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syluses · 8 days ago

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thinking of sylus comforting his wife reader!!

content: insecurity, comfort, fluff, soft sylus, slight possessiveness, suggestive content

sidenote: whaaaaat a fluffy drabble?? ( ᵒ̴̶̷̤◦ᵒ̴̶̷̤ ) yes ignore me yall it’s just about that time of the month u feel me 😞 taking preemptive measures to cope with pms which means writing small comfy lads drabbles :] dunno if anybody will fw this cuz it’s purely self indulgent LOL but yeah ♡ short n sweet (1.7k 🌝)

You haven’t left the full-body mirror for several minutes, now.

No, see- there’s just something about your reflection that’s keeping you rooted in place there.

Sylus has slipped in and out of the bedroom as he gathers his things to go, his black card the last accessory needed for the evening out- tucked safely in his pocket- but now, he settles into a lazy lean against the doorway.

Watching.

There’s a slight notch in his brow as he stands there, arms folded, and lets out a forbearing sigh.

“Sweetie: You look nothing short of captivating. You’re breathtaking,” he arches an inquisitive brow, “You know that.”

Wide-eyed, held prisoner by your own portrait staring back at you— no. You don’t.

You don’t know that, and fuck if that doesn’t gut him a little on the inside, but for all the efforts he’s made to remind you of your beauty (though, that’s putting it in gentler terms; he’s inculcated you, really. Drilled it in (and in more ways than one)), your insecurities are very much built with the intent to last.

Throughout much of your relationship, they have.

Sometimes they’re a quieter thing, manageable. Other times, they stick their foot in between you both and rear their despotic heads, bent on tearing you down- and if he’s left as ruin as well in the fallout, they don’t even care.

Those wheedling, rotten voices make compelling arguments sometimes, but they eventually lose out to the greater thing: your love for Sylus, and his for you.

…That’s not to say that the battle isn’t ever close, though...

Now is one of those times where it’s advancing on you, and fast.

Right now, stuffed in your glittering, cocktail dress, with its slip in the thigh and its low-cut cleavage a hair’s width from scandalous— it’s meant to be elegant, but you feel like a fool.

A whore, even. A cheap, low-end girl insinuating herself into a space where she doesn’t belong- a world full of class and finery you were truthfully never tailored for. You’re like a bull in a china shop or a sore thumb.

Your breasts are snug, your curves are embraced by the silk, and the makeup you’d spent over an hour perfecting- your done-up hair, too- is impressive even to the most critical part of your brain.

But still, your body- it’s….

Sylus, now propping off the doorframe, eyes tracking your every expression all the while, moves to slide up behind you when your gaze flutters to the floor no different than ash and remains there. Your chest heaving with the beginnings of a mini breakdown.

Whatever it is, whatever you are— you can’t bear to look. You don’t want to. You- You won’t.

You aren’t his graceful, sophisticated trophy wife- or even half the effortlessly beautiful model you’d seen depicted in the centerfold Sylus saw you originally fawning over, the one that spurred this rash purchase on in the first place- no, what you are is ridiculous.

Your glossy eyes flit up again.

It’s all awful. But like a bad car crash, you just can’t find it in you to really look away.

He brushes aside your hair with a lithe, broad hand, exposing your neck looped with fine gold and diamond (nothing you’re deserving of, either), and stoops down to kiss your shoulder. The ruby red eyes pinned to your crestfallen face never stray far from it though, even as you close your palm over the back of his while he clasps your waist, crooning in your ear with a heavy breath.

“Kitten, what’s troubling you?”

Like he doesn’t know.

“Everything,” you shake out, tears pricking at your lashline. All that keeps you from bursting out into waterworks like a child right this very moment is the knowing that your meticulously-applied mascara will wash down your cheeks in black rivulets, effectively ruining your foundation and eyeshadow in their paths.

“E-Everything’s troubling- just look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” he hums gently, breath warm agaisnt your skin where his chin is perched on you. “And I promise you, Sweetie, I’m not seeing the same thing that you are. Tell me,” he murmurs, pasting down another chaste, lingering kiss- to the exposed nape of your neck this time- for good measure, “Do I have any reason to lie to you?”

