#fernando

[satan-s-enemy]

previously posted: [part 1][part 2][part 3][part 4][part 5]

[manuuart]

FELIZ 6 ANOS DE ORDEM

[sophiesoswag]

Not Just For Football…

fernando mendoza x fem!gymnast reader

PART TWO

partt one link: part_one

summary: You and Fernando Mendoza were never really just friends. Not when he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once. Not when you became the first person he searched for after every game. Not when every goodbye started feeling a little too painful to be normal. But with football, gymnastics, distance, and years of bad timing standing between you, figuring out what you are to each other becomes a lot harder than falling in love in the first place.

warnings: none, all fluff!

A/N: second part of this fic! tumblr wouldnt let me post it all in one go so heres the second part! lmk if yall have any more ideas for fernando fics!

word count: 12k... gulp

enjoy 💋

The season got worse before it got better.

Not statistically.

Statistically, Fernando was incredible.

The problem was everything underneath it.

The offense kept collapsing at the worst possible moments. Media pressure intensified every week. Fans blamed him for losses that weren’t entirely his fault because quarterbacks always became the face of disaster first.

And Fernando?

Fernando internalized everything.

You knew he did because he stopped sleeping normally.

You could hear it in his voice.

See it in the shadows beneath his eyes during interviews.

One night you woke up at 2:13 a.m. to three missed calls from him.

Your heart dropped instantly.

You called back immediately.

Fernando answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Something was wrong.

You sat upright in bed. “What happened?”

A pause.

Then: “We lost.”

Relief flickered through you first.

Then guilt for feeling relieved.

“Oh.”

Not just lost.

Devastated.

You could hear it now.

The exhaustion in his breathing.

The silence packed tightly underneath his voice.

“Talk to me,” you said softly.

Fernando laughed once.

Not happily.

“I threw two interceptions.”

“That happens.”

“I missed a wide-open read in the fourth.”

“That also happens.”

“We should’ve won.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

God.

Football owned too much of him sometimes.

“Fernando.”

Another silence.

Then finally: “I’m tired.”

The words came out so quietly they almost disappeared entirely.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Because this wasn’t physical exhaustion.

This was deeper.

You leaned back against your headboard, phone pressed closer to your ear.

“Come here,” you said before thinking.

Fernando blinked on the other end of the line.

“What?”

“Come to Indiana this weekend.”

“I have practice.”

“Skip one.”

“I can’t skip practice.”

“You absolutely can.”

A tiny laugh escaped him despite everything.

“There she is.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

You softened your voice. “You sound miserable.”

Silence.

Then: “I miss you.”

The confession slipped out so naturally it took both of you by surprise.

Fernando froze immediately afterward.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d said it aloud.

Your heartbeat stumbled violently.

The air changed.

Again.

Always again.

You swallowed hard. “I miss you too.”

Too soft.

Too honest.

Fernando exhaled shakily through the phone.

And suddenly you could picture him perfectly: head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, completely exhausted from carrying too much for too long.

You wanted to reach through the phone and hold him together.

Instead you said carefully: “You don’t have to stay somewhere that’s making you unhappy.”

Fernando didn’t answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded distant.

“Yeah.”

The transfer rumors started three weeks later.

Sports media practically foamed at the mouth over it.

CAL QB CONSIDERING TRANSFER? FERNANDO MENDOZA’S FUTURE UNCERTAIN TOP PROGRAMS EXPECTED TO PURSUE STAR QUARTERBACK

Your teammates sent you screenshots constantly.

Mostly because everyone in your life had apparently become deeply invested in the romantic tragedy of you and Fernando existing in separate states.

One text from your old Cal teammate simply read:

if he transfers to indiana i’m buying a lottery ticket

You ignored it aggressively.

Mostly because the thought had already crossed your own mind.

And that was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

You tried not to ask him about it directly.

Tried being the important word.

“How bad is it?” you asked one night while walking back from treatment.

Cold Indiana wind whipped around you while Fernando’s voice crackled softly through your earbuds.

“The portal stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Fernando sighed quietly.

“Pretty loud.”

“You hate attention.”

“Correct.”

You smiled faintly.

“Any schools standing out?”

A pause.

Too long.

Then: “There are a few.”

Your stomach twisted.

This shouldn’t matter this much.

It was football.

Just football.

And yet suddenly every possibility felt terrifyingly personal.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you said carefully.

“No, it’s okay.” Fernando hesitated. “Indiana called.”

Your entire body stopped moving.

Snow drifted lazily across the sidewalk around you.

“What?”

“They reached out this week.”

Your pulse kicked violently against your ribs.

“Oh.”

Excellent response.

Truly groundbreaking conversational skills.

Fernando laughed softly like he could hear your brain short-circuiting through the phone.

“It makes sense football-wise,” he said quickly. “Good offensive scheme. Strong development staff. Better fit.”

“Right,” you managed.

“Closer to NFL preparation.”

“Totally.”

“And…” Fernando stopped briefly. “You’re there.”

Silence.

Your heartbeat became deafening.

On the other end of the line, Fernando sounded like he immediately regretted existing.

“I just mean,” he rushed out, “having someone familiar nearby would help the transition.”

Of course.

Obviously.

Completely normal thing to say about the girl you definitely weren’t secretly in love with.

You stared out at the snowy campus with your breath trapped somewhere in your lungs.

Then quietly: “You’d really come all the way out here?”

Fernando answered so fast it almost startled you.

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

None.

The certainty in it shook something loose inside your chest.

Because football mattered to Fernando more than almost anything.

But somehow, every road he took still kept leading back to you.

The official transfer announcement broke the internet for approximately twelve straight hours.

CAL STAR QB FERNANDO MENDOZA TRANSFERS TO INDIANA

Every sports account on earth immediately posted graphics of Fernando Mendoza in crimson and cream while fans collectively lost their minds.

Indiana students celebrated like they’d personally secured national championship insurance.

Cal fans went through the five stages of grief in real time.

