging slightly as he looked at you with something almost resembling guilt. “Dorothea,” he began, his voice intense but apologetic, “You do not need worry about Berbrooke, he is handled now. You will not marry him.”

And without waiting for your reply, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy as though burdened by his thoughts.

Sebastian lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. There was something in his expression, a knowing look that sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed hard, realization dawning as you pieced together what had transpired.

He had protected you. Despite the charade, despite his reputation, Sebastian Hastings had stepped in to save you from ruin.

For the first time, you wondered if there was more to the Duke than you had originally thought of him.

Your hand rested delicately on Sebastian’s arm, your gloved fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve with every step.

The promenade was nothing out of the ordinary at first, a routine outing to keep appearances and escape the confines of the house.

You both are too engaged now in your conversation. “So your dream is to marry out of love and have children?” He asks to which you nodded in response, “I shall want to busy myself taking care of my husband, the house, and of course our children.”

Sebastian turned oddly silent, but you didn't press further.

“You know, my mama told me something curious the other day,” you began, glancing up at him, “that one should marry one’s best friend.”

Sebastian let out a hearty laugh, his deep voice vibrating through the air. “Your brother is my best friend. Am I to marry him, then?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as well, the corners of your lips lifting despite your usual composure. “No, but I do wonder… Is that truly what marriage is all about? Friendship?”

His expression softened, and he tilted his head thoughtfully. “I imagine it’s a good start. Although, realistically, most marriages are more like battlefields.”

You furrowed your brows, pondering his words. “What I mean is, there are other things—physical or perhaps intangible—that bring a couple together.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow at you, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Well, of course, there’s more to marriage—physical and intangible. Both.”

“Both?” you asked, a flicker of confusion and curiosity crossing your face. “But how could those two things coexist when they’re the exact opposite?”

His silence stretched for a moment, his gaze turning skyward as if searching for an answer in the clouds. Then, he laughed—a low, rich sound that sent heat creeping up your neck.

You folded your arms, pretending to pout as you quickened your pace. “Never mind. You’re a bully.”

Sebastian’s laughter grew louder, and he caught up with you in a few swift strides. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you,” he said, amusement laced in his tone. “I’m laughing at the absurdity of how little mothers tell their daughters.”

“They tell us nothing,” you admitted, glancing at him with a mix of irritation and intrigue.

He smirked. “I certainly can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not my place,” he replied, his tone suddenly more serious, his eyes locked on yours.

“In real courtship, yes,” you pressed, “it’s scandalous to discuss such things with a lady. But you’re not a real suitor. And besides, no one tells me anything. So how am I to find a proper husband if I don’t even know what I’m searching for?”

Sebastian hesitated, his jaw tightening as though weighing his next words carefully. “I cannot tell you.”

You stopped walking and turned to him fully, your voice dropping to a soft but firm tone. “I thought we were friends.”

“Dorothea…”

“Sebastian,” you said, stepping closer, your heart pounding in your chest, “tell me.”

His gaze flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—hesitation, temptation, and perhaps even desire. “What happens between a husband and a wife continues at night,” he said finally, his voice low and measured.

“At night?” you echoed, your brows furrowing. “What happens at night?”

“When you are alone.”

You blinked, the meaning behind his words still eluding you. “When I am sleeping?”

Sebastian’s lips quirked into a small, almost predatory smile. “Not when you’re sleeping… When you touch yourself.”

The words sent a jolt through your entire body. Confusion and a strange sense of awareness rushed over you as you stared at him, your lips parting slightly.

“You do touch yourself, don’t you?” he asked, his voice soft yet undeniably suggestive. “When you’re alone, you can touch yourself anywhere on your body that gives you pleasure…” His eyes bore into yours, intense and unrelenting. “But especially between your legs.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable, but the tension between you was undeniable. You quickly averted your eyes, unable to meet his as heat flushed your cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Shall we continue our walk?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as if nothing had transpired.

Without a word, you nodded and resumed walking, your thoughts a whirlwind of confusion, curiosity, and something else entirely, something you can't name.

The bustling café was alive with the hum of morning conversation, you had stepped out early with your maid to enjoy a simple breakfast.

That was, until you saw him.

Sebastian sat by the window, a steaming cup in hand, his gaze distant and contemplative.

You hesitated for only a moment before making your way over, your maid lingering behind at a discreet distance.

“Sebastian,” you greeted, your voice carrying that soft, cheery lilt you always used only with him.

He looked up at you then, and the warmth you’d grown accustomed to in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, measured expression that made you falter.

He straightened in his chair, his posture stiff and formal, as though he were a stranger greeting an acquaintance.

“It is time for us to stop all of this,” he said abruptly, his voice low and devoid of emotion.

Your heart stuttered at his words, and for a moment, you were certain you had misheard him. “Stop all of what?” you asked, your brow furrowing in confusion.

Sebastian set his cup down with a deliberate clink, his gaze meeting yours with a sharpness that felt like a slap. “This… ruse. Whatever it is you think we have. It ends now.”

Your breath caught, and a lump formed in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. “Sebastian, I don’t understand,” you said quietly, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as though the very sight of you exhausted him. “You’ve misunderstood everything, Dorothea. We were never friends. You were merely… a convenience.”

The words struck you harder than you thought possible, and you stared at him, your chest tight with disbelief and hurt. “A convenience?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he continued. “You are clever and amusing, yes, but I indulged you because it was easier than refusing. That is all.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the room around you blurring into nothingness as your mind tried to reconcile the man before you with the Sebastian you thought you knew.

The one who made you laugh, who danced with you, the man who was always sweet, warm, and adorable with you, who teased you with a charm so disarming you hadn’t realized how deeply he had crept into your heart.

“Why are you saying this?” you asked, your voice breaking as tears stung your eyes.

“Because it is the truth,” he said firmly, though his gaze flickered for just a moment, betraying the conflict beneath his icy exterior.

He averted his gaze, unable to meet your hurt stare. “You have the attention of a prince,” he said quietly, his voice softer now but no less cutting. “A future far beyond anyone could offer. You should embrace it.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. The betrayal, the confusion, the heartbreak. It was all too much to process. Finally, you swallowed hard and straightened, forcing yourself to stand tall despite the ache in your chest.

“If that is what you truly think of me,” you said, your voice wavering but resolute, “then I have nothing more to say to you.”

You turned on your heel and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last as the tears threatened to spill. Your maid followed quickly behind, casting a concerned glance at you but saying nothing.

His heart aching, he longed for you for every step you took. For a moment, he even considered going after you to take back everything he said. But he remained still, assuring himself that this was for the best.

He is doing you a favor. It had to be done.

But you are about to make sure he's to regret this decision.

Everyone's heads inside the ballroom collectively turned toward the grand staircase at the same time, where she was descending.

You.

Star of the night. The prettiest among the ton. Miss Dorothea Bridgerton.

The lady who stood out in pure confidence rather than the usual timid attitude.

Sebastian stood still, his eyes, sharp and focused, latched onto the figure moving down the stairs as if drawn by an invisible force.

You glided down each step, your white dress a vision of pure grace. The delicate adornments along the neckline framed your features perfectly.

Your hair, styled elegantly, exposed the curve of your neck, making his throat tighten.

It was unbearable how beautiful you looked.

Sebastian could feel the room holding its collective breath, the crowd parting like the sea to make way for you. But his chest ached as he noticed the Prince of Prussia among them, his face alight with wonder as he stepped forward.

Sebastian’s eyes darken, his mind racing. He could see the way your lips curled into a soft smile, your head inclining slightly as you accepted the prince’s offer to dance.

The sight of that smile, the one that used to belong only to him, struck like a blade.

You moved with the prince to the center of the ballroom, your posture poised and practiced, each step a testament to the elegance you’d grown into.

But it wasn’t just the way you moved, it was the way the entire room seemed to orbit around you and the prince. Even the faintest flicker of your fan as it slipped from your hand seemed intentional, a moment of quiet magic.

The prince caught it swiftly, his smile widening as he returned it to you, and the applause that followed was thunderous.

To Sebastian, it felt like a declaration of your beauty, your worth, your unattainability.

When the music began, you danced.

It wasn’t just the movement; it was the connection, the way you flowed together as though the world beyond that ballroom didn’t exist. To the others, it was mesmerizing. To Sebastian? It was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow as he tried to focus on anything but you. Yet his eyes betrayed him, constantly drawn back to the sight of you smiling, laughing, spinning in the arms of another man. A prince, no less.

He felt the longing rising in him like a tide, swallowing his resolve. Every curve of your movement, every flicker of emotion on your face. It was agony to behold.

He wanted to be the one guiding you, the one you looked at with such brightness in your eyes. But he knew he couldn’t. He had chosen this, hadn’t he? To step away, to give you to a world he thought he could never offer you.

But standing here now, watching you drift farther and farther from him, he could feel his decision breaking him.

His jaw clenched, even the hum of his own thoughts faded into silence as he turned away from the scene. He couldn’t bear to watch it any longer.

For the first time, Sebastian allowed himself to admit the truth that had been gnawing at him since the beginning.

He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted you. And now, he had to live with the knowledge that he would never have you.

But who's to blame? After all, it is his own decision that led him into this. His own decision to throw away what he had with you, because he let his fears from the past prevent him from ever imagining a marriage with you.

Could it be true? The failed Miss Bridgerton seems to be even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought due to her first season? For it now appears this treasure is set to join the likes of the queen's ever-so-cherished crown jewels themselves. The Duke of Hastings I heard was left looking rather tongue tied last night, as Miss Bridgerton seems to have finally grown tired of waiting for him to pose that all-important question. Or, perhaps, the young miss has simply traded up. Surprising? Quite. Unreasonable? Of course not. After all, why settle for a Duke when one can have a prince?

Sebastian wandered into the halls of his estate, his gaze scanning the assortment of items yet to be packed. His eyes halted on a canvas propped up against the wall.

It was a painting.

His mother's favorite painting.

He frowned, stepping closer. “What is that doing here?”

His right-hand man, Henry, appeared from behind a crate, a list in hand. “The painting, your grace?”

“Yes, Henry. The painting. I distinctly remember donating it to the gallery months ago.”