A muscle in your cheek jumps. Your lashes flutter down. “N-No…”

“You know,” he murmurs. “Loving you’s easier than you think.”

Hesitantly, you twine your little fingers around Sylus’s forearm, his wristwatch catching a blocky highlight from the dim, flax sheen of the light fixture behind you.

“You’re gorgeous. How perfect you are—“ he mumbles at your ear, voice low and velvety as ever, composed. And yet the undertone of desperation is there; woven like fine threads throughout- it’s like a broadcasting of his eagerness. “That’s all I can see,” he breathes. “But I want you to say it, though. What do you see?”

Your answer comes quick: the first of a few others of its kind. “A whore.”

In the full-body mirror, his brow quirks in subtle, slow motion. His lips draw back from the smooth column of your dazzling neck. “What?”

A whore? …That much is new to him.

“And I feel stupid- I… I feel gross in this dress. They’d think I’m some concubine hanging off your shoulder-“ the frantically spewed words and the growing tremble in your voice is the mark of a ramble, and yet you cut yourself short. Swallowing it down as you dip your head, eyes screwing shut.

He’d preach a whole sermon if he could for all the faith he has in you. Your self-consciousness and those silly, yet disastrous little things you hold near and dear to your heart— that dictate your life while you sit back and watch— would be dismantled as soon as he got behind the podium.

…But you just don’t hear a word he says, do you? You don’t hear to begin with.

Yes- Sylus has long understood that it’s not always as easy as that. That words can fall short. He’s always considered himself a man of action, but sometimes even then it’s hard to get through to you when you shyly evade his touch and weasel out of his arms before they can even wrap around you.

Stubborn woman.

Obstinate woman.

Make him break his neck while sticking it out for you, woman.

But oh he’d lift his hand to do anything for you, woman.

The day will come where he’s made you see it.

“Concubine,” he scoffs, laughing dryly. You don’t hear that often from him, that level of bitterness, but it’s there in bounds when he huffs in your ear and turns you around to look at him, lifting your jaw up in one graceful motion.

“Let me clear this up for you, Sweetie. When people see you, their first thought they have is not that you’re some… gaudy sidepiece. The opposite. And if there’s any lingering doubts in their mind,” he explains smoothly, taking your hand in his to kiss the back of it, holding your uncertain stare all the while. “This ring puts them all to rest.”

Scarlet pools ripple with warmth, an almost playful edge to them as he attempts to lighten your mood- but you don’t quite miss the flash of woundedness that passes through.

“Besides…”

Adoration, reverence, the resolve to make you understand these truths (that you’re beautiful; pure in his sight)- a little bit of exasperation and a little bit of vulnerability— they blur together on him like winded vanes of a pinwheel. Too fast to color, too fast to catalogue.

But evidently not fast enough to pass you by completely. And so as your heart squeezes painfully in your chest—

“Does your husband’s opinion not matter to you the most?”

You bluster, “It does,” doing your damage-control as you wrap your arm around his neck and pull him impossibly closer, a hand on his jaw to cradle it reassuringly. The flutter of something so briefly small in his eyes hauls you into reality, grounds you.

“It’s all I care about, Sylus,” you implore, “But don’t you understand that if they think poorly of me, it’ll just tie back to you in their heads? They’ll think lower of you if your wife isn’t—“

“Isn’t what?” He snips back, but leans into your touch.

You fall silent.

Eyes fiery, they search yours, his breath warm and minty against your parted, floundering lips. “What they want? Well, kitten, let me be perfectly honest with you,” he chuckles lowly, tone scraping the bottom of something undeniably possessive, “I don’t want any of them to want you…. It’s pretty reasonable that the idea of somebody craving what’s mine would upset me, no?”

Not providing him with an answer- frankly unable to- he again fills the space where you can’t.

“But I like you in this dress,” he states, gaze dropping down to rake over you in a few strained breaths. Your wine lipstick. Your décolletage and the jewels draped there, blinding, hanging over the valley of your breast.