And everyone else?

Everyone else became violently obsessed with one specific detail.

You.

Because the internet had apparently spent years constructing a conspiracy board about your relationship like two emotionally repressed athletes were a national security issue.

One tweet with over two hundred thousand likes simply read:

that man transferred 2000 miles for LOVE

You threw your phone across your bed immediately.

Your roommate picked it up, read the tweet, and wheezed laughing.

“You know what?” she said. “I support investigative journalism.”

“Delete that.”

“No ❤️”

Meanwhile, Fernando was having a terrible time.

Not because of football.

Football-wise, the move made perfect sense.

Better scheme. Better support system. Fresh start.

He repeated those reasons so many times during interviews they stopped sounding like real words.

The issue was that reporters kept bringing you up.

“Excited to reunite with Indiana gymnastics star y/n?”

Fernando nearly drove his forehead directly into the podium microphone.

“We’re friends.”

The reporter stared at him.

Then very slowly: “Right.”

Fernando visibly aged another decade.

The night before he arrived in Indiana, you couldn’t sleep.

At all.

You tried.

Failed spectacularly.

By two in the morning you were fully horizontal on your bedroom floor staring at the ceiling while your roommate watched you with open amusement.

“You’re acting like your husband’s returning from war.”

“He’s not my husband.”

“You’ve literally been in love with him since California.”

You sat up immediately. “I have not.”

She blinked once.

Then burst out laughing so hard she almost dropped her laptop.

“You are actually adorable.”

You threw a pillow at her face.

Unfortunately, she was correct.

Because the truth was: you hadn’t seen Fernando in person in almost five months.

Five months of FaceTimes and texts and football interviews and gymnastics streams.

Five months of missing him so constantly it became background noise.

And now he was suddenly going to be here.

Actually here.

Close enough to touch again.

Dangerous.

Extremely dangerous.

By the time morning arrived, your stomach was in complete rebellion.

You changed outfits three times before realizing you were behaving clinically insane.

“He has literally seen you in sweatpants before,” your roommate reminded you.

“That was California sweatpants. Different psychological environment.”

“That sentence should’ve been illegal.”

Maybe it should have been.

Because when you finally reached the athletic center and spotted Fernando standing outside beside a mountain of luggage, your brain stopped functioning anyway.

For a second you just stared.

The last few months had changed him slightly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to notice.

Broader shoulders.

Sharper jawline.

A little more confidence sitting beneath his posture now, even if exhaustion still lingered around the edges.

Then Fernando looked up.

And immediately smiled.

Not polite.

Not careful.

A real one.

Warm enough to hit you like physical force.

Your heartbeat tripped over itself violently.

“Hi,” you breathed.

Fernando stared at you for one second too long before answering.

“Hi.”

Neither of you moved.

This was absurd.

You talked every single day.

Why did this suddenly feel like seeing each other after deployment?

Fernando recovered first.

Barely.

“You cut your hair.”

Your eyebrows lifted instantly. “That’s the first thing you say to me?”

“I panicked.”

You burst out laughing.

God.

There it was.

That feeling.

Like your body recognized him before your brain did.

Fernando’s expression softened immediately hearing your laugh.

Like some tension inside him loosened on instinct.

You stepped closer without thinking.

“So,” you said lightly, “Indiana quarterback now.”

“Still feels weird.”

“You look weird in red.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

The smile lingering on his mouth made your chest ache.

You’d missed this.

Missed him.

More than you realized.

Before you could think too hard about it, impulse took over completely.

You launched yourself at him.

Fernando caught you automatically.

Exactly like always.

Strong arms wrapping around your waist in one smooth motion while your feet lifted briefly off the ground.

But this time felt different.

Because neither of you let go immediately.

Your arms stayed looped around his shoulders.

Fernando’s hands remained steady against your waist.

Close.

Too close.

You became hyperaware of everything all at once.

The warmth of him.

The smell of his cologne beneath cold winter air.

The way his breathing hitched slightly when you settled against him.

And then, horrifyingly: his thumb moved.

Just once.

A small unconscious swipe against your side.

Your stomach flipped so hard it bordered on medically concerning.

Fernando slowly set you back down.

Neither of you stepped away.

His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary before dropping carefully to his sides.

Dangerous.

Again.

Always.

“You look happy here,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him.

Really looked at him.

At the boy who crossed the country carrying exhaustion and hope and probably feelings he still refused to name properly.

And suddenly Indiana didn’t feel temporary anymore.

“I am,” you admitted softly.

Fernando held your gaze.

Something shifted between you then.

Not dramatically.

Nothing obvious.

Just a subtle unraveling.

Like the distance that had protected both of you for years finally disappeared all at once.

Behind you, someone wolf-whistled loudly from the football entrance.

Both of you jumped apart immediately.

One of Fernando’s new teammates grinned shamelessly.

“Bro,” he called out. “You didn’t tell us she was real.”

Fernando looked moments away from walking directly into traffic.

You, unfortunately, started laughing so hard you had to grab his arm for balance.

Fernando glanced down at your hand wrapped around his sleeve.

Then at you.

And despite his embarrassment, he smiled too.

Soft.

Fond.

Gone the second anyone else looked too closely.

Indiana athletics became unbearable about the two of you almost immediately.

Not maliciously.

Just relentlessly.

Because apparently there was nothing college athletes loved more than watching two emotionally constipated people orbit each other for years without figuring it out.

“You know he looks at you like a rescued dog seeing sunlight for the first time, right?” one of your teammates asked casually during stretching.

You almost tore a hamstring.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that man is down catastrophically.”

Across campus, the football team was somehow worse.

Fernando made the mistake of mentioning your name exactly one time during film review.

One.

And suddenly his teammates acted like they were witnessing a live-action romance novel.

“Gymnastics girl texting you again?”

“She has a name.”

“OHHHHH.”

Fernando regretted speaking instantly.

Unfortunately for him, things only escalated from there.