Henry hesitated before clearing his throat. “You did, your grace. But... you also ordered it to be returned to you not long after. It was no easy feat to retrieve it, I might add.”

Sebastian stared at the canvas, his brows furrowing. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall making such a request. But as he studied the painting, the memory came rushing back like a strong wave hitting him in the face.

The day Dorothea had stood by his side, her eyes alight with admiration.

“This one is beautiful,” she had said, her voice soft yet full of conviction.

Sebastian had tilted his head at the painting, unimpressed. “It’s my mother's favorite painting according to Lady Danbury. Not that I'd know, she was no longer around after giving birth to me.”

“It's empty,” he had replied. “There’s nothing there. Just a field, a tree, and a vague attempt at depicting the glow of sunlight amidst the sky. It’s boring.”

Dorothea had turned to him then, her brows arched in disbelief. “You see nothing?”

“I see what’s there. A field. A tree. Some paint trying to be sunlight.” He had smirked, expecting her to laugh at his cynicism.

But instead, Dorothea had shaken her head, stepping closer to the canvas, her eyes drinking in every brushstroke. “There’s more to it than what the eyes see, Sebastian. You have to feel the art.”

“Feel it?” he had echoed, amused. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to feel?”

She had smiled then, a wistful curve of her lips that had taken his breath away. “It’s the feeling of being free,” she had said, her voice quieter, as if confessing a secret. “Of living a peaceful life, far away from the judgment of the sun, from the crushing expectations of society. It’s just... being. Being yourself, at peace with the world.”

He had stared at her, the painting forgotten as her words settled over him like a balm he hadn’t realized he needed.

In that moment, it wasn’t the painting he envied. It was her. Her ability to see beauty in simplicity, to long for something as pure as freedom when all he could see was duty and expectation.

Now, his fingers absentmindedly grazed the edge of the frame, his chest tightening with something he didn’t want to name.

He swallowed hard. “Have it packed,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm within him.

Henry gave a short nod and returned to his task.

As the Prince Friedrich guided you through another perfect dance, with eyes brimming with intention, you felt trapped. Each step was a chain pulling tighter, each smile he gave was a reminder of the question you knew was coming.

And then, his gaze softened, tender yet sharp, as though he had already decided. “I know we've only known each other for a short period of time, but I feel something for you. And if you'd grant me the honor of–” Panic swelled in your chest like a rising tide as you realize he's about to propose.

“I— I need a drink,” you lied as you hurriedly removed your hands on him and took a step back, bowing politely with a tight trembling smile. “I am parched. Please excuse me.”

Before he could respond, you turned, walking briskly away from the glowing ballroom, away from the music and the eyes of the ton. And when the fresh air of the night hit your face, the tears came. Silent at first, then spilling over uncontrollably as you stumbled into the quietness of the night.

You tried to stifle the sobs, clutching the wrought-iron railing of the fountain as if it could anchor you. You didn’t want this. You couldn’t. A marriage built on wealth, duty, and pretense wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You wanted love, a love you grew up with, like your Mama's and Papa’s before.

But then, a voice broke through your haze.

“Dorothea,” came the soft, low timbre. Your body stiffened, recognizing it instantly. The voice you love so much.

You turned sharply to find Sebastian standing in the shadows, his face a mixture of regret and longing.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger, frustration, and the vulnerability you hated to show him.

“I wanted to apologize,” he began, his words measured yet heavy with meaning.

“For what?” you demanded. “What is the purpose of your apology? You already made it perfectly clear. We were never friends. That is what you said.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening to speak, but you shook your head fiercely, cutting him off.

“Do not bother me, Your Grace,” you said bitterly, wiping angrily at your tears. “I am to marry the Prince of Prussia. I am going to be a princess.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. “Really?” he said, his voice a low murmur, tinged with disbelief and something softer, aching.

You looked away, as though his gaze burned too bright. “Yes,” you answered. “He is perfect. A good, honest man of high status. He will be a good father. He will—”

“Is that the truth?” Sebastian interrupted, stepping closer. “Or the lie you’re forcing yourself to believe?”

His words shattered the fragile wall you’d tried to build, leaving you utterly exposed. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You spun around and rushed toward the garden, the tears blurring your vision again as you fled further into the night.

“Dorothea, stop,” he called after you, his voice pleading. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Go away!” you cried, refusing to look back. But you could hear his footsteps behind you, relentless.

“Dorothea, please,” he said again, closer now. “It’s unsafe. You shouldn’t—”

“Why do you care?” you shouted, whirling around to face him, your chest heaving. “You told me we were nothing. You—”

But you didn’t finish. Because Sebastian was standing so close now, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could think, before either of you could think, he reached for you, his hands firm but tender as he spun you around and pulled you toward him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was desperate, aching, and all-consuming, like he was pouring every unsaid word, every unspoken feeling into you.

His lips moved against yours with a passion that left no room for doubt, no room for air, his hands wasted no time into pulling you closer and roaming on your beautiful curves underneath your dress.

Your hands found their way to his chest, not to push him away, but to anchor yourself, to feel the wild, erratic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

You felt your whole body becoming warmer as though it had been set on fire, you held the back of Sebastian's neck as he raised one of your leg and held it around his waist, your hips immediately grinding against his, the friction not even enough to satisfy the ache in your core.

You want him. You need him.

In ways that you imagined when you touch yourself every night at the thought of him ever since he taught you how to.

His kisses trailed down to your neck, sucking aggressively, as if he wants to mark you and ruin you for everyone else.

But there's a sound of hurried footsteps that cut through the hushed sounds you and him are making, and before either of you could react, Atticus’ voice thundered like a crack of lightning.

“Bastard!”

You barely had time to pull back from Sebastian’s arms when Atticus’ fist collided with Sebastian’s jaw, sending him stumbling to the ground. The sound of the impact echoed, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched in horror.

“Atticus, no!” you cried, rushing forward, but he's too deep in his fury, you can't pull him back.

“You dare lay a hand on my sister!” he roared, bringing another punch down on Sebastian, who did little to defend himself. The force of it sent him sprawling onto the gravel path, blood dripping from his split lip.

“Stop it! Please!” you pleaded, grabbing at Atticus’ arm, finally pulling him away. “It’s enough! Stop!”

Sebastian pushed himself up onto his elbows, and slowly stood back up, his face bloodied and bruised, yet somehow calm.

Too calm.

“You will marry her,” Atticus said, his voice deadly quiet now, every word laced with finality. “You will marry her and make this right.”

“Brother–” but before you could even protest, he silenced you, “He dishonored you, sister.”

You glanced at Sebastian, there was no anger in his expression, no defiance, only guilt. And something deeper, something hollow. And you can't figure out what it is.

“I cannot marry her,” Sebastian said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The world seemed to crumble as the words sank in. You stared at him, your heart twisting painfully.

“What?” Atticus said, his tone sharp with disbelief, “You defiled my sister's honor and now you refuse her hand?!”

“I can’t,” Sebastian repeated, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and filled with something you still can't name.

Atticus stepped forward, his hand twitching at his side as though he might strike him again. “Then you leave me no choice, we will settle this at dawn. A duel.”

“Atticus, no!” you cried, your voice breaking.

“It must be done,” Atticus said firmly, his gaze never leaving Sebastian’s.

Sebastian nodded once, silent. He didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He simply stood there, still as a statue, while your world fell apart around you.

You turned to him, your voice trembling with disbelief. “You’d rather die than to marry me?”

Sebastian flinched, the words cutting through him like a blade. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His chest burned with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, that he didn’t deserve you, that you deserved a life free of his demons, that his past haunted him too deeply to ever love you the way you should be loved.

“I see,” you whispered, your voice heavy with unshed tears.

Atticus grabbed your arm, his touch firm but not unkind, and began leading you away. You glanced back over your shoulder, hoping, praying that Sebastian would say something, do something to stop you.

But he didn’t. He simply stood there, watching as you were escorted away, his fists clenched at his sides, his face a mask of anguish.

As the garden fell silent, Sebastian’s legs buckled, and he sank back onto the ground, staring at the blood on his hands.

His past swirled around him like a storm, the shadows of every misery he went through whispering into his ears.

He thought of you, your laughter, your light, your touch. And he thought of the way you looked at him tonight, the way you kissed him back, as if he were your entire world.

He wanted to hold onto that moment forever. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Because he was not the man you deserved.

The ballroom lights felt blinding as Atticus led you back inside. Your legs felt unsteady, your heart still racing from the recent events. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, your mind a whirlwind of pain and disbelief.

You didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes, though you could feel their curious stares following you.

Atticus kept his composure, his face set in an expression of calmness, but you knew him well enough to sense the storm beneath.

When you reached your mother and siblings, Atticus spoke quickly, his tone polite but firm. “Dorothea is unwell,” he said, his words calculated and careful. “She has a headache, and I believe it’s best I escort her home.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed with concern, her hand reaching out to touch your arm. “A headache, dearest? Are you sure it’s not something more? You look pale.”

You could barely form the words, the lump in your throat growing heavier by the second. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice cracked. “I just need to rest.”

Your mother nodded, though worry lingered in her eyes. “Of course, darling. Let Atticus take you.”

Just as Atticus began to guide you toward the exit, a voice sliced through the din of the ballroom, low but sharp enough to catch your attention.

“Whatever happened to you in the garden, Miss Bridgerton?”

Your steps faltered, and your breath stopped for a moment as you turned. Cressida Cowper stood there, her lips curled in a smile that was far from friendly. Her gaze bore into yours with a cruel gleam, her words heavy with implication.

Your heart plummeted, and a cold dread seeped into your chest. She knew. Someone had seen you and Sebastian.

Atticus’ grip tightened slightly, his attention snapping toward Cressida with a glare, though he said nothing. He couldn’t say anything without drawing more attention.

Your breathing quickened, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric of your dress. The walls seemed to close in around you, the vibrant music and laughter of the ball fading into a dull roar in your ears.

“Come,” Atticus said as he began to lead you away once more. But the damage was done. Someone had seen you and your reputation is about to be damaged if Cressida decides to run her mouth.