…A hickey you did a half decent job at covering, he smugly supposes.

“Much more than like, even. So if they stare, what does it matter? Let them. Like I said,… they won’t be thinking anything poor of you-“ he offers a small, blithe chuckle, “the worst will be a jealous woman or two. Nothing worthy of ruining our night out, however.”

You take a moment to ponder all of his words. Not just this evening’s- but the countless that came before, too.

You weigh your options— stubbornly continue on in your self-sabotaging ways, thoroughly exhausting yourself and Sylus out in the process; or caving to his reassurances and choosing to believe them— and then weigh your eyes shut.

Slumping into his broad chest to let him hold you, you stand against the miniature insurrection happening inside you and go for the latter.

“You really don’t mind?”

A warm hand smooths down your back; the other, petting your hair in a featherlight hover to not ruin its style, pauses for a second. “Mind what?”

You huff. “You know. Me in this dress.” Earning a longsuffering sigh on his end.

“Why do you doubt yourself? I told you. You look breathtaking in it. You act like it’s such a problematic thing, Kitten, but I only know of one person who will want to have a word with you about it…”

“O-Oh yeah? Who?”

When your husband pulls back some just to stare at you, your hands resting on either of his broad shoulders as your heart hiccups in your chest, all that keeps you from erupting in another small bout of panic and dread is the daring little quirk of his brow— the barest of grins tugging at one end of his cupid-bow lips.

As an answer, he dips his head in and angles it just so to graze his mouth over yours, the tip of his bumped nose poking your cheek as he moors you to him by the small of your back and taunts,

“Perhaps you’ll just have to find out for yourself tonight, hm?”

Something’s in his pocket, you realize as he embraces you— semi-hard, just a little insistent against your tummy— and no, it is not his credit card.

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus #sylus lads #love and deepspace x reader #sylus smut #sylus x you #sylus qin #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds #l&ds #syluses #a lil drabble cuz i’m crazy #my glorious king sylus

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cressidagrey · 7 days ago

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Override: Denied

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut.

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more… expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly.

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it.

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old.

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. ��Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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videolari · 3 months ago

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badkitty3000 · 7 months ago

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Powerless

This is based on a request I received for a Five x female reader that is just as brilliant as Five, but too shy to act on her feelings for him.

Summary: You have had your eye on Five since he first started at the university. Eventually you build up a friendship, but even though you pick up a few hints that maybe he wants something more, you just can't bring yourself to act on it. Luckily, Five has more than enough confidence for the both of you.

Five x Female Reader, 9.5k words, One-shot, reader request

Warnings: Smut, dominant Five, explicit sex

Every time you saw him walk past your reference desk at the university library, it became that much more apparent. You wanted him. On the days he wasn’t there, it was easier to pretend that you had no real interest in him outside of the subject matter he lectured about. You told yourself that you were attracted to him on a purely intellectual level, and nothing more. As if the thought of advanced quantum physics got your pulse quickening and your cheeks flushing.

Then there were those days when he would stride purposefully past, a man on a mission, coffee cup in hand, and dressed in his signature tailored suit. That’s when your little lies to yourself became much harder to believe. He would lock eyes with you, scanning your face with his piercing gaze and half-smile, before continuing on his way and suddenly you couldn’t think straight. On those days, if someone approached you for a simple question, like the library hours, you would stare back at them for several seconds before having to clear your parched throat and ask them to repeat themselves.

Unfortunately, there was no getting around it: Five Hargreeves was not only brilliant, but also sexy as hell. And you couldn’t get him out of your head.

Not that it really mattered. It was no secret that he was a wanted man by most of the staff and students there. You would watch as the more out-going women and men would make a point of cornering him on his way out of his lectures, trying to block the doorway so he couldn’t move around them. Some of them would even find excuses to lightly brush against his arm or shoulder, pretending they were just being friendly, when you knew damn well they just wanted to touch him. You’d had the same urge yourself, but you certainly weren’t going to act on it.