Because once Fernando Mendoza settled into Indiana, he started existing around you the way gravity existed around planets.

Constantly.

Naturally.

Inevitably.

He walked you home after late practices.

Showed up to meets carrying coffee and protein bars because “you forget to eat when you’re stressed.”

Sat beside you during study hall with his knee pressed lightly against yours under the table like it meant nothing.

And the problem was: Fernando loved through consistency.

Not grand gestures.

Tiny things.

Accumulating things.

Like the fact he automatically handed you the pickles off his sandwich because he remembered you liked them.

Or how he’d pause football film every twenty minutes to ask if your ankle was bothering you.

Or the way he learned the names of your gymnastics skills so thoroughly he started critiquing landings like someone’s deeply invested suburban father.

“You had too much chest forward on the landing there,” he informed you one night.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You are a quarterback.”

Fernando shrugged calmly from your couch. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain psychological warfare.”

He grinned.

Actually grinned.

God.

That smile was becoming a problem.

The first real almost happened during Indiana’s season opener.

The atmosphere inside Memorial Stadium felt electric.

Students screaming. Music shaking the stands. Camera flashes exploding across the field every few seconds.

And in the center of all of it stood Fernando in crimson and cream looking terrifyingly good under stadium lights.

Which was rude of him, honestly.

You sat with his family during the game because somewhere over the years his parents had simply started treating you like additional offspring.

His mother grabbed your hand every time Indiana scored.

His younger brother kept yelling: “THAT’S MY QUARTERBACK.”

Technically true.

Emotionally annoying.

And Fernando?

Fernando played like someone finally breathing properly for the first time in years.

Loose.

Confident.

Happy.

You noticed it immediately.

Every pass looked sharper. Every movement more certain. The tension that followed him through his final months at Cal had loosened visibly from his shoulders.

At halftime, he glanced toward the stands searching automatically.

And the second he spotted you?

His entire face softened.

The cameras caught that too.

Obviously.

Because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating both of you publicly.

Your phone exploded instantly.

ROOMMATE: girl that man looked at you like you personally invented happiness

You locked your phone immediately.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Indiana won by fourteen.

The stadium erupted afterward.

Students flooded the lower sections while the marching band blasted fight songs loud enough to rattle your bones.

You barely made it halfway toward the tunnel before Fernando spotted you.

And suddenly there he was.

Still sweaty from the game. Helmet tucked under one arm. Joy radiating off him so brightly it almost startled you.

“You were incredible,” you told him honestly.

Fernando laughed breathlessly. “It’s one game.”

“Yeah, and you looked like a completely different person out there.”

Something softened in his expression.

Then quieter: “I think I needed this.”

The honesty in his voice wrapped tightly around your chest.

You stepped closer instinctively.

“So did I.”

For a second, the noise around you faded strangely.

Fernando looked down at you with that same expression he always got when he forgot other people existed nearby.

Too focused.

Too warm.

Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs.

Then his hand settled against your waist automatically.

Like it belonged there.

Your breath caught immediately.

Fernando froze too.

Neither of you moved.

The air shifted.

Again.

Always again.

You could feel the warmth of his palm even through your jacket.

His eyes flicked toward your mouth.

Your stomach flipped violently.

One second longer and something irreversible probably would’ve happened.

Instead:

“MENDOZA!”

A reporter appeared out of nowhere like a demon summoned specifically to ruin your lives.

Fernando blinked hard.

His hand dropped immediately.

The moment shattered.

Again.

Always.

“You mind answering a few questions?” the reporter asked.

Fernando still looked slightly dazed. “Uh. Yeah.”

You stepped backward carefully, trying to ignore the fact your heartbeat was now actively attempting escape.

The reporter grinned between the two of you knowingly.

You considered faking your own death.

Fernando rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before glancing toward you again.

“You waiting for me after?”

The question came out hopeful enough to hurt.

Your chest tightened instantly.

“Obviously.”

His smile after that followed you around for three straight days.

Later that night, you sat beside him on the hood of his car outside the stadium long after everyone else had gone home.

Cold autumn air drifted through the parking lot while campus lights glowed softly in the distance.

Fernando leaned back against the windshield beside you, exhausted in the loose-limbed way that only happened after good games.

“You know,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “Indiana fans are already obsessed with you.”

“They’re obsessed with winning.”

“Mm. No. They specifically like you.”

Fernando made a skeptical face.

You laughed softly. “You’re charming when you’re not trying to be.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s unfortunately very real.”

A quiet smile tugged at his mouth.

Then silence settled again.

Comfortable silence.

The kind the two of you had built over years.

Fernando stared up at the night sky for a while before speaking softly.

“I almost didn’t transfer.”

Your head turned immediately.

“What?”

He shrugged slightly. “It was scary.”

“Leaving Cal?”

“Leaving everything I knew.”

Your chest tightened.

Because suddenly you understood exactly what he wasn’t saying.

Leaving you there would’ve hurt too much.

The realization sat heavily between your ribs.

Fernando glanced toward you again, voice quieter now.

“But every time I pictured staying…” He hesitated briefly. “It just stopped feeling right.”

Your heartbeat slowed painfully.

Cold air curled around both of you while the stadium lights hummed softly nearby.

“And Indiana did?” you asked.

Fernando looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

Like the answer lived directly in front of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

And for one terrifying second, you thought he might finally say it.

He didn’t say it.

Of course he didn’t.

Because apparently the universe had decided the two of you would spend the rest of your lives hovering one emotional sentence away from changing everything.

Instead, Fernando Mendoza looked away first.

Then cleared his throat like the moment hadn’t just nearly detonated both your nervous systems.

“You cold?” he asked.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Fernando.”

“What?”

“You cannot say something devastatingly romantic and then immediately ask if I’m cold.”

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “I asked a normal question.”

“You absolutely did not.”

A laugh escaped him then.

Soft. Genuine.

The sound wrapped warmly around your chest in the dangerous way only Fernando’s laughter could.

“You never answer questions directly,” you accused.