You became sleepless at night, turning and tossing on your bed until dawn came. Your mind reeled as you imagined the outcome. One of them is bound to die, and it's either your brother, or the love of your life. Either would shatter you nonetheless.

By the time the pale light of dawn started to sleep through your windows, you could no longer bear the agony. Your brother already warned you beforehand not to get in the middle of it, but you seriously cannot just sit there and wait for disaster to strike.

No, you have to disobey your brother. You have to interrupt.

Throwing on a coat over your nightgown, you quietly went out of your room and tiptoed hurriedly down the stairs.

The house was still quiet, the servants not yet up and about round the house. Perfect time to go out without being noticed.

There was no time for a carriage, so you ran straight for the stables, heart pounding in rhythm along with your footsteps. Your horse, a sleek white mare, whinnied softly as you approached.

“Steady, girl,” you whispered, fumbling with the reins. “We need to move quickly.” You wasted no time, mounting the horse and spurring it into a gallop. You prayed under her breath, over and over again: “Please let me get there in time.”

The moment you finally arrived, the scene before you made your blood run cold. Atticus stood a short distance away, his pistol already pointed to Sebastian, his expression one of anger. Sebastian on the other side, is armed but his gun is pointed upwards, standing tall, his face a mask of calm like he has accepted this fully.

Benedict and Giovann stood to the side, their expressions grave, while a man you didn’t recognize who is likely a friend of Sebastian, all watched in silence.

You were too late.

“No!” you yelled, urging your horse forward with reckless speed in between them.

Atticus’ arm jerked in surprise at your sudden appearance. His pistol was already mid-trigger, the shot ringing out like a thunderclap, but he managed to divert the direction of the gun upwards.

Your horse reared, startled by the sound, and you barely managed to cling on before you were harshly thrown to the ground with a painful thud.

Gasps echoed around you as the horse bolted, leaving you sprawled, your breath knocked from your lungs.

“Dorothea!” Atticus’ voice boomed as he ran to her side. Sebastian was there in an instant too, his face pale with panic as he knelt beside her.

“Are you all right?” Sebastian asked urgently, his hands hovering near her as though afraid to touch her.

“Perfectly fine,” you answered sarcastically, pushing yourself up with a wince. “All thanks to you idiots.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes. Your brother, meanwhile, looked utterly exasperated, though there was an unmistakable relief in his expression as well.

“What do you think you're doing getting in the middle of a duel?” Atticus demanded, his tone sharp but his eyes displayed concern.

You shot him a look that could have melted steel. “I need a moment with the Duke,” you firmly said, brushing dirt from your coat.

“Absolutely not,” his tone brooking no argument. You turned to him, gaze fierce and voice steady. “I need a moment with the Duke.”

“Dorothea—”

“Atticus.” Your voice was cold, commanding in a way. You're to stand up to your brother now in order to save both of them from this madness. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Finally, with a growl of frustration, Atticus threw up his hands. “Fine. A moment,” he said, giving a warning look to Sebastian before stepping back to join the others.

Dorothea turned to Sebastian, her heart pounding not from fear, but from the weight of what she was about to say. He stood there, tense and quiet, his expression unreadable.

The tension between them crackled in the cold morning air as they stood face to face, the world around them fading into silence.

You walked away to create a distance away from the others while Sebastian follows you.

Now, it was just you and him.

“Someone saw us,” you began, your voice trembling but firm. Sebastian’s gaze snapped to yours, his expression guarded yet already tinged with a flicker of pain.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, “Cressida Cowper. She knows.”

He stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

“If she decides to tell anyone what she saw—” your voice cracked, and you forced yourself to push through, “—it will ruin me. My reputation, my life, my family’s honor. It will all be over.” You felt a tremor of desperation rising in your chest as you stepped closer to him, searching his face for a reaction. “You need to marry me.”

Sebastian’s face twisted with anguish, his lips parting to speak before he clenched his jaw shut. He looked away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“No,” he finally said, his voice barely audible.

The word hit you like a physical blow, and you took a step back, disbelief and hurt rippling through you. “No?” you repeated, your voice shaking.

Sebastian’s gaze fell to the ground, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “I cannot,” he said softly, the words laced with sorrow.

“Why?” The question burst from you, your voice raw and desperate. Your heart felt as though it were splintering apart, piece by piece, as you stared at him. “Why are you so determined to refuse me? Have I been so intolerable to you? So unworthy of your affection? Tell me, Sebastian! What have I done wrong? I swear to you I will fix it! Why don't you love me?!”

He raised his head, and the look in his eyes, haunted, pained, yet filled with unspoken longing, his voice was quiet but heavy with emotion, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why?” you demanded, tears brimming in your eyes. “Why do you refuse me? Why do you push me away, knowing the cost?!”

Sebastian took a deep breath, “Because I cannot give you what you want,” he said finally, his voice thick with guilt.

You froze, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. “What I want?” you echoed faintly.

“You want marriage,” he said, his tone cracking with emotion. “You want a family—children. That is your dream, Dorothea. And it should be. You would be a wonderful mother, and I would never want to take that from you.” He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “But I can’t give you that. I can’t give you children.”

His confession hung in the air in silence. You stood motionless, as you struggled to process what he had just admitted.

So that is the reason. That is why he's so adamant in keeping you so close yet so far.

Sebastian’s gaze fell to the ground again, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his shame. “This is why I can’t marry you,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “I won’t trap you in a life where your greatest dreams are denied.”

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The ache in your chest was unbearable, but it wasn’t from rejection. No, it was from the realization of just how deeply he cared for you, enough to deny himself the very thing he wanted most.

And yet, as his words sank in, so did your own truth. Maybe you don't care after all.

“Dorothea,” Atticus’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts, “Enough of this. It's getting brighter, we have to hurry or someone might see us.”

Sebastian turned away from you, his face once again closed off, as if retreating back into himself, still stubborn. He moved to follow Atticus.

But something inside you refused to let this moment end like this. If Sebastian is this stubborn and firm, then you will be too.

"There is no need," you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Atticus turned, frowning, while Sebastian froze in place, his back still to you.

"The Duke and I are to be married," you declared, your voice ringing out in the still morning air. Everyone froze, Atticus’ expression was one of utter shock, while Sebastian turned to you slowly, his face pale and stricken.

You met Sebastian’s gaze, your heart pounding, but you're not gonna back down. You knew what you were doing. You knew what you wanted. And you weren’t going to let fear or convention take it from you.

Even if it meant forcing Sebastian’s hand, you would fight for the love you knew was worth everything.

When you informed your mama about the news, she was overjoyed. She wished for nothing but your happiness and for you to find the true love you have always wanted, and now you're getting married to the Duke, the man she can clearly see that stares at you with a look of love.

This news spread faster than wildfire and it reached the Queen's ears in no time.

And when your license request to marry immediately came back denied, by no other than the Queen, you already know the reason why. She's upset with you for misleading her nephew.

So you found yourself standing before Queen Charlotte, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

The Queen sat perched on her throne, her piercing gaze fixed on you and Sebastian.

“It seems like your license to marry has been denied,” the Queen said, her tone sharp and impatient. She gestured with a flick of her hand, commanding attention. “Well, plead your case.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, curtsying with poise. “Your Majesty, while I appreciate the attention from your nephew, the Prince Friedrich of Prussia, I simply cannot ignore my long-standing affection for the Duke.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed slightly, a look of utter boredom spreading across her face. She sighed deeply, clearly unconvinced by what she must have deemed an overly practiced excuse.

You felt the pressure mount, but you pushed forward. “You see, Your Majesty, it was love at first sight—”

Sebastian suddenly interrupted, his deep voice cutting through your words like a blade. “It is not!”

Startled, you turned to look at him, but his gaze was locked on the Queen. There was an intensity in his expression that both alarmed and captivated you.

“It was not love at first sight for either of us,” he admitted, his voice firm yet steady. “At first, we didn’t like each other. Miss Bridgerton finds me annoying, presumptuous, arrogant…fairly so. Not to mention she is the sister of my best friend, so romance was immediately out of the question.”

The Queen’s brow raised slightly, but she did not interrupt.

Sebastian continued, his words now softer, as if revealing a part of himself he had long kept hidden. “But we found something else instead. Friendship. We’ve been fooling everyone with the ruse of us courting to drive away eager debutants and to attract more suitors for her, but in reality, we simply enjoy each other’s company so much that it became difficult to stay away from one another. I was never a man fond of flirting, let alone talking. But with Dorothea—Miss Bridgerton—conversation has always been easy. Her laughter brings me joy.”

You felt your breath hitch as his words sank in, your shock mirrored in the way your eyes widened slightly.

“To meet a beautiful woman is one thing,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful woman is something entirely apart.”

The silence in the chamber was deafening. Even the Queen seemed to lean forward slightly, her skepticism fading.

“And it is with my sincerest apologies to Prince Friedrich,” Sebastian concluded, his voice resolute, “that I must say it took his arrival to make me realize I do not want Miss Bridgerton as my friend. I want her to be my wife. So now, I plead with you, Your Majesty, do not make us wait.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You stared at Sebastian, your heart both aching and soaring at his declaration. Never had you expected this flood of honesty, this raw admission from the man who had always seemed so guarded.

Queen Charlotte regarded you both for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she leaned back against her throne with a small, approving smile. “You are wise, and lucky enough to understand that friendship is the strongest foundation for marriage.”

Her voice was calm, but her words carried a finality that brought tears of relief to your eyes.

“I shall grant you your license,” she declared, her gaze sweeping over you both, “for an immediate wedding. In three days.”

The weight in your chest lifted as the Queen’s words settled over you, and you turned to Sebastian. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw no hesitation.

The wedding soon came in just a blink of an eye.

You stand in the small bridal room, your hands trembling slightly as your maid tightens the delicate lace of your gown. The reflection in the mirror reveals your radiant beauty, but your heart is not as steady as your outward appearance.

You glance at your brother, Atticus, standing to the side.

“You still have time to change your mind,” he says quietly, his voice softer than usual.

You shake your head. “I love him, Atticus. No matter what lies ahead, I know I would regret it forever if I didn’t marry him.”

Atticus looks at you, his jaw tightening slightly, but he nods. “Then let’s get you to the altar.”