Not only would you never have enough nerve to be that forward, but you have observed his reactions to these advances and it usually does not go well. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The way he flinches slightly at their touches. His obvious disinterest in whatever they are trying to talk to him about. The way he shoulders right past them with hardly a second glance; intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible.

But he always manages to take the route that goes past your desk, pausing sometimes like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it before hurrying away again.

Five has been working at the same university as you for the past several months. It was a big deal when he was first hired. He was the youngest professor they had ever had on their faculty, and everyone was curious. As it turned out, this twenty-something year old man was not what anyone had expected. He was incredibly smart, but he was also brusque, no-nonsense, and sometimes just flat out mean. When he had started, he was given his own office, but for classes he preferred to use the smaller lecture room inside the vast library, although there were plenty of real classrooms around campus that he could have chosen.

Reputation aside, you were inclined to believe there was more to him than being a young, handsome, snarky genius. You were always observant when it came to people, which was part of the reason you worked at the reference desk when you weren’t working on your doctorate. You liked the quiet of the library, and the smell of the books surrounding you. You liked watching people go about their business and the way they interacted with one another. You also liked helping people, even if you were, by nature, an introvert. When it came to talking about the subject matters that interested you, then it was hard to get you to shut up. Unfortunately, there weren’t too many people that wanted to casually chat about theoretical physics and the illusion of time. Most people just wanted to know where the bathroom was.

So, since his arrival, Five had been on your radar for people-watching, but you had never spoken to him. You had once lingered outside the door of one of his classes, watching as he hurriedly scribbled figures and theories on the board, all while his students tried in vain to keep up. When one would dare to interrupt him and ask a question, there would be an aggravated sigh and a terse answer before he would continue on. The subject matter of string theory and how the concept of time is only a reflection of change was nothing you didn’t already know. You were currently working on your own thesis in that area. At one point, you considered taking a seat in the back of the room, but decided against it. You didn’t really like attention drawn to you, and besides, the class was much too rudimentary. But you never failed to slow your step as you passed by the room when he was teaching, just to hear the sound of his voice.

**********************************

“Excuse me, but I can’t seem to locate this book.”

You were engrossed in your research when a piece of paper floated down onto your desk. You recognized the voice immediately, even before looking up. When you did, there he was, apparently waiting for your response. You had never been that close to him before, and he was possibly even more gorgeous up close. His dark brown, messy hair fell over his eyes as he peered down on you with an amused expression. A dimple started to form on his cheek when the corner of his mouth turned up. He was not a huge man, but he still dwarfed your diminutive stature. Nearly everyone was taller and bigger than you, so that wasn’t new. But the way he held himself and the confidence that he exuded made him appear that much larger. You found yourself wondering what the weight of his body would feel like on top of yours.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

You finally got your brain to start working again and you blinked a few times before sputtering out an answer. “What? Oh no, you’re not. I’m sorry…I was just in my own little world I guess. What can I help you with?”

Five pointed down at the paper he had pushed at you. “That.”

On the paper was the name of a physics book that you were already familiar with. “Time: From Concept to Narrative Construct,” you read out loud. You looked back up at him with a small smile. “This is a good one.”

“You’re familiar with it?” Five asked, surprised.

You nodded. “I’ve been consulting it myself for my own research.” Reaching down into your bag that was near your feet, you pulled out a copy. “That’s why you can’t find it. I didn’t think anyone would miss it since it’s just been gathering dust on the shelf for years.”

A genuine smile crossed Five’s face and he leaned in over the desk. “I’ve never met anyone else that would read that voluntarily.”

With a laugh, you held it out to him. “I don’t think I have either. But here you go.”

“No, it’s ok, you can keep it. It sounds like you need it more than I do. What is your research about?”

“I’m currently writing a thesis on the theory of time as a social construct. I know it’s been done, but I’m hoping I can find something new and exciting to add to the field.”

“Very interesting,” he mused while still wearing that sexy, know-it-all smile. He held out his hand for you to shake. “Five Hargreeves. Nice to meet you.”

