[Soren’s POV]
The screen pulses. Far.
Three letters and a flag emoji containing every expectation I've ever failed to meet.
Nico's hips press forward—slow and devastating—and the dual reality splits me down the centre. My father's name in my palm while my body arches under a man buried inside me.
The collision is so violent I stop breathing.
I reject the call, thumb hitting the red icon with the same instinct that finds a braking point in the rain—muscle memory outpacing thought. The phone skids across the coffee table, screen going dark, and something unlocks in my chest that feels less like relief and more like detonation.
I twist beneath him before he can react—wrenching sideways, dislodging him with a rough elbow against his ribs. His cock slips free and the sudden emptiness is obscene.
I roll onto my back, grab his shoulders and hook my calf behind his thigh to reverse our weight. Nico lands on the cushions with a grunt, and I'm over him—straddling his hips, palms flat against his chest as I reach behind me for his cock.
I line him up and sink down in one sharp drop that seats him fully inside me, the stretch so immediate my vision whites at the edges and a sound rips from my throat that's closer to pain than pleasure.
Gravity makes it deeper this way—his cock pressing against my prostate with inescapable fullness that radiates heat up my spine.
I brace against his chest, fingers digging into hard muscle beneath light brown skin, and ride him with a ferocity that probably has nothing to do with maddening want and everything to do with the phone lying face-down three feet away.
Nico watches me with dark, knowing eyes. His hands settle on my hips but don't guide—just hold, thumbs pressing into the grooves above my hip bones.
He knows I'm not chasing an orgasm but outrunning a phone call.
He lets me have it anyway.
I set a punishing pace—lifting until only the head stretches my rim, thighs trembling, then dropping hard enough that the impact drives a grunt from his chest.
Each stroke shoves him against the spot that whites out thought, and the wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the suite.
Sweat drips from my jaw onto his stomach and I watch Nico's composure fracture beneath me—his embossing abs clenching, fingers digging bruises into my hips, a low groan tearing loose when I clench around his shaft.
"Fan…" The curse scrapes through my teeth as I grind down, rolling my hips in a tight circle that drags his cock across every nerve inside me.
My own erection juts between us, flushed dark and leaking onto his stomach, but I don't touch it—need this to end on my terms, need the finish to feel like a decision rather than surrender.
Nico's hand rises to my jaw—not gripping, just touching, thumb tracing my cheekbone with something dangerously close to tenderness. I knock it away, grab both his wrists, slam them above his head against the armrest.
His strength could break my grip. But he doesn't even try.
Five more strokes—brutal, deep, my weight crashing down with a force that shoves the couch against the wall—and I come untouched.
The orgasm detonates from the base of my spine, ripping through me in violent pulses that paint his stomach in streaks of white, my cock jerking untouched as every muscle locks and my vision goes black at the edges.
I clench around him so hard he follows with a guttural sound, his hips bucking up, his cock pulsing deep inside me.
I climb off before the aftershocks finish. Trousers, shirt, each movement mechanical—except my hands are shaking and the soreness makes each step an accusation.
Nico says nothing, just watches me dress with the patient attention of someone who knows the real conversation hasn't started.
A few moments later, my bedroom door shuts.
Ten seconds leaning against it, then I call father back.
He answers on the first ring. "You're up late."
No greeting, no warmth. Well, nothing new at least. "You called. What's wrong?"
"Your sector two times." He launches without preamble—affection expressed through critique. "You're carrying too much speed through the first apex. Trail-brake deeper, rotate earlier…"
"I know, Far. Karina flagged it."
"Then fix it. The P2 was good, but not great. You have few days before the next one, so I expect to see different result." By the sound of his voice, ‘different’ only means ‘the best’. As always.
I close my eyes, feeling the bite marks on my shoulder throb under my shirt. "I'm working on it."
"And the team dynamic…" Father’s tone shifts—the register he uses for things he considers beneath discussion but too problematic to ignore. "This Almeida situation."
My fingers tighten on the mattress. "What about it?"
"His presence is a distraction. The PR team's spending half their budget on rainbow campaigns instead of performance marketing.”
At first, it may sound as genuine concern about the PR team's priorities, but I know better. I know him better.
“Sponsors are nervous—they signed up for a racing team, not a social justice platform. Serious competitors don't need their sexuality to be their brand. It's a liability, Soren. For the team and for you."
Father has said variations for years—about Nico, about gay athletes generally. Background noise I absorbed without questioning.
But tonight the familiar words land on skin still humming from Nico's touch, settle into a body sore in places Nico made it sore, and something hot and ugly twists in my stomach.
"Nico's a better driver than half the grid."
The words leave my mouth before permission is granted—sharp, almost angry.
"His sexuality has nothing to do with his talent. He outperformed his machinery for four seasons while his team used him as a prop, and he still put that car in positions it had no business being in."
The silence on the line is absolute—the dangerous quiet of a man who has never been contradicted by his son, let alone on this.
"What's gotten into you?" Far’s voice drops to the register I remember from childhood—low, controlled, the temperature dropping ten degrees. "Since when do you defend Almeida?"
The panic is instant—the same ice-water dread from the locker room.
I've revealed something. Exposed a vulnerability that will be noted and used.
"The team needs both drivers performing. I can't win the championship if my teammate's being undermined by our own organisation." I force the words into shapes that sound strategic. "It's pragmatic. Nothing else."
"Pragmatic." He repeats the word like he's testing its structural integrity. Finding it insufficient.
"I have an early session tomorrow. Goodnight."
I hang up before he can push further, before his voice digs past the excuse into whatever terrible, luminous thing it might find underneath.
The phone lands on the nightstand while I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands shaking, trying to understand why defending Nico felt instinctive and simultaneously terrifying in a way that compresses my lungs until breathing requires conscious effort.
My phone buzzes with a text from Father, four words stripped of punctuation.
Far: We'll talk about this later
I stare at the message until the screen dims, and the realisation arrives not as revelation but as recognition—something always there, just never illuminated from this angle.
His voice. The voice on the phone just now, measured and disgusted and dangerously quiet—it's the same voice that was in my head at seventeen.
The same tone, the same casual certainty that some people don't deserve protection. The voice that made me look at my best friend across a crowded locker room and choose the wolves.
Svaghet är oacceptabelt.
Weakness is unacceptable.