“That’s not true.”

“You once avoided telling me your favorite movie for six months.”

“I needed time.”

“To develop an opinion on a movie?”

“It was complicated.”

You snorted.

Fernando smiled at you for a second too long before leaning back against the windshield again.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Sort of.

Not really.

Because afterward, things shifted anyway.

Subtly at first.

Then all at once.

The problem with unresolved feelings was that eventually they started leaking into everything.

Especially once you lived in the same place again.

You and Fernando fell back into each other’s routines with alarming ease.

Morning coffee runs. Late-night study sessions. Recovery treatment appointments. Postgame dinners.

It felt natural.

Too natural.

Like distance had only paused something inevitable instead of stopping it.

And Fernando, unfortunately, had become even worse at hiding how much he loved you.

Not verbally.

Never verbally.

But physically?

Emotionally?

Disastrously obvious.

He looked for you constantly.

You noticed it during games first.

Every single time Fernando ran onto the field, his eyes searched the stands automatically until they found you.

Only then would he settle.

Like your existence physically calmed him.

His teammates noticed too.

“Oh my god,” one receiver muttered during warmups after following Fernando’s line of sight into the crowd. “He’s actually insane.”

Meanwhile, your own team had fully given up pretending you weren’t basically together already.

“You know what’s funny?” your teammate Lily said during conditioning one morning.

“No.”

“If Fernando proposed tomorrow, none of us would even blink.”

You nearly dropped a medicine ball directly onto your foot.

“He’s not going to propose!”

Lily stared at you.

“Babes, you two practically share custody of emotional stability.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

“It means marry him faster.”

You hated how warm your face became afterward.

Because part of you wanted that.

Terrifyingly badly.

Not marriage specifically. Okay maybe a little specifically.

But the idea of permanence with Fernando had started feeling less frightening lately.

And more inevitable.

Which was arguably worse.

The first real crack in your self-control happened in November.

Gymnastics season was approaching fast, meaning your stress levels had reached medically concerning heights.

Your coach adjusted three separate routines that week. Midterms were crushing you alive. Your ankle had started bothering you again during landings.

By Thursday night, you were exhausted enough to cry over a broken hair tie.

So naturally, Fernando showed up.

Because somehow he always knew.

You opened your apartment door to find him standing there holding takeout bags and looking vaguely concerned.

“You forgot dinner again.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Are you tracking me?”

“You posted a photo from the gym six hours ago.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves you’re surviving exclusively on caffeine.”

He stepped inside before you could argue further.

Warm food smells instantly filled the apartment while you collapsed dramatically onto the couch.

Fernando glanced around at your scattered notes and textbooks.

“Rough week?”

“I’m going to fake my death.”

“That feels excessive.”

“You’ll understand when I become a mysterious gym cryptid living in the forest.”

Fernando laughed quietly while unpacking food containers onto your coffee table.

Then, without even thinking about it, he handed you a fork already prepared exactly the way you liked.

No onions. Extra sauce. Napkins because you always forgot them.

Tiny things.

Always tiny things.

Your chest ached suddenly.

Fernando sat beside you afterward, shoulder brushing yours naturally while football highlights played softly from the TV neither of you were actually watching.

For a while, the silence felt peaceful.

Then your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Unknown number.

You frowned slightly before opening the message.

hey, this is ethan from psych class a bunch of us are going out friday if you wanna come

Fernando didn’t react outwardly.

But beside you, his entire posture went subtly still.

You noticed immediately.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

“Oh my god,” you groaned dramatically. “Not another one.”

Fernando looked at the TV with suspicious intensity. “Another what?”

“A guy asking me out.”

Too casual. You said it too casually on purpose.

Fernando nodded once.

Still staring forward.

“Nice.”

You blinked slowly.

Nice?

That was the response?

Your irritation flared instantly for reasons that were absolutely irrational and deeply embarrassing.

“Nice?” you repeated.

Fernando finally glanced over. “What?”

“That’s your reaction?”

“What reaction am I supposed to have?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Excellent question actually.

Because what reaction did you want?

For him to look jealous? Upset? Possessive?

Your stomach flipped uncomfortably.

Fernando watched your expression carefully now.

Too carefully.

“You don’t wanna go?” he asked softly.

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

The room suddenly felt too warm.

You looked away first.

“I don’t know.”

Silence settled heavily between you.

The football game continued faintly in the background while your pulse thudded unevenly beneath your ribs.

Then quieter, Fernando asked: “Do you like him?”

You almost laughed.

The question felt absurd.

“No.”

“Then don’t go.”

Your eyes snapped toward him instantly.

Fernando looked like he regretted speaking the second the words left his mouth.

Too honest.

Too fast.

Your heartbeat stumbled violently.

“What if I wanted to?” you asked carefully.

A long pause.

Then: “…I’d still tell you not to.”

The air changed immediately.

Fernando realized it too.

You could see panic flicker across his face as he sat up slightly straighter.

“I just mean,” he started quickly, “you’re stressed and busy and—”

“Fernando.”

He stopped.

Your voice came out quieter than intended.

“Why do you care?”

Silence.

Real silence this time.

Heavy enough to feel.

Fernando looked at you for a long moment without answering.

And suddenly your entire chest tightened because for the first time in years, it seemed like maybe he actually might say it.

Finally.

Maybe finally.

Fernando looked terrified.

Not of you.

Never of you.

Of the moment itself.

Like he could physically see the edge both of you had been circling for years and suddenly realized one wrong sentence would send everything over it.

The silence stretched between you, thick and electric.

You could hear the faint commentary from the football game still playing in the background. The hum of your refrigerator. Your own heartbeat pounding hard enough to be medically alarming.

And Fernando just…looked at you.

Dark eyes steady. Guard completely cracked open for once.

“Because,” Fernando Mendoza said slowly, “I don’t think I’m very good at pretending anymore.”

Your breath caught.

Every muscle in your body went still.