The doors open, and the weight of every gaze in the church falls upon you. The sound of the organ swells, a melody of promise and solemnity. As you take your first step forward, your heart pounds, not from fear, but from the gravity of what this moment means. You look ahead, and there he is.

Sebastian stands at the altar, his face unreadable at first, though his lips press together as if trying to hold back his real emotions. His hair is perfectly combed, his tailored suit fitting him as if it were made by the hands of fate itself. Yet, what strikes you most is his eyes. They meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, his guard slips. In that single look, you see his vulnerability, his longing, and his unspoken fear.

As you move closer, each step feels heavier with the weight of your emotions, but also lighter, as if being drawn toward him by an invisible thread. When you finally reach him, Atticus gently places your hand into Sebastian’s. His hand is warm, though there’s a subtle tremble.

The ceremony begins, and the words of the officiant blend into a distant hum as your focus narrows only on him. When it comes time for the vows, Sebastian clears his throat, his voice lower than usual but steady.

“I take thee, Dorothea,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours, “to be my wife. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer… till death do us part.” His voice breaks slightly at the last words, and for a moment, you see the depth of his emotions laid bare.

Your voice wavers as you repeat your vows, but the conviction in your words carries through. “I take thee, Sebastian, to be my husband. To have and to hold… in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer… till death do us part.”

As the officiant pronounces you husband and wife, there is no hesitation. Sebastian lifts your veil with a gentleness that makes your breath catch. The moment his lips meet yours, the world seems to still, and all your fears and doubts were forgotten.

The reception was bustling with laughter, chatter, and the faint clinking of glasses as the Bridgerton household celebrated your marriage.

You stood near the edge of the room, silently nibbling on grapes. Your gaze kept drifting toward Sebastian, who remained at a distance, engaged in conversation with various guests.

He looked just as distant as you felt. Not a word had been exchanged between the two of you since the ceremony, and the weight of the silence gnawed at you.

You tried to focus on the sweetness of the fruit as Atticus approached you from behind, standing beside you.

“I spoke to the Duke,” he announced casually, taking a sip from his glass.

You let out a dry chuckle, barely hiding your frustration. “That makes one of us.”

Atticus raised a brow, his humor undeterred. “He refused your dowry.”

“Is this your attempt to raise my spirit?” you replied, your tone clipped, though you knew he meant well.

He smiled faintly. “He refused your benefit, sister. I shall put the money in trust, so you may use it how you see fit. For your children, perhaps. Certainly, you two will have a brood large enough to put Mother’s to shame.”

His jest should have brought some comfort, but instead, you felt a sharp tightening in your chest. Right, children. You struggled to breathe, your vision blurring as the room suddenly felt stifling.

Atticus noticed immediately, concern etching across his face. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I am... This is all...” Your words were halting, your lungs feeling as though they’d collapsed under the weight of it all. “I must take a moment. Excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and hurried toward the staircase, your legs carrying you upstairs as your mind raced.

When you reached the privacy of your room, you collapsed onto the couch at the foot of your bed, clutching the fabric as though it could anchor you. Your breaths were shallow, your hands trembling as you slowly composed yourself.

A soft knock interrupted you, and Rose, your maid, peeked inside with a smile. “Miss? It is time, they are bringing the carriages around.”

You took a deep breath, it is indeed time, you are to leave the house.

“Well, perhaps I can come with you,” Giovann suggested, his tone light and teasing as he walks alongside you, “I’ve always wanted to live in a castle.”

Before you could respond, Heather, who's walking on your other side, interjected. “If Dorothea is going to take anyone with her, Giovann, it will be me.”

Caleb rolled his eyes at their antics and pulled you into a tight hug. “The two of you are staying here until our dear sister allows us to visit.”

Benjamin stepped forward, his smile a mix of humor and sentiment. “You mean, if she allows us to visit. I’m quite sure you’ll enjoy the peace and quiet, sister.” He hugged you warmly, his words softened by genuine affection.

You smiled at them all, your heart swelling with love and sorrow. Although as chaotic as they can be, you'll miss them. “I’m going to miss all of you. Terribly.”

Atticus quirked a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Even me?” You laughed softly, pulling him into a hug. “Even you.” You kissed his cheek, and he chuckled.

Your gaze landed on Elisa, and you couldn’t help but joke through the emotion. “I’m going to miss my sister... and my enemy.” Elisa let out a laugh, shaking her head as she stepped into your embrace. “Goodbye, Dorothea.” You whispered, “Goodbye, Elisa,” holding her tightly.

Finally, your mother approached, she looks composed but the hint of sadness in her eyes betrays her as she embraces you. “Write to me as soon as you arrive, dear.” You nodded, hugging her back. “Of course, Mama.”

She reached out to cup your cheek gently. “You’re going to be a wonderful Duchess. You’re no longer Miss Dorothea Bridgerton, you’re now Duchess Dorothea of Hastings.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the gate and walked toward the waiting carriage. Sebastian stood near it, his eyes fixed on you. He gave you a slight nod, waiting patiently as you approached.

You glanced back at your family one last time, offering a faint wave from the windows of the carriage.

Sebastian offered you his hand as you got off the carriage. You looked at the grand estate with wide eyes and a smile, completely amazed at the beautiful castle.

The grand doors of the castle opened to reveal the long line of servants, all standing neatly in formation to welcome their new Duchess.

One by one, they bowed and curtsied, their smiles warm and respectful. The butler at the front, an older gentleman, stepped forward and gave a courteous bow. “Welcome home, your majesties. It is an honor to serve you both.” You offered a polite smile, though your heart still felt heavy from the farewells earlier. “Thank you.”

“This is Fred, he's been a loyal servant to the family for years.” Sebastian introduced. “Please, this way,” the butler said, gesturing for you and Sebastian to follow him inside.

The interior of the estate was breathtaking, immaculate even. The sort of place that looks straight out of a painting. As the butler led you up the grand staircase, you couldn’t help but glance at Sebastian, who remained silent and unreadable. “Both rooms are cleaned and prepared, Your Grace,” the butler said over his shoulder, continuing up the corridor.

You furrowed your brows, confused, and leaned slightly closer to Sebastian as you walked. “Both rooms?” you whispered.

He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed ahead. “I forgot to inform you,” he said evenly, his tone detached. “We are to stay in separate rooms.”

You blinked, taken aback at what you just heard. Your mouth opened in disbelief. “On our wedding night?!”

Sebastian remained quiet, offering no explanation, no defense. The realization hit you like a cold splash of water, and you straightened your posture, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "Right... I don’t know why I did not expect this."

The butler stopped at a set of doors, each on opposite sides of the hall. He gestured first to the left. “This will be your room, Duchess,” he said, addressing you with a polite smile. He then gestured to the right. “And this will be yours, Duke,” he added, looking at Sebastian. “Thank you,” Sebastian said curtly, already moving toward his door.

You hesitated for a moment, glancing between the two rooms, the space making your heart ache. You forced a smile to the butler and nodded before stepping into your room, closing the door softly behind you. The lavish room was beautiful, every detail meticulously arranged to exude elegance and comfort. Yet you feel no excitement nor any ounce of happiness for it.

You let out a long, shaky breath, this is it. This is your new reality. A love marriage indeed, but a one-sided kind.

What a life, so much for happily ever after.

You sat on the edge of your bed when a soft knock at the door disturbed you. Rising reluctantly, you made way to the door and opened it, revealing Sebastian standing there.

“We should go down to dinner,” he said formally.

You turned away without answering, retreating back into the room, your frustration bubbling.

“Thea?” he called after you, his voice softer now. “You’re not hungry?”

You stopped in your tracks, your back still to him, your shoulders stiff as you fought to keep your emotions in check. “I do not want any dinner,” you replied, your voice sharper than intended.

Silence stretched between you, until you could no longer hold your thoughts inside. “I’ve spent the last three days wanting to be alone with you,” you began, your voice trembling.

You turned slowly to face him, meeting his gaze with a mix of anger and pain. “Wanting to talk to you. Wanting to know you.” You took a deep breath to steady yourself, your words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I understand that you do not wish to see me. That you would prefer to stay in your separate room and endure a wordless dinner together on our wedding night.”

“That is not what I prefer,” Sebastian said softly, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Sebastian,” you interrupted, your voice sharper now, laced with frustration.

“You are mistaken,” he said, his tone calm but firm.

You shook your head, disbelief flashing in your eyes. “You have avoided my presence,” you accused, your voice rising with the hurt you could no longer contain.

“In order to allow you your liberty,” he replied, his gaze steady.

“You’ve said all but a few words to me,” you pressed, stepping closer, anger overtaking your hurt.

“In order to keep myself from saying the wrong things,” he countered, his tone softening, as if he were pleading with you to understand.

“You’ve barely been able to look me in the eye,” you continued, your voice breaking slightly as the pain welled up inside you.

Sebastian’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, you saw something crack in his carefully constructed facade. “Because I could not bear witness to the misery I have caused you,” he admitted, his voice quiet, heavy with regret.

You froze, your breath catching. “You did not… I am the one who trapped you into this marriage,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I trapped you,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, his expression one of deep self-reproach. “I have spent the last three days in agony. Unable to talk to you. Unable to be alone with you. Because I knew you wanted nothing to do with me. And understandably so, after forcing you to make an unimaginable sacrifice.”

He took a slow breath, his dark eyes meeting yours with painful honesty. “You wanted a life with children. A family. You wanted a life with a man you truly knew. You wanted a love match. And yet—”

“And yet,” you interrupted, bitterness creeping into your tone as you turned away from him, your hands trembling as you began to fold the clothes from your travel trunk. “This could not be any more different. Is that what you hope to say?”

You kept your back to him, focusing on the task in front of you as the tension in the room grew unbearable. “I shall join you for dinner momentarily,” you said at last, your tone clipped, dismissing him to shield yourself from further hurt.

Sebastian didn’t move. The silence stretched between you until it was nearly suffocating.

“Everything I told the Queen was true,” he said. “I cannot stop thinking of you. From the mornings to the evenings. To the dreams you inhabit. My thoughts of you never end.”