His hand was warm and firm while his long, slender fingers wrapped around yours. After introducing yourself, you felt your face flush with heat. Just the simple touch of his hand was enough to send a little bolt of pleasure through your body and you looked down at the ground, tucking a strand of your long, brown hair over your ear.

Five seemed to hold onto your hand for longer than necessary, which was nice, but you knew it didn’t mean anything. He had clearly come over here for a book and nothing more.

“Maybe we can meet up sometime and discuss our theories,” he suggested.

You couldn’t believe he was actually suggesting that, but you held in your astonishment and just nodded with a smile. “That would be nice.”

With another cock-sure smirk, Five turned and walked away while you were left sitting there, staring after him with a dreamy look on your face.

The weeks passed and you and Five had become friends. Well, maybe not fully friends; it was hard to say with him. One minute you would be having an in-depth conversation and the next he was saying a quick goodbye and hurrying away. You met for lunch at the university cafeteria to discuss everything from wormholes to the theory of time travel. When you started asking personal questions, though, he tended to shut up. But, that’s ok. You loved your little moments with him and being able to show off your intellect that nobody else appreciated.

“You really are incredibly smart, you know that, right?” Five said one day out of the blue, as you were picking at the wilted lettuce of your salad.

You looked up with raised eyebrows. “Oh…”

“I mean it,” he said, and suddenly his voice was much softer. The way he was looking at you was throwing you for a loop. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re brilliant.”

With your face flushed, you laughed softly. “Thanks, Five.”

He smiled and his green eyes flashed with something like affection before he looked down at his own food. You didn’t know what to make of this exchange, because there was no way in hell that he would be interested in you as anything more than a colleague. There was just no way. You watched as he took a drink of his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and you almost made an audible whimpering noise at the sight. What you wouldn’t give to run your lips over his slender neck, and trail kisses under his strong jaw. He caught you staring at him and you quickly looked away.

************************************

The night you decided to go out with your friends, they had picked a loud dance club in the seedier part of town that was definitely not your usual scene. But you really needed a good time out with the girls to relieve some of your academic stress, so you didn’t argue. You wore a tight dress that showed off your petite frame, and curled your hair into waves that hung down your back. You slapped on some dark eye makeup and red lipstick before heading out.

The club was packed, with the music pumping and the dance floor full of people grinding all over one another. You were not in the mood for meeting anyone though, you were just there to hang out with your friends and have a couple of drinks.

As you shoved your way towards the bar, a hand grabbed onto yours. You instinctively pulled it away, but when you looked up to see who it belonged to, you saw Five. He had a drink in his hand, most likely whiskey or bourbon, and he was dressed in his signature suit. You tried to cover your excitement on seeing him, but you smiled broadly and tried to yell over the thumping bass.

“Five! Why are you here?”

He leaned in close to you to be heard. That was the closest you had ever been to him, with his mouth just inches from your ear. He smelled like aftershave and mint, with a slight hint of the whiskey he’d been drinking. The slight scruff from his cheek scratched lightly against yours for half a second. It was intoxicating and you closed your eyes as he talked.

“I could ask the same of you. This doesn’t seem like your scene.”

You shrugged. “This is where my friends wanted to go, so I just followed along.”

“Is that right? Do you always do what other people tell you to do?”

When you looked at Five’s face, he had that smirk plastered on, and you couldn’t tell if he was trying to be flirty or not. He was just so damn hard to read.

“Depends on the person who is telling me,” you replied with a slight upturn of your red lips before blushing at your own minor innuendo.

A thoughtful look crossed over his face, followed by a slight nod of approval. “I see.” Then he leaned in close to your ear again. “That is very good to know.”

You chose to brush this comment away before it started taking up residence in your brain and causing all sorts of dirty thoughts. He was just trying to have a conversation, that’s all and nothing more. If it was coming across as flirty, it was probably because his drink had loosened him up.

“So, you didn’t answer me before. This place doesn’t seem like your scene, either. Why are you here?”

Five nodded towards the bar where a tall, lanky man in tight pants appeared to have a small group of people engrossed in a story while he gestured animatedly with a shot glass in his hand. “My stupid brother dragged me here.”