Fernando laughed softly then, but it sounded nervous. Almost disbelieving.

“Honestly,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “I think I stopped being good at pretending a long time ago.”

Your chest physically hurt now.

“Fernando…”

“I know,” he interrupted immediately. “I know this is probably a terrible idea.”

“Then why are you saying it?”

His eyes met yours again.

And there it was.

Years of it.

Every airport goodbye. Every late-night call. Every almost-kiss. Every lingering touch and held-back confession and moment that meant too much.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asked quietly.

You nodded before fear could stop you.

Fernando exhaled once.

Then: “I transferred here for football.” A pause. “But not just for football.”

The room tilted slightly.

Your stomach flipped violently.

“Fernando…”

“I tried to talk myself out of it.” His voice remained calm somehow, even while his expression absolutely wasn’t. “I told myself it was the offensive system. The coaching staff. NFL development.” A helpless laugh escaped him. “And all of those things are true.”

“But?” you whispered.

His eyes softened instantly.

“But every future I wanted somehow still had you in it.”

That nearly shattered you.

You looked away immediately because your vision blurred all at once.

God.

God.

For years you’d imagined this conversation differently.

More dramatic maybe. Cleaner. Certain.

Instead it felt terrifyingly vulnerable.

Like standing in the middle of something enormous with nowhere left to hide.

Fernando noticed your silence instantly and panic flashed across his face.

“Hey,” he said quickly, shifting closer. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

That somehow made it worse.

Because even now, even while confessing feelings he’d clearly carried forever, his first instinct was still protecting you from pressure.

Your throat tightened painfully.

“You idiot,” you whispered shakily.

Fernando blinked. “That’s…not ideal feedback.”

A laugh escaped you unexpectedly.

Wet and breathless and tangled with tears.

Fernando’s entire expression softened seeing it.

And suddenly you couldn’t take it anymore.

Years. Years of this.

You turned toward him fully on the couch, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe.

“I have been in love with you,” you confessed quietly, “for an actually humiliating amount of time.”

Fernando froze.

Completely.

Like his brain stopped functioning mid-thought.

“What?”

You laughed once through your tears. “See? This is why we’re a disaster. We’ve both apparently been losing our minds in silence for years.”

Fernando stared at you.

Still frozen.

“You…” He blinked rapidly. “Since when?”

You gave him an incredulous look.

“Fernando.”

“No, seriously.”

“THE PERFECT TEN.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“When I jumped into your arms after my perfect 10 and you looked at me like you were about to ruin both our lives.”

Realization crashed across his face instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“YEAH.”

“I thought I imagined that!”

“You absolutely did not.”

Fernando covered his face with both hands.

“You’re kidding.”

“I spent three straight days replaying it in my head.”

“I almost kissed you.”

“I KNOW.”

Silence.

Then both of you started laughing at the exact same time.

Not graceful laughter either.

The slightly hysterical kind that comes after holding tension for far too long.

Fernando dropped his hands slowly, still staring at you like he couldn’t fully process this was real.

“You loved me at Cal?” he asked softly.

You looked at him for a second before answering.

“There was never really anyone else for me.”

The honesty of it settled heavily between you.

Fernando’s expression changed instantly.

Something tender. Something wrecked.

Your heart stumbled.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “how many times I almost told you.”

“You have no idea how many times I almost begged you to.”

That did it.

Something in Fernando’s restraint finally snapped.

Not wildly. Not dramatically.

Just enough.

He moved toward you slowly, carefully, like he was still giving you time to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not even slightly.

His hand lifted gently toward your face before hesitating for half a second.

You leaned into it immediately.

Fernando exhaled shakily at that.

And then finally, finally, he kissed you.

Soft at first.

Careful in that devastatingly Fernando way.

Like he was still worried this might somehow disappear if he moved too fast.

But the second your fingers tangled into the front of his sweatshirt, something deeper unraveled completely.

Years of longing crashed together all at once.

Fernando kissed like he loved: patiently, earnestly, with his entire heart exposed.

Your hands slid into his hair while his thumb brushed against your cheek so gently it nearly ruined you.

And when you finally pulled apart, both of you looked equally stunned.

Fernando rested his forehead lightly against yours, still holding your face carefully in both hands.

“Well,” he breathed.

You laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

“I think I’ve wanted to do that since freshman year.”

“You waited an insane amount of time.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“You were trying to psychologically torture me.”

That earned a real laugh from him.

Warm and helpless and happy in a way you’d never heard before.

Then Fernando looked at you again.

Really looked at you.

Wonder mixed with relief mixed with something almost disbelieving.

“You’re actually here,” he said softly.

Your chest tightened instantly.

“So are you.”

And for the first time in years, neither of you had to pretend anymore.

The first thing Fernando Mendoza said the morning after you kissed him was:

“I think my team is gonna be unbearable about this.”

You laughed into his chest from where you were half-asleep against him on your couch.

“That’s your biggest concern?”

Fernando looked down at you seriously. “You haven’t seen how committed they are to humiliating me.”

“Fernando, your linebacker called me ‘future Mrs. Mendoza’ before we were even dating.”

“He’s been preparing for this moment since August.”

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

Dating Fernando didn’t feel dramatic the way you always imagined it might.

It felt…easy.

Like finally putting down something heavy you didn’t realize you’d been carrying for years.

There was no awkward adjustment period.

No uncertainty.

Just relief.

Relief in reaching for his hand openly. Relief in kissing him goodbye without pretending it meant less than it did. Relief in finally hearing him say things he’d been holding back forever.

Like: “Text me when you get home.”

Or: “You looked beautiful tonight.”

Or, your personal favorite: “I love you.”

The first time he said it happened accidentally.

Which somehow made it more Fernando.

You were sitting on the floor of his apartment halfway through helping him study red zone adjustments when he stood up to grab water from the kitchen.

“Can you hand me that notebook?” he called.

You tossed it toward him badly.

Fernando caught it against his chest with a startled laugh. “You absolutely would not survive as a quarterback.”