Your movements halted. Slowly, you turned back to face him, your brows drawn together in confusion.

Sebastian stepped closer, “I am yours, Thea,” he said firmly, every word laced with sincerity. “I have always been yours.”

You turned to face him fully, your heart pounding in your chest, his words echoing in your ears. “I do not understand,” you whispered, your voice shaky, as if you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling with every passing second. His expression twisted with frustration, and his tone even turned harsh as he said, “I do not know how to be any clearer.”

You flinched slightly, your eyes softening as you took in his agitated state. “Do not get angry,” you said softly, your tone a quiet plea.

“I am not angry. I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply as if trying to steady himself.

You studied him, your gaze tracing the tension in his jaw, the flush spreading across his cheeks. “You look angry and bothered,” you said gently, tilting your head. “Look at you. You are downright flushed.”

“Yes, that is what happens—” he began, his voice rising slightly in exasperation.

“When one is angry,” you interjected, matter-of-factly, your tone almost teasing despite the heavy emotions hanging in the air.

“No!” Sebastian snapped but not in a mean way. “When one burns for someone who does not feel the same.”

His words hung between you, a revelation that stole your breath away. Your lips parted, but no sound came out as you stared at him, your chest tightening. “Y-you burn for me…?” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling with disbelief.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, the tension in his body visibly releasing as if he had been holding his breath. “Why do you think I followed you into that garden?” he asked, his tone softer now but still heavy with intensity.

Your pulse raced as you stepped closer to him, your eyes searching his for any trace of doubt. “Why do you think I went into that garden?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your words filled with urgency.

He faltered, his expression shifting to one of confusion and hope.

“If you would have only looked at me this week for longer than two seconds,” you continued, finding your courage, “you would have seen. It is you I cannot sacrifice.”

You took another step closer, the truth spilling out of you, uncontrolled. “I burn for you.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, the weight of your words sinking in and finally made him snap.

You barely had time to breathe before he closed the space between you, his hand cupping the back of your neck as his lips crashed against yours.

He quickly picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to your bed not so far away without breaking the kiss.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was messy, unrestrained, like he’d been starving for you, and now there was no holding back.

His lips moved over yours with fierce urgency, parting them effortlessly. His tongue slid inside your mouth, tangling with yours that sent a jolt of fire through your veins.

Your back hit the soft mattress, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your waist, his lips demanding, claiming, pulling every shred of air from your lungs.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, biting just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the sting with a slow, deliberate lick that sent a shiver down your spine.

You clung to him, your hands threading into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, guttural sound from his throat. The sound ignited something primal in you, and you kissed him back just as hungrily, your lips bruising against his as your tongues clashed and tangled.

It was chaotic, desperate. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip to pull you closer, and your bodies molded together as though you were trying to erase every inch of space between you. His taste was warm and addictive, it filled your senses.

When he pulled back, his lips were slick and swollen, his breath ragged. He didn’t move far, his forehead resting against yours, his lips brushing yours in quick, teasing pecks as if he couldn’t bear to fully let you go.

“Still breathing?” he rasped, his voice rough and thick with need.

“Barely,” you managed to respond playfully in between pants.

His weight pinned you down, but there was no hesitation in the way his hands moved to your back, lifting you just enough to slide your dress upward. The fabric gathered between you as he tugged it over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

His eyes roamed over your fully naked form for a moment, dark and heavy with desire, before he dove back down.

His mouth found your neck, his lips trailing hungry, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin. Each kiss grew more urgent, more insistent, as his teeth grazed and nipped, leaving marks behind.

Your hands slid up his back, your nails digging into his shoulders as he devoured you, his breath hot against your skin. His tongue darted out, soothing the stings of his bites before returning with the same fiery hunger.

You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your neck when you let out a soft moan, his grip on your waist tightening in response.

His hands did not stop. They explored every curve of your body, gliding over your sides, your hips, the softness of your thighs, and then up again, tracing your skin with a touch that sent sparks racing through you.

His palms finally settled on your mounds, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, drawing a shuddering breath from you as his kisses trailed lower to your collarbone.

“Every inch of you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and tinged with awe. “I want all of it.”

“Then have me,” you whispered before his lips found yours again, claiming them in a bruising kiss that left you breathless. His hands continued their exploration, his touch deliberate and unrelenting as though he was determined to memorize every inch of you.

He paused, his weight braced on his forearms as his eyes searched yours. “Are you sure you are ready?” His voice was low, gentle, but his breathing was still uneven, and the hunger in his gaze made your pulse race.

You gave him a firm, reassuring nod, your fingers curling against his back. “I’m sure.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, and then his lips curved into a small, almost teasing smile.

He sat up, pulling away for just a moment to strip himself of the last barriers between you. With a quick motion, he discarded his clothes, leaving nothing but bare skin in front of you.

You couldn’t stop staring, your breath catching as you took in the sight of him. The lean lines of his body, the way his muscles moved under his skin, and his length. Oh his length, it all left you in awe.

He noticed, of course. His smile turned smug, and he tilted his head, his voice laced with amusement. “Enjoying the view?”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but before you could respond, he leaned back down, catching your lips in a quick, playful kiss. It was softer than before, but no less electrifying, and it left you wanting more as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his words making your heart flutter even as his hands slid down your body once more.

He shifted slightly, his hand moving between the two of you as he spat into his palm. The sound sent a jolt of anticipation through you, and your breathing hitched as he used that on his manhood to slick himself, all while his eyes never leaving yours.

With one hand, he guided himself to you, the tip brushing against your entrance with a teasing pressure that made your body tense and heat flooded your core.

His other hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a tender contrast to the intensity of what was about to happen.

“Legs up, baby,” his gaze locked onto yours as he opened you wide for him, raising your hips off the mattress to wrap your legs around his waist, before slowly pressing forward, his movements deliberate and careful, scared to hurt you.

The stretch was overwhelming, the way his manhood entered and the veins on it grazed your soft gummy walls for the first time.

Your body instinctively tensed as you felt him inching deeper, stretching you more and more. A soft whimper escaped your lips, and his heart clenched at the sound.

“Shh,” he murmured softly, his lips pressing a series of tender kisses to your temple, then your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you. Just breathe for me.”

His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he paused, letting you adjust.

You tried to focus on the comforting press of his lips against your skin, the gentle weight of his body, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your face. His whispers filled the silence, soft and soothing, each word meant to ease the sting.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “Just a little more. I’ll take care of you.”

He continued, inch by inch, his movements still slow and careful as he gave you time to adjust.

You couldn’t stop the small, pained noises that slipped from you, but he was relentless in his tenderness, his mouth trailing over your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, everywhere he could reach. Each kiss was him silently saying that he wouldn’t rush you.

You let out a particularly loud moan, throwing your head back into the soft pillows as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. He stayed still, his forehead pressing against yours as he released a shaky breath. “Good girl, baby,” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe and restraint.

You exhaled shakily, your body slowly relaxing as the initial discomfort began to subside. He didn’t move, his hands stroking soothing patterns along your sides as he watched you closely. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he said, his voice soft, his lips brushing over yours in a featherlight kiss.

After a few moments, you nodded softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m ready.”

His breath hitched, and he kissed you again, slow and tender, before pulling back just enough to start moving.

His hips rolled into you, slow but deliberate, each movement deep and precise. The stretch still lingered, but the sting had dulled, replaced by something else entirely.

Pleasure.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your neck between each soft praise. “So good. Taking me so well.”

Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, his voice only fanning the flames as his movements remained controlled, careful.

His mouth moved along your jaw, peppering kisses in a trail to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

The way he worshiped you with his touch and words made you cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as your breathing grew heavier.

But then you noticed it, the slight tremble in his arms, the way his muscles strained, his jaw clenched tight. His movements, though steady, were deliberate in a way that betrayed his restraint. The sounds he made were muffled, controlled, and you could feel the effort it took for him to hold back.

Reaching up, you cupped his face, your fingers brushing against the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t hold back.”

He stilled, his gaze snapping to yours as if he hadn’t expected your words. “What—”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I want all of you. Don’t hold back.”

Something in him shattered.

His lips crashed onto yours in a fiery kiss, and before you could catch your breath, he pulled back and pushed inside you with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

His restraint was gone, replaced by something primal as his hips snapped against yours, again and again, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

You cried out, your back arching as the sudden shift sent waves of sensation coursing through you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and untamed, his mouth returning to your neck as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, his voice ragged as his teeth grazed your shoulder. His pace was relentless, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, his hands gripping your hips to keep you anchored beneath him.

Every movement was wild, desperate, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and now there was no stopping him. Your nails dug into his back, and he only growled in response, his lips finding yours again in a bruising kiss that left you breathless.

You were overwhelmed, consumed by him, by the way he claimed you so completely.

His head dipped lower, his lips leaving a heated trail down your neck and chest before capturing one of your mounds in his mouth. The warmth of his tongue swirling over the sensitive skin made your back arch into him more, a gasp spilling from your lips as he sucked with pleasure, toying with the bud using his tongue.

His arms wrapped around you, one sliding beneath your waist and the other gripping your backside. He held you close, hugging you tightly to him as his hips continued its merciless rhythm.

Every thrust was wild, untamed, each one pulling sounds from you that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried.

Then, suddenly, he shifted his angle. His hips tilted just slightly, and when he plunged into you again, he hit a spot so deep, so perfect, that your vision blurred.

“Hmp–Ahh Sebastian!” A cry tore from your throat so loud London could hear it.

“There,” he growled, his voice triumphant as he felt your reaction. “I’ve got you.”

He focused on that spot, his thrusts hard, each one sending shockwaves through you. He managed to fuck you so good the only thing you can see, feel, hear, is him.

The heat of his body, the way he filled you so completely, and his hips jerking you up pushing you higher and higher.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your nails dragging down his back leaving scratches as you clung to him, lost in the overwhelming sensation. “God baby you feel so good,” he murmured, his lips returning to your neck as he continued to praise you between breathless groans.