“Oh,” you said with a sly grin. “Do you always do what other people tell you to do?”

Five slowly shook his head ‘no’, then took a long drink from his glass, all while looking you in the eyes. “Not really. I’m usually the one calling the shots.”

You swallowed hard, and looked nervously around. You didn’t want him to see you acting like a fool just from some little throw away comment that you were making a big deal about in your head.

“Well, I was on my way to get a drink.” When he didn’t say anything in return, you continued. “I plan on going out on the dance floor, though.” You paused. “You should join us out there.”

Five laughed sharply. “Oh, fuck no.”

Thinking maybe you insulted him somehow, you looked away again. “Oh, well…ok. I’ll see you around I guess?”

His hand came to rest on your shoulder. “I might not dance,” he said, brushing his cheek against yours as he talked close to your ear again. “But watching you out there would be more than enough entertainment for my night.”

Once again, you were thrown by his comment. It could be taken as flirty, but then again, why would he be flirting with you? He must have been teasing you; insinuating that you would look silly dancing. Suddenly your face was burning again.

“Yeah…ok,” you said quietly, unable to hide your embarrassment. “Bye, Five.”

As you walked away, you felt him staring after you. You didn’t dare turn around, but you could picture the intensity of his gaze on your back. He had rattled you, and because you didn’t know what to make of his comments, you couldn’t decide if you should be annoyed or not. After getting your drink and heading to the dance floor to join your friends, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You had lost track of him in the crowd after your exchange, but you knew he was still there because his brother was still holding court over at the bar. So, the fact that maybe he was watching you made your body tingle with excitement. If he was, then you decided to put on a decent show for him.

For the next hour, you never left the dance floor. The music continued on an endless loop of pounding basslines, while strobe lights flashed over the crowd, dulling your senses and lulling you into a trance. Swaying your body with the beat, hands in the air, while you worked your hips and ass in enticing circles, you lost all of your usual inhibitions. You weren’t sure where your group of friends had gone, but you didn’t care. As you looked out into the sea of strangers surrounding you, one familiar face stood out.

It was Five, and he was indeed watching you. The strobe lights created an eerie effect of showing him clearly one second, and then gone the next. Each time he reappeared into your view, he was closer. Making his way through the throng of dancers, he slowly neared you, never taking his eyes off you. When he finally reached you, you stopped dancing. It was much too loud and overstimulating on the dance floor to try and talk, so you both stood staring at one another with half-smiles on your faces. After a moment, you started moving with the beat again. Five continued to stand still, his drink in hand. Laughing, you turned around so that you were faced away from him, and continued your sensual dance moves.

You knew you looked good in your tight dress, and even though you still weren't sure of his intentions, you wanted Five to notice. Another minute passed before you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You were pulled flush with their body as they moved in rhythm with you. Warm breath fanned across your shoulder and neck, and you smiled to yourself. Pushing back against them, you let your head fall back onto their shoulder while your hands came to rest on top of theirs.

“Five…” you started to say as you turned your face towards him.

The face that greeted you, however, was not the one you were expecting. This was a stranger; some man you had never seen before and he was running his hands all over your body while his erection poked into your ass.

You shrieked and tried to pull away. “Get off of me!”

The club was loud and the lights were disorienting as you struggled against the man, but he just held you tighter. You could see the predatory smile on his face, making your skin crawl. Clawing at his arms that were wrapped around you, you tried to throw your body backwards to loosen his grip. That only seemed to make things worse by pushing your ass harder into his groin. You heard him moan next to your ear and you started to panic.

“Let go, you stupid fucker!” you screamed next to his face while trying to kick and pry his arms off of you. You scanned everyone around you, trying to catch the eye of someone that may be able to help. Everyone was lost in their own worlds, and no one was paying any attention to the sexual assault that was occurring just a few feet away.

Something you did must have worked because suddenly his arms were ripped away from you and you were free. There was a loud cry of surprise from the crowd around you, and when you spun around, you saw the offending man lying in a heap on the floor. A circle of people had formed around him while he writhed on the ground holding his bleeding face.