“Rude.”

“You throw like someone afraid of the football personally.”

“Again: rude.”

He grinned while opening the notebook. “Still love you though.”

Silence.

Fernando froze instantly.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

The poor man looked like he wanted to physically rewind time.

“I…” Fernando blinked rapidly. “Okay, so apparently that’s how I’m saying it.”

Your heart melted so violently it should’ve been studied scientifically.

You stood up immediately.

“C’mere.”

Fernando still looked stunned as you walked toward him.

“You don’t have to say it back right away,” he said quickly. “I mean, obviously we’ve established feelings are happening, I just didn’t plan for the actual wording to happen while discussing defensive coverage.”

You grabbed his face before he could continue spiraling.

“I love you too.”

Fernando went completely still.

Not nervous-still. Not shocked-still.

Just overwhelmed.

Like happiness hit him so hard he forgot how to function for a second.

Then he kissed you with enough emotion behind it to leave your knees weak.

Afterward, he buried his face briefly against your shoulder and muttered: “Thank God.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped his notebook again.

The internet, unfortunately, also found out eventually.

Not because either of you announced it.

Mostly because Fernando looked at you like a man witnessing divine intervention every time you entered a room.

Hard to hide, really.

The official confirmation happened after Indiana beat Michigan in a game that basically turned campus into a temporary lawless nation-state.

The stadium erupted afterward.

Students stormed the field. Reporters screamed over each other. Someone climbed a light pole for reasons nobody fully understood.

And in the center of all of it stood Fernando, grinning so brightly it almost didn’t look real.

You barely made it through the crowd before he spotted you.

Then immediately started moving in your direction.

Like always.

Only this time there was no hesitation.

No almost.

Fernando reached you, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you right there in the middle of the chaos while cameras absolutely lost their minds around you.

The stadium somehow got louder.

Somewhere nearby, one of his teammates yelled: “IT’S ABOUT TIME.”

By morning, social media had detonated completely.

THEY FINALLY DID IT WE SURVIVED THE SLOWEST BURN IN NCAA HISTORY HE TRANSFERRED ACROSS THE COUNTRY FOR HER YOUR HONOR

Edits flooded the internet within hours.

Old Cal clips. Sideline moments. Interviews where Fernando visibly forgot how sentences worked around you. Videos of you wearing his jersey. Footage of him at your gymnastics meets looking one proud smile away from ascending into heaven.

Your favorite edit used a clip from freshman year.

The hallway. The dropped papers. Fernando smiling shyly while you laughed at him for color-coding playbooks.

You stared at it for a long moment before showing him.

“Oh my god,” Fernando groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. “Why do people have archival footage of us?”

“Because apparently we’re a public service.”

“You bullied me the first day we met.”

“You were carrying enough binders to qualify as a structural hazard.”

Fernando laughed softly against your shoulder.

Then quieter: “I knew pretty fast.”

Your breath caught slightly. “Knew what?”

He lifted his head enough to look at you properly.

“That you were gonna matter to me.”

God.

Even now he could still do that to you.

Still unravel you completely with one soft sentence.

You touched his face gently. “You matter to me too, quarterback.”

Fernando smiled.

Not shy anymore. Not uncertain.

Just happy.

Steady.

Certain.

The kind of happiness that had taken years to reach you both.

Spring arrived slowly after that.

Gymnastics season ended with you winning a national title.

Fernando cried harder than your parents did.

“I am literally fine,” you informed him while he hugged you after the medal ceremony.

“You stuck that landing under insane pressure,” he argued emotionally. “Do you understand how difficult that is?”

“You sound like a sports documentary narrator.”

“You’re making fun of me during a vulnerable moment.”

“Correct.”

He kissed your forehead anyway.

Later that night, long after interviews and celebrations ended, the two of you slipped away from the noise and walked across campus together beneath soft Indiana spring air.

No cameras. No crowds. No expectations.

Just you and Fernando.

His hand stayed warm around yours while campus lights glowed gold across quiet sidewalks.

“You know what’s weird?” he said eventually.

“What?”

Fernando glanced down at you with a small smile.

“I spent years thinking telling you how I felt would ruin everything.”

Your chest tightened softly.

“And now?”

He squeezed your hand once.

“Now I think you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You looked up at him.

At the boy from the hallway floor. The quarterback with color-coded playbooks and careful eyes. The person who loved quietly until suddenly it wasn’t quiet at all anymore.

Then you smiled.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “You were worth the wait.”

And this time, finally, there was no almost left between you.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! reblogs are very appreciated :3

parts 3 and 4 are also out now too!

[hearteyes4logan]

little taste of monaco — fa¹⁴ fernando x fem!reader requested by no one fluff + smau

Image by @pabliNx_s on Pinterest! All images are off pinterest!

synopsis: simple days before the monaco gp and even when he dnfs due to a car failure, he never ceases to keep pushing to the best of his ability

note: all instagrams used besides the drivers/wags are fake

instagram.post — yourinstagram has posted!

caption: still don't know how you found this boat in monaco.. @fernandoalo_official

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fernandoalo_official: 🤫 yourinstagram: nando, seriously.. where did you get this boat? fernandoalo_official: amor, we don't need to discuss this on the gram yourinstagram: SORRY WHAT? the gram? user1: ya'll see alonso use the word 'gram' vfx_de: chat, are we serious rn 😭

lancestroll: how's the weather down there old man? freeda.likes.jack: nah, alonso i wouldn't take that.. yourinstagram: if he's old, that makes me old too lance.. lancestroll: you're never old, only your husband is

alexandrasaintmleux: omg you guys are in monaco? yourinstagram: yess!! soaking up the rays before the race this weekend alexandrasaintmleux: omg you both need to visit charles, leo and i 🫶🏼 yourinstagram: omg we def will!!