The coil inside you tightened impossibly, your body tensing as you clamped down around him. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts faltering for a moment before he chuckled breathlessly, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Are you close?” he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded frantically, your body trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Tears pricked at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks at the intense pleasure.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice laced with encouragement. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust deeper and harder, making you feel him in places you didn’t know were possible. Deep in your womb. “Let go for me.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and when his hand moved between your bodies, his fingers found your sensitive clit, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure before rubbing tight circles on it.

Your eyes shut tight, a loud cry tearing from your throat as his touch sent shockwaves through you.

The combined force of his deep, relentless thrusts and the skilled movements of his hand was too much, and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice thick and strained as he pounded into you, his hips driving with a force that turned your brain into mush. “Let me have all of you.”

The tension snapped, and a wave of euphoria crashed over you, drowning out everything else. Your walls fluttered and tightened around him as your release hit, “F-fuck fuck! Sebastian! I can't–ohh,” your babbled sobs filling the room as tears continued to spill from the sheer intensity.

“Yes, that's it,” he groaned, his fingers still working your sensitive nub to prolong your high.

He soon slowed his movements until he eventually stilled, his chest heaving above you. A soft, almost smug smile played on his lips as he leaned down to press a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“You were amazing,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand brushing gently over your hair. “So perfect for me.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours with a mix of admiration and something deeper, something you couldn’t quite place.

Despite his own body tense with need, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he didn’t move to continue. Instead, he slowly eased himself out of you, his touch careful and considerate.

You sighed, your body relaxing into the mattress as he settled beside you, still catching his breath. He reached out, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your skin as he whispered more praises, his voice soft and honeyed.

What you didn’t know—what he had made sure you would never suspect—was that he had no intention of letting things go further. He’d lied to you once, telling you he couldn’t give you children, a story you’d accepted without question. It had been easy to take advantage of your innocence, your lack of understanding about what it truly meant to create a child.

And so, he let his desire linger, unfulfilled, content to keep the truth hidden. He watched you as you dozed off in his arms, a faint smile still on your lips, completely unaware of the secret he carried.

That was just the start of your honeymoon. Ever since you two got a taste of each other, there's no holding back anymore.

Every morning,

A sleepy groan escaped his lips, one hand tangling in your hair as you took him fully into your mouth. The warmth of you surrounded him, and he couldn’t help but let out a low, raspy “Good morning, baby,” his voice still thick with sleep.

“You’re gonna spoil me like this,” he murmured, his voice amused, though his grip in your hair tightened slightly, betraying how undone he was. “I won’t ever want to wake up any other way.”

In the Library,

The library was huge and full of spaces. You were perched on its edge, your breath hitching as Sebastian knelt before you, his hands gripping your thighs like a man starved while you try to push his head away, “Sebastian, not here!”

“You taste so sweet, how could I resist?” Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently as his mouth worked its magic. His tongue traced slow strokes on your folds. Each flick of his tongue and gentle nip of his teeth sent sparks through your body, making you arch against him.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he murmured against you, though the smirk on his lips betrayed his delight in unraveling you like this.

And even outdoors beside the pond at your castle,

The gentle hum of nature surrounded you as the two of you lay on a soft blanket near the pond. It is late in the afternoon and Sebastian was behind you, his chest pressed against your back as his arm draped over your waist, pulling you closer.

His lips brushed over your shoulder and up to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, lingering kisses, making love to you shamelessly outdoors.

Not that there's someone else around anyway.

“My pretty wife,” he whispered, while he moved slowly and passionately against you, taking you from behind.

“Sebastian,” you moaned out his name softly at how warm and big he feels inside you. It didn't take too long for you to finish.

“You feel incredible,” he murmured, slowly pulling his length out of you. “I could do this forever.”

All is well until...

The kitchen bustled with life as maids moved about, the aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering stew filled the air, accompanied by the soft clatter of pots and pans.

You stepped in quietly, curious about the lively chatter that echoed from within.

The maids were huddled near the counter, laughing amongst themselves. Your personal maid, Rose, was at the center of the group, her laughter ringing the loudest. None of them noticed you at first, too engrossed in their conversation.

“And then she said, ‘Is that really all it takes?’” one of the younger maids said, giggling as the others erupted into laughter.

Rose wiped her hands on her apron, grinning. “Well, it’s not as simple as that! You need to make sure he—” Her words stopped short when her gaze landed on you standing in the doorway.

“Your grace!” Rose quickly straightened, bowing her head with a warm smile. The other maids followed suit, their laughter replaced with nervous politeness.

You waved a hand dismissively, a gentle smile on your lips. “Please, don’t stop on my account. What were you all discussing so eagerly?”

The maids exchanged hesitant glances before one of them replied with a shy laugh, “Just silly things, my lady. Joking about... marital life.”

Rose stepped forward, her smile softening. “Is there something you need, your grace? Shall I prepare something for you?”

You shook your head, your curiosity piqued. “No, I don’t need anything. I was just wandering. But tell me, what exactly were you joking about?”

The younger maid from before blushed, glancing nervously at Rose. “Oh, um, just about... how to, uh, make a man finish faster to... you know, conceive children.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your head tilting slightly. “Finish? Whatever do you mean?”

The room fell silent for a moment. Rose’s smile faltered, her expression shifting to one of cautious confusion. “Finish, your grace. You know, the... the climax for men. When they release their... seed inside. It’s the essential part of bearing a child.”

Your confusion deepened, your lips parting slightly. “Seed? And this happens during the... marital act?”

Rose nodded slowly, her tone gentle as she continued, “Yes, my lady. When a man and woman are intimate, it’s important to continue until the man reaches his climax and, um, releases inside. That’s how children are conceived.”

A heavy silence settled over the kitchen as the weight of her words sank in. Your expression remained still, but realization dawned in your eyes. Pieces of information began to click together, forming a picture you hadn’t seen before.

Sebastian’s actions replayed in your mind, the way he always stopped, always pulled away immediately after you're done. You’d trusted him without question, never suspecting anything amiss.

Rose, noticing the shift in your demeanor, stepped closer. “Your grace, are you alright? Have I said something to upset you?”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, Rose. Not at all. You’ve been... most helpful.”

The maids exchanged uncertain glances, sensing the change in your mood. You turned abruptly, excusing yourself from the kitchen.

As you walked away, you can't bring yourself to believe it. Sebastian had lied to you? No, you can't fathom. You have to find the truth out for yourself. You will try and see tonight if this is true.

The bed creaked as Sebastian sat up, his face pale and his jaw clenched. The intimacy you had shared just moments ago was now a distant memory, replaced by an overwhelming storm of betrayal and anger.

You finally did it, it was true. You rode him and did not stop until he accidentally finished inside you. Your world came crashing down, you didn't even know this was possible.

“Thea!” he exclaimed, his voice sharp and accusing.

You turned to him, your body still trembling, but this time not from passion. “What?” you snapped, your voice laced with confusion and defiance.

“What did you do?” he demanded, his tone teetering between disbelief and fury.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your suspicions were confirmed. “I’d hoped it was not true,” you said bitterly, your voice shaking. “I’d hoped they were mistaken, but clearly, they were not.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed, his face etched with frustration. “How could you?” he asked, his voice rising.

“How could I?” you repeated, your voice growing louder with every word. “How could I? You lied to me!”

“I did not lie,” he countered firmly, his voice defensive.

You laughed, the sound humorless and sharp as a blade. “I trusted you,” you said, your voice breaking. “I trusted you more than anyone in this world, and you took advantage of that. You seized an opportunity, and so I did the very same.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words. “I told you I cannot give you children.”

You stepped forward, your fists clenched at your sides. “Cannot and will not are two entirely different things,” you retorted. “You chose this for yourself. You chose to lie to me.”

Sebastian stood, his hands running through his hair as if he were trying to ground himself. “I did not lie,” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you were prepared. I thought you understood how a child came to be.”

Your chest heaved as tears pricked your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You took my future from me,” you said, your voice cracking. “The one thing I wanted more than anything. You knew that becoming a mother one day, to have a family of my own one day, you knew that was all I ever wanted. Why?!”

Sebastian's face crumpled in sadness, “My father… cared more about the continuation of the Hastings line than anything in the world. More than my mother. More than me. He knew my mother should not have a child, but he did not care—not even when my mother died after giving birth to me. So I made a vow that his efforts would be in vain. That this line would die with me. You said I was enough for you!”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. “That was before I knew you,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “I never asked for your betrayal.”

“Thea, I—” he began, his voice desperate.

“You what?” you interrupted, stepping closer as your voice rose. “You love me? No, you most certainly do not. You do not know the meaning of the word.”

Sebastian’s mouth opened, but no words came out as your accusations hit him like a blow.

“You do not lie to the one you love,” you continued, your voice breaking. “You do not trick the one you love. You do not humiliate the one you love.”

You paused, your chest heaving as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. “I may not know much, as you have made abundantly clear, but I do know one thing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper now. “I know that is not love.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sebastian stood frozen, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock and regret. But you couldn’t look at him anymore. The weight of his betrayal was too much to bear.

Turning away, you walked to the other side of the room, your shoulders trembling as you tried to compose yourself.

The man you thought you loved, the man you thought you could trust, had taken everything from you.

You are not certain if you can still forgive him.

Over the next few days, you busied yourself instead in being a great duchess to your people, checking over the town and actually attending to their concerns.

You were doing quite well already when all of a sudden, you received a letter from your mother. Requiring your presence back in the estate to settle the scandal that your brother, Caleb, got himself into.

The Bridgerton family name has been the talk of London again ever since Lady Whistledown wrote about Caleb Bridgerton being roped into an entrapment marriage planned by his supposed bride-to-be, Miss Karina Trusova. A young miss who Caleb was flirting with this season and insisted that Caleb marry her immediately.

The reason for the rushed need to marry someone of Caleb’s status? To have a husband and a father for her unborn child. She's pregnant and the man abandoned her, pushing her into a desperation of luring a young man into marriage.

Great. Another scandal that your family has to face after facing yours.

Although now with your status as a Duchess, it was definitely more simple to remedy your brother's problem. Having the power to divert the ton’s attention and the respect they have to put on the Bridgerton Family who has a Duchess as one of them.

That simple solution caused you to get back at the castle earlier than expected.

But someone did not came back home early.

You waited anxiously by the staircase, the sound of the clock as it ticked away the late hours.