That’s when you saw Five again. He was standing over the man, glaring down at him with a sneer, while his hands remained balled into fists at his sides. As his chest rose and fell with angry breaths, his eyes met yours.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, although no one could hear you. “Five.”

Taking a few stalking steps towards you, he grabbed onto your arm, pulling you to him with a worried look. You couldn’t hear him, but you could read his lips. “Are you ok?”

You nodded with wide eyes, still trying to fully understand the situation. Before anything else could be said or done, a large bouncer made his way through the crowd. Seeing that there was an injured man on the ground and that Five was clearly the cause of it, he immediately grasped onto Five’s upper arm and pulled him away from you.

“Come on, asshole. Out you go,” he snarled while pushing Five in the direction of the door.

“No wait!” you tried to yell out, but your voice was lost in the deafening music again.

The man Five had clocked had struggled to his feet and was stumbling away, still holding his badly broken nose. The rest of the crowd went back to their previous dancing and the circle filled in again. You were left looking at the back of the bouncer’s head as he forced Five out of the club.

Looking around for your friends, but not seeing them, you pushed your way through the dense dance floor and out into the bar area. It was still crowded, but less so, and the strobe lights weren’t affecting your vision anymore. You saw the door to the club open and close again, with the bouncer walking back towards you, alone, and you hurried towards the exit.

Outside, your ears were ringing as you took in a deep breath of the cool night air. When you saw him sitting on the curb, you let out a sigh of relief.

“Five!” you cried, before hurrying over. He looked up at you through his fringe of hair before sweeping it off his forehead with a smile. “Holy shit.” You sat down next to him, keeping your legs straight out in front of you so that your short dress wouldn’t ride all the way up. “Are you ok?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m ok. Are you?”

You nodded. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I saw some creep trying to molest you, and since it didn’t look like you were appreciating it very much, I thought I’d intervene.”

“Wow,” you breathed out, shaking your head. “I had no idea you were the knight in shining armor type.”

“I don’t think my armor is very shiny, it’s pretty tarnished most days,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well, anyway…thank you.”

He looked at you with an expression you couldn’t read, but his facial features had softened. “You’re welcome.”

You glanced down at his right hand. “Oh shit…your hand. It’s all bruised.”

Five flexed his fingers and shook out his hand. “This is nothing. I’ll be fine.”

When you ran a thumb lightly across his reddened knuckles, you thought you heard a hitch in his breathing. But when you looked back at his face, you found it unreadable again.

“Thank you again, Five. Really.”

He nodded and then looked back at the club. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be welcome back there again, not that I’m complaining. But you go back in. Go have fun with your friends.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Sit here until my brother decides he’s had enough of being a slut so I can go home.”

You pulled your mouth to the side in thought and then bumped his shoulder with your own. “You know, that club isn’t all that great. The fresh air feels good, actually.”

Five didn’t say anything, but you did see a slight smile cross his lips before it was gone again. He looked over at you, his face more serious than you’d seen it before, with his eyebrows pulled together in a way that made you want to attack his mouth with your own.

“I used to be special, you know,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I was born with special abilities. The power to time travel and teleport. I had them most of my life. Then they were violently ripped away from me and I haven’t been the same since.”

You stared back at him, not knowing what to make of this. He was clearly joking, but you couldn’t figure out what the joke was. His face was dead serious and his tone of voice conveyed an air of sadness.

“I don’t understand,” you answered hesitantly.

He shook his head with a short laugh and raked a hand through his hair again. “I know, I sound like a lunatic. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s true.” He looked off into the distance and sighed, pulling his legs up and resting his arms on his knees. “I spent most of my long life cursing the powers I had because they only ever seemed to bring me more misery. But now that I am finally rid of them…I can’t explain it, but it’s…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the word he wanted. “Painful.”

The way he said ‘painful’ cut right to your heart and you lightly rested your fingers on his arm. “What is painful, Five?”

He continued to look out at the dark sky. “You know, back there, when I punched that fucker in the face? That felt