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caption: as if he doesn't take me out enough.. thank you for the surprise dinner amor @fernandoalo_official

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yourbsf: hmm, all in monaco huh.. maybe just maybe.. yourinstagram: babes.. we're alreaedy married 🤦‍♀️ yourbsf: ik ik, i was just shit-stirring user038498930283: LMAO

charles_leclerc: enjoy dinner guys ☺️ yourinstagram: aww tysm charles, we're visiting you guys tomorrow before all the chaos on thursday 🫶🏼 alexandrasaintmleux: omg i can't wait!! rollingstones.lover: omg i smell a collab coming.. user348934598347: omg right..??!!

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caption: he sure likes the toy we got him @fernandoalo_official

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alexandrasaintmleux: omg tysm you guys, he loved it 🥺 yourinstagram: omg our pleasure, he's the sweetest

fernandoalo_official: are we forgetting he attacked me.. yourinstagram: yes charles_leclerc: yes lancestroll: deserved uummwwhhaatt: LEO DID WHAT NOW? feryer12_: omg man down man down 😂 hugholiver_peers: are we forgetting his own wife said yes?? 😭

dreyhsre: the way he's sleeping on her.. 🫶🏼 pprxs: ikr they're so cute

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caption: i don't know what those two were doing.. but media day! 💚 @fernandoalo_official @pedrodelarosa_official

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fernandoalo_official: Amor mío, ¿cómo conseguiste esta foto? (My love, how did you get this photo?) yourinstagram: nando.. i was the one who took it.. lancestroll: uhm.. where was my invite yourinstagram: jessica and tina thought it was you at first 😭 lancestroll: oh no..

user89348394832: alonso getting a lil too intimate with that glass.. yourinstagram: *sigh* it's never like that.. yourbsf: BABES WHAT? yoursibling: what the hell.. that's too much info 💀 yourinstagram: GUYS IT'S NOT WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE I SWEAR yoursibling: sure.. yourbsf: YOU LIL FREAKY GIRL

astonmartinf1: in their natural habitats yourinstagram: no cause they are!! astonmartinf1: send me that photo yourinstagram: ofc admin! 😈 fernandoalo_official: What, amor?

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caption: guess who stole their husband's new shirt for qualifying🤭

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astonmartinf1: omg gurl, if you needed a shirt you should have told us yourinstagram: noo it's okay! stealing fernando's makes me feel better fernandoalo_official: How have I never realised they've gone missing? I always think I lose them. yourinstagram: shhh.. 🤫

yourbsf: awww so cutee, i do that too! yourinstagram: see! i'm not the only one @fernandoalo_official

lancestroll: you know i have plenty of new ones right? never worn. yourinstagram: it's okay, give them to nando. lancestroll: won't you end up just taking them? yourinstagram: that's exactly why you should give them to him.

fernandoalo_official: I should just stop bringing shirts home altogether.. yourinstagram: you baarely wear them anyways.. fernandoalo_official: That's because you always steal them as soon as I place them on the bed! edith.fern: LMFAO user8497345927020: typical wife behaviour!! 😂

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caption: after that weekend, we're off to our next race/adventure ✈️ @fernandoalo_official

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astonmartinf1: safe travels 💚 yourinstagram: omg thank you admin!

yoursibling: i hope the plane crashes yourinstagram: what the hell 😭 i hope mum or dad see your comment yourparent: who says we haven't fernandoalo_official: Hola mamá o papá yoursibling: i didn't mean it, duhh yourinstagram: not like me or nando got your favourite teams merch or whatever yoursibling: WHAT NO FAIR. yourinstagram: you bought this on yourself 🤭

fernandoalo_official: La próxima vez que hagamos un vuelo de muchas horas, elegiré la película. (Next time we go on a long houred flight, i'm picking the movie.) yourinstagram: you literally chose the movie.. fernandoalo_official: Did I? yourinstagram: yes amor.. you did

© hearteyes4logan

[boobytrapzap]

Fernando is loafing around.

[kuebandungs]

Unseen

Summary: When you accidentally witness something you were never meant to, Thiago Di Bianco chooses intimidation over trust. You choose not to be afraid. What starts as silent hostility turns into a dangerous pull neither of you expected—because some wars aren’t fought loudly, and some lines are crossed without either side realizing it.

Pairing: Thiago Di Bianco x fem!reader (you)

Warning: None

Tags: A quiet girl who loves books and poetry. A broken assistant coach. Angst. Enemies to lovers. Hurt/comfort vibes. Using the word (name). Authority Figure Conflict.

Word count: 2.1k

Author's note: I couldn’t find a Thiago fanfic anywhere, so this happened. I know the movie is a little cringe at times, but Thiago and Taylor absolutely are not skippable. Also, I’m back after a long while. To everyone who sent requests—thank you for waiting, and I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply to each of you yet 🤍

The first time Thiago Di Bianco speaks to you, it isn't a conversation. It's a border drawn in the cold air of the empty school corridor, long after the final bell has rung.

He finds you at your locker, your fingers stained with ink from the poetry anthology you’d been annotating. You sense him before you see him—a shift in the light, a presence that seems to absorb the sound from the hall. When you turn, he’s there, leaning against the row of lockers opposite, his arms crossed over his coach’s jacket. His eyes, the colour of a storm over the sea, hold no warmth.

“(Name).” Your name is a statement, not a greeting. It sounds foreign in his mouth, like he’s testing a word he doesn’t like. “We need to talk.”

You close your locker slowly, the metallic click echoing. “Mr. Di Bianco.” You keep your voice neutral, a librarian’s tone. “Is there a problem with my history paper?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He ignores your question. “I saw you. Yesterday. Outside the gym.”

You know what he means. You’d seen them—Thiago and Kamila, standing too close in the shadow of the equipment room. The air between them had been so charged it felt like a physical thing, a crackle of unsaid words and old ghosts. You hadn’t lingered. You hadn’t wanted to. But you had seen.

“I was on my way to the library,” you say, which is true, but feels like a lie under his intense scrutiny.