The tension in your chest tightened when you heard the faint creak of the door opening, and your husband stepped inside.

"Where have you been?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He paused, tilting his head slightly as if the question puzzled him. “I did not think you were concerned about my whereabouts.”

The casualness of his response stung, but you ignored the sharp pang in your heart and stepped closer to him. “Are we going to stay like this forever?” you asked softly, reaching out to cup his cheeks in your hands.

His skin was warm, but his gaze remained distant, his body tense beneath your touch. “I do not want to live like this,” you pleaded. “Let’s just... please forgive each other.”

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he gently pulled away from your hands. “No,” he said, his voice firm, almost cold.

Your breath hitched as you stared at him in disbelief. “No?” you repeated, the word hanging heavy between you both. “What is to become of us, then?” you demanded, your voice rising in frustration. “Sebastian!”

“If you are with child,” he said abruptly, “then I shall stay and do my duty to support you both.”

The finality in his words made your stomach twist. “And if I am not?” you whispered, dreading his answer.

“Then we shall remain married, in name only,” he replied, his expression unyielding. “You will be provided for, of course, in a manner befitting the Duchess. But I shall not darken your doorstep again. Our lives will be entirely separate. This…” He gestured between the two of you, his voice breaking slightly before he regained control. “This cannot happen. This will not happen. Do you understand me?”

You swallowed hard, his words cutting deeper than you could have imagined.

The man who once burned for you now seemed determined to extinguish whatever bond you shared.

“That we will never love each other the same way again?” you said, your voice quiet but filled with heartbreak. “Yes, your grace. I understand that quite well.”

Sebastian stood there for a moment longer, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes searching yours for something he could not seem to find.

Then, without another word, he turned and left, your heart heavy with the emptiness of his absence.

He no longer burn for you.

He now burns you.

The days that followed were a week of avoiding glances and sidestepping one another in the vast corridors of the castle.

It was in the late afternoon when your paths finally crossed again. From the opposite direction, Sebastian approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate, his gaze locking with yours for the first time in days.

Neither of you spoke at first, the air between you tense and uncertain. But as you stopped in front of one another, you drew in a deep breath, forcing yourself to break the silence.

“My monthly courses came,” you said, your voice steady, though the words themselves felt like a blade against your heart. “I am not with child.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Relief, perhaps, or resignation.

He gave a small nod, his voice quiet and devoid of emotion as he said, “That is for the best.”

You tilted your head, studying him, and for the first time in days, you found the courage to push the boundary of his guarded walls. “Why?” you asked, your voice soft but insistent. “What did your father do that made you so spiteful? What has he done to warrant such... vengeance from you?”

You did not miss how his jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He averted his gaze, the muscles in his neck taut. The question had struck a nerve. “You should not concern yourself with that,” he said in finality.

“Sebastian,” you pressed, stepping closer, refusing to let him brush it aside. “If this vow you made is to define our lives, if it has already destroyed what we could have had then don’t I at least deserve to understand why?”

His gaze snapped back to yours, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “You do not need to understand, Thea. You only need to trust me. Trust that it is for the better that you are not with child.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you stood frozen, searching his face for answers he clearly wasn’t ready to give. “Trust?” you echoed bitterly, the word tasting sour on your tongue. “How can I trust a man who does not trust me with the truth?”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, and you thought he might finally let you in, might finally reveal the pain he kept buried so deeply. But then he took a step back, his expression hardening once more.

Ah there it is, the constant cycle of seeing a hint of vulnerability only for him to harden again.

“I cannot,” he said quietly. “Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone with unanswered questions.

But you are not one to give up on this. You're going to find the truth no matter what it takes.

The late duke’s office was cold and quiet, a ghost of the man who once inhabited it. Dust blanketed the furniture, white sheets thrown haphazardly over the grand desk and chairs, muting their presence. You hesitated as you stepped into the space, the air heavy with abandonment. The late Duke Hastings might have been gone for years, but the scars he left on Sebastian were still raw, still fresh, and you couldn’t help but feel that the answers you sought were buried here.

Pulling the sheet off the desk, you coughed as the dust clouded the air. You rummaged through the drawers, finding nothing but old quills, dried ink pots, and a few blank sheets of parchment. Frustration began to gnaw at you until you opened the bottom drawer.

Inside, you found something that took your breath away.

A stack of letters, bundled tightly with a frayed ribbon, lay untouched. The envelopes were yellowed with age, the Duke’s seal unbroken on each one. Your hands trembled as you untied the ribbon, curiosity outweighing hesitation. Carefully, you opened the first letter, the ink smudged in places but legible.

"Father, today I recited my lessons perfectly, without stumbling. Lady Danbury says I am improving. I hope you are proud of me. Please come home soon."

The letter was short, heartbreakingly simple, and heavy with yearning. You opened another.

"Father, I practiced for hours today, just as you told me. My tutor says I am doing well. When can I see you again?"

And another.

"Father, I said a full sentence today without stuttering. It was hard, but I did it. Are you proud of me? Will you write back?"

Tears pricked your eyes as you went through letter after letter, each one filled with hope, progress, and desperate longing for approval that never came. The final one you opened was the most poignant.

"Father, I will not trouble you with letters anymore. I will do as you wish and make you proud in silence. But I will still hope. I will always hope."

Your heart shattered. These letters were the voice of a child begging for love, a child who had been cast aside for not meeting impossible expectations.

You could only imagine your husband as a child, longing and begging for his father's attention and love only to be ignored and have his efforts not recognized.

Oh the thought made your heart ache so much you feel physically sick, you cannot bare the thought of it. It all makes sense now.

The sound of footsteps startled you, and you turned quickly, clutching the stack of letters against your chest. Lady Danbury stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable but her sharp gaze softened by understanding.

“Your Grace,” she greeted. You quickly placed the letters on the desk, brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized had spilled. “Lady Danbury.”

Her eyes flickered to the letters. “Did you forget we were to come and help with preparations for your ball? Your Mama is waiting in the parlor.” You nodded, your voice shaky. “I shall be there momentarily.”

But as she turned to leave, you called after her. “Lady Danbury,” you said hesitantly, gesturing toward the letters. “Did you know about these? The ones the Duke seems to have written to his father as a boy?”

She paused, then gave a small nod. “I did. And now, apparently, so do you.” You swallowed hard, glancing back at the letters. “I had no idea that Sebastian had trouble speaking as a child.”

Lady Danbury’s expression softened, though there was still a sharpness to her tone. “He worked very hard to eliminate that difficulty. He was so very proud. It is why he wrote those letters in the first place.”

“To keep his father informed of his progress,” you murmured, shaking your head. “The late Duke never even deigned to read them. How could... What kind of father—”

Lady Danbury’s tone turned steely. “One that demands perfection in his son. And when that was not achieved… Well, I shall leave it to you to imagine.” Your throat tightened with anger and sadness. “You helped him overcome his impediment,” you said softly.

She gave a small smile, her head tilting as though recalling those years. “I merely showed him what he was capable of all along. And if he needed some encouragement, a push from time to time, that was something I was happy to provide. But, at the end of the day, the Duke’s triumph was his and his alone. It had to be.”

You looked down at the letters again, your emotions were a mix of sadness for your husband, and hatred for his father. You hadn’t fully understood until now.

The first dance of the ball to honor the marriage of the Duke and Duchess had been perfect.

But as the second song began, the heavens opened, and a sudden downpour brought the evening to an abrupt end.

Guests scrambled for shelter, their gowns and suits quickly soaking through as the rain poured relentlessly.

You stood at the center of it all with Sebastian, watching everything unfold as people hurriedly retreated to their carriages.

Soon, it was just the two of you, soaked to the bone under the unrelenting rain.

“I am so sorry,” Sebastian said suddenly, his voice heavy with regret.

You turned to him, rain dripping from your hair and lashes, giving him a puzzled smile. “For what? Even a Duke cannot control the weather.”

“I know,” he sighed, his expression strained. “But I know this is not what you had envisioned for the evening.”

You paused, the rain mingling with the flush on your cheeks. “Certainly not.”

“And for that, I apologize—”

“It is better,” you interrupted gently, your voice soft yet firm.

Sebastian froze, his brow furrowing as he studied you, confusion flickering in his eyes.

You stepped closer, your heart racing as your trembling hands reached for his. Your voice wavered, but you held his gaze. “I know why you made that vow to your father. I found the letters you wrote to him as a child, and I read them.”

Sebastian stiffened, his body tense under your touch, but you refused to let him pull away.

“Just because it’s not perfect,” you continued, your voice breaking with emotion, “does not make it any less worthy of love.”

Sebastian’s breath hitched, his eyes wide with surprise, pain, and something you couldn’t quite place.

“Your father made you believe otherwise,” you said despite the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “He made you believe that you needed to be without fault to be loved, but he was wrong. If you need any proof of the matter, then look just here.”

You released one of his hands and pressed your palm lightly to his chest, right over his heart.

“I am tired of pretending,” you admitted. “And I cannot continue acting as if I do not love you. Because I do”

“I love all of you. Even the parts you believe are too dark and too shameful. Every scar. Every flaw. Every imperfection. I love you.”

Sebastian’s face twisted with a mix of emotions, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came out. He cannot form a single sentence.

“You may think you are too damaged and too broken to ever allow yourself to be happy, but you can choose differently, Seb. You can choose to love me as much as I love you. That choice is not up to anyone else. It can only be up to you.”

The rain fell harder, soaking both of you, but you didn’t care. You smiled up at him, your heart laid bare to him.

Sebastian’s gaze searched yours, his walls crumbling with every word you spoke.

Slowly, he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, his hand lingering on your cheek. His touch was warm despite the cold rain, and his lips parted as he whispered, “Dorothea…”

Your smile widened, tears streaming down your face, indistinguishable from the rain. “It’s up to you,” you repeated softly, your voice trembling with hope.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. Though he didn’t speak further, the way he held you close said more than words ever could.

He stared into your eyes with happiness, love, and… lust.

His thrusts grew increasingly messy, each one harder and deeper but lacking the rhythm they once had.

His groans turned into desperate whimpers, his forehead pressing against yours as he fought to chase his high.

His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, his body trembling as his need completely consumed him.

You whimpered beneath him, your body still sensitive and overstimulated from your own orgasm, every thrust sending jolts of sensation that had your nails digging into his shoulders. “It’s too much,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He panted, his hips snapping into yours with a bruising grip on your waist. “Just a little bit more, baby,” he murmured, his voice strained and desperate. “You can do that for me, right? Just hold on for me.”

The sound of his voice, thick with need, made you shudder even as your body ached from the intensity.

He buried himself in you again and again, his pace erratic and unrelenting as his grip tightened on your hips, sure to leave marks, “I’m close… f-fuck gonna give you that baby you so wanted.”

Then you felt it—his cock twitching uncontrollably inside you, his breath hitching as he stilled for a brief moment before delivering one last, harsh thrust that sent the headboard slamming against the wall with a loud crash.

His hips pressed flush against yours as his body tensed, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. “Shit take it, take it all. Milk my cock out, just like that.” He groaned, his voice thick with pleasure as he threw his head back, eyes closed and lips parted, lost in the sensation.

You gasped at the feeling of him pulsing inside you, his release coming in hot, thick waves that filled you completely. His body shuddered against yours with each rope of his release, his grip digging into your skin as he rode out his high.

You felt it inside you, drowning your walls in his warm seed. He finally came inside you, and the feeling is incomparable. It made you blush and glow like no other.

He collapsed onto you gently, his weight comforting rather than overwhelming as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“I love you,” he murmured breathlessly, his lips brushing over your damp skin. “I love you so much.”

If there is to ever be a grander finish to a season than the one provided by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings this year, this author will need to feast upon her own words. For it was this couple's memorable affair that brought another scandalous London season to a close. As many now leave the city behind for greener pastures, some endings seem more happy than others.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the Bridgerton House, its familiar architecture as comforting as ever. It had been two years since you last visited, but the sight of your childhood home felt like stepping back into a world that had remained unchanged.

Sebastian stepped out first, holding little Amelia in his arms. The one-year-old giggled, tugging at the collar of her father's coat as he grinned down at her. Turning back, he extended a hand to help you down, his other hand instinctively resting on your arm to steady you.

Your pregnancy was beginning to show, the rounded swell of your stomach an obvious visible sign of another life growing within. As you stepped onto the stone pathway, the doors of the estate opened wide, and your mother, Violet, appeared, her face lighting up with joy.

“My darling!” Violet exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace you. Her arms wrapped around you carefully, mindful of your condition. “It’s been far too long.”

You smiled warmly, leaning into her embrace. “It’s good to be back, Mama.”

Amelia squirmed in Sebastian’s arms, her tiny hands reaching out to Violet. With a laugh, Violet took the child into her arms, cooing and pressing kisses to her rosy cheeks.

Behind her, your siblings began to spill out of the house one by one. Atticus, followed by Benjamin and Caleb, both of whom greeted you with teasing grins. Elisa, Giovann, and Heather trailed behind, their excitement evident as they called out.

Atticus stepped forward, “Welcome home, sister,” he said, his voice warm. His gaze flickered to your rounded belly, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “I see congratulations are in order again.”

You laughed softly, resting a hand on your stomach. “Thank you, Atticus. And how have you been? Still busy avoiding the marriage mart?”

For the first time, he hesitated, his expression softening. “Actually, I’ve been giving it some thought. I believe it’s time for me to settle down.”

Your brows lifted in surprise, a delighted smile breaking across your face. “Truly? That’s wonderful news!”

Atticus nodded, his composure unshaken. “I plan to participate in this upcoming season. It’s time I find a wife and start a family of my own.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you said sincerely, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “I’m sure you’ll find someone perfect.”

“And I’m proud of you as well,” he replied, his tone gentle. “You’ve always been strong, but seeing you now, with a family of your own,” he paused, observing you with a smile and proud eyes, “It suits you, sister.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and before you could respond, Amelia’s squeals of laughter filled the air. Turning, you saw Sebastian spinning her gently in his arms, her giggles echoing across the front lawn.

Atticus followed your gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He seems to adore her.”

“He does,” you said softly, watching your husband with a fondness that could not be contained. “And she adores him.”

“Congratulations, sister,” Caleb stepped into the conversation with a smile that you mirrored, “Thank you. And what of you, Caleb? What are your plans?”

Caleb's smile only widened as he informs you of a great news, “I am to leave London in a few days to explore and travel Greece.”

“Oh that is amazing! You better keep writing to us when you get there,” you exclaimed and hugged your brother.

The rest of your siblings crowded around you, showering you with hugs, questions, and congratulations.

Dear Readers,

My story was not without its trials. Some would say my husband and I weathered storms that would have capsized even the strongest of unions. There were moments of doubt, of tears shed in the dark, and of truths we were unprepared to face. Yet, through every challenge we faced, one constantly remained with us: love.

We now have been blessed with five lovely children that we so adore. Amelia, Bernadeth, Caroline, David, and our newborn, Eros. They are the final pieces of our puzzle, completing a family that, against all odds, found its happily ever after.

Looking back, it feels almost surreal to think of the hardships we endured. All the secrets, the misunderstandings, and the moments of despair. Yet, those very challenges are what forged the unbreakable bond we now share.

To any who may doubt the power of love and perseverance, let this be a testament: happiness is not something handed to you, but something earned through faith, effort, and a willingness to embrace imperfection.

As I pen these final words, I am reminded of how far we have come. From the innocence of our beginnings to the trials that tested our resolve, we have emerged stronger and wiser.

Anyhow, I shall get going, the house is a mess with my husband joining in on the chaos in the drawing room instead of making the children behave. And I can hear our little Eros starting to cry and being fuzzy once again in his nursery room. It is time for me to feed him.

But may this tale inspire you to face your own challenges with courage and hope. After all, dear reader, love is definitely worth every battle.

—From Dorothea, Duchess of Hastings, to you.

176 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

Die With a Smile

Charles Leclerc x death!Reader

Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)

Warnings: major character death

Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.

He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.

You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.

His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.

Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”

“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.

Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”

Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.

Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.

“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.

He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?

There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.

But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.

Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.

And then he’s standing in front of you.

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.

His throat is dry. “Who are you?”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.

He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”

He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-

“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”

You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”

His breath catches. “What?”

“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.

“Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.

“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.

And you know it. You see right through him.

“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”

“Or you die.”

His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.

But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.

You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”

The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.

He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.

“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.

“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.

He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.

But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.

Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.

He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-

Then, suddenly, the car snaps.

A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.

But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.

He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.

He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-

And then he feels it.

A presence.

His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.

“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.

“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”

His blood runs cold.

He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.

He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.

The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.

“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.

He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.

“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.

And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.

“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.

“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”

You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.

He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.

And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.

Tick. Tock.

He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.

Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.

“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”

Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.

“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.

You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.

He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.

“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.

“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.

And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.

Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.

Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.

“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.

“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.

He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.

A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.

His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.

Jules.

It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.

Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.

“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.

He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.

Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.

“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”

“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”

He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.

He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.

But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?

His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.

Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.

And now, Jules too?

It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.

But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.

So why did he see him?

“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.

“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.

He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.

And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.

He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”

It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.

He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”

The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“You’re running out of time.”

Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.

“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.

But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

Jules wouldn’t want him to.

The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.

“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”

The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.

And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.

“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.

“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”

There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”

You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.

He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in months, there’s silence.

But it’s not a relief.

It’s a warning.

Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.

Not yet.

You’re still watching. And he’s still running.

But he can’t run forever.

***

The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.

Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.

Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.

“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.

“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.

The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.

The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.

“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”

The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.

Charles crosses the line. World Champion.

For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.

The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.

He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”

He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”

His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.

He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-

Nothing happens.

A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”

He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.

“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.

“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”

He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.

“Charles, try the emergency system-”

“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.

His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.

“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.

But you don’t move. You just watch.

His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.

“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.

He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”

But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.

And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.

Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.

You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.

“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.

You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.

The ticking in his head goes silent.

The world fades.

And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.

He’s gone.

But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.

For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.

And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.

He won.

He died for glory.

***

The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.

Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.

And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.

The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.

It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.

Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.

“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”

You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”

You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”

His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.

He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.

Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”

You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”

The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.

A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.

The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.

“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”

Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.

The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.

“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”

He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”

Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.

The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.

Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.

“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”

You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”

Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.

And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.

As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.

“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“

The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

***

The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.

For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.

The one constant in this strange new reality is you.

You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.

But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.

He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.

After a while, Charles breaks it.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I suppose I do.”

It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?

“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”

You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”

Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.

You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”

He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.

You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”

Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want them to stay?”

You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”

“But you get lonely.”

Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”

There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.

“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.

He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.

“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.

“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”

You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.

“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”

Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.

And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.

You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.

When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.

You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.

“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”

He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”

You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.

For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.

***

Time is strange in the afterlife.

Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.

But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.

“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.

The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.

Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.

His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.

“Where-”

You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”

Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.

A baby.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.

Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.

“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.

You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”

He freezes.

“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.

You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”

Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.

Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”

Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”

Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.

“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”

Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.

You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”

But no one can hear him.

Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”

Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.

But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.

You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”

Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.

Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.

And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.

He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.

When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.

“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.

Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.

“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”

***

The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.

He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.

Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”

Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”

“To move on.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.

“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.

You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”

He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”

You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”

The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.

“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”

Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”

You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.

You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”

He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.

You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.

You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”

The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.

Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.

He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.

Jules.

Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.

His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.

It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.

The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.

“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”

It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.

He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.

“Charles.”

Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.

“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.

And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”

Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”

“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.

But then, he turns.

You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.

He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.

His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.

For someone else.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.

But he has to.

His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.

He belongs with them.

With Jules. With his father.

Not with you.

He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.

You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.

“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.

He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.

Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.

But you …

You stand there, watching.

Helpless. Silent. Alone.

Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.

And now, that chapter is closing.

The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.

He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.

“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.

And then he steps into the void.

You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.

Loneliness. Loss.

You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.

Heartbreak.

It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.

This is yours.

He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.

You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.

Charles is gone.

You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.

For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.

But that’s not who you are.

You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.

Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.

But none of them will be Charles.

You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.

And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.

You’ll remember it all.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.

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