“What you think you saw,” he begins, pushing off the lockers to stand at his full height. He’s taller up close, and the scent of him— clean cotton and something darker, like regret, washes over you. “It’s not what it looks like. Kami… Kamila is dealing with enough. She doesn’t need rumours. This school doesn’t need more gossip.”

The protectiveness in his voice is sharp, edged with something desperate. It’s the tone of a man guarding a fortress that’s already fallen. It annoys you, this presumption.

“I’m not in the business of creating rumours, Mr. Di Bianco,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I have better things to do with my time.”

He steps forward, just one step, but it’s enough to invade your space. “Good. Then we understand each other. Keep what you saw to yourself. For everyone’s sake.”

Something snaps quietly inside you. You’ve spent your life observing, navigating the emotional minefields of others with careful silence. But this— this blatant intimidation from a man who is supposed to be an authority figure, it feels unclean.

You look up, meeting his stormy gaze without flinching. Your voice drops, but it gains a new steel. “What I understand,” you say softly, each word deliberate, “is that you are trying to silence a potential witness to something you feel ashamed of. I understand that you are using your position not to guide, but to threaten. And I understand, most clearly, that a man who resorts to this doesn’t deserve the respect his title demands.”

The silence that follows is absolute, deafening. His face goes pale, then a flush of anger rises on his neck. You’ve struck a nerve, exposed a raw truth he’s been running from for a decade. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the sudden, wounded flicker in his eyes before the shutters slam down again.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. Not as a background student, not as a potential gossip, but as a tangible threat to the fragile narrative he’s built his survival upon.

You give him a final, measured look. “If there’s nothing else about my academic work, I have to go. Good evening, Mr. Di Bianco.”

You walk away, your heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t look back, but you feel his gaze burning into your retreating form, a brand of newfound and unwanted attention.

---

The war is silent after that. It’s fought in glances across the cafeteria, where he sits with the coaching staff and you sit with a book. It’s in the way he’s unfairly strict during the one P.E. class you can’t avoid, his critiques of your basketball technique sharp and personal. It’s in the essays he returns to you—you, the top student in History—marked with unusually harsh, red-inked comments that speak more of his irritation than your comprehension.

You refuse to yield. You meet his harshness with icy, impeccable politeness. You correct his factual errors in class with a calm, devastating precision that makes the other students gasp. You become a quiet, immovable object to his unstoppable force.

The turning point comes on a rain-slicked afternoon. You’re in the school’s neglected greenhouse for your botany project, the humid air thick with the scent of soil and growing things. He finds you there, not by design, you think. He looks lost, his hair damp from the rain, his coach’s jacket clinging to his broad shoulders. He’s come here to escape, you realise. Just like you.

For a long moment, he just stands at the entrance, watching you gently repot a fledgling orchid.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he states, his voice rough.

You don’t look up. “Should I be?”

“Most people are. Or they tiptoe around me like I’m a live wire.”

“I’m not most people.” You finally glance at him. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes pronounced. The angry facade has crumbled, leaving behind something hollow and achingly young. “And you’re not as frightening as you think you are. You’re just… very sad.”

He flinches as if you’ve struck him. No one has ever said it so plainly. Not to his face.

He takes a step inside, the glass door sighing shut behind him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you carry a guilt so heavy it’s bending your spine,” you say, turning back to your plant, your fingers steady though your pulse races. “I know you punish everyone around you for a crime you think you committed. Starting, it seems, with me.”

The rain drums a frantic rhythm on the glass roof. He sinks onto a rusty bench, his head in his hands. “You have no idea what I’ve done. What I failed to do.”

You set down your trowel and walk over, sitting on the bench opposite him, leaving a careful space between. You don’t touch him. You just offer your presence, a silent witness in this glass-walled confessional.

“I saw the accident report,” you say quietly. You’d looked it up in the old digital archives of the local paper after your confrontation. A tragic crash on a stormy night. A young girl lost. A family ripped apart. “I read between the lines. It wasn’t your fault.”

He lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “Everything is my fault. If I hadn’t… if we hadn’t seen… if I had just kept my mouth shut, or held the wheel, or…”

The story pours out of him then, in fractured, pained sentences. The perfect neighbour, the hidden affair, the birthday party from hell, the shattered trust, the panicked flight in the rain. The loss. The all-consuming, decade-old loss.

You listen. You don’t offer platitudes. You don’t tell him it’s okay. Because it’s not. When he’s finished, spent and raw, the greenhouse is filled with a different kind of silence—softer, shared.

“You were a child,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You all were. Children in a storm made by adults. You didn’t drive the car, Thiago.”

It’s the first time you’ve used his first name. It hangs in the humid air between you, a bridge.

He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He searches your face, looking for pity, for judgment. He finds only a quiet, unwavering understanding.

“Why?” he rasps. “Why do you even care? After how I treated you?”

You consider the question, tracing the pattern of condensation on the bench beside you. “Because someone has to see you,” you say simply. “Not the assistant coach. Not the tragic older brother. Not Kamila’s lost love. Just you. The man who’s been in the dark for so long, he’s forgotten what the light looks like.”

Something shifts in the space between you. The enemy lines blur, then dissolve entirely. The tension that was once hostile transforms, heating into something else entirely—a magnetic pull, dangerous and undeniable.

He reaches out, slowly, as if moving through deep water. His fingers, calloused from basketballs and years of clenched fists, brush a strand of hair that has escaped your braid, tucking it gently behind your ear. The touch is electric, a shock that travels straight to your core.

“(Name).” he whispers, and this time your name is a prayer, a question.

You don’t have an answer. Not yet. But when his gaze drops to your lips, you don’t pull away. The world narrows to the sound of the rain, the scent of earth and him, and the terrifying, beautiful precipice you are both about to fall from.

The war is over. Something far more perilous has just begun.

[berryt33th]

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been drawing and writing the “proto” Hectors as their own characters— think of it as the “Hectorverse”

AHHHHHH— Im really excited to share everything with them— they are my boys

I’ll have to do individual posts introducing them but here they are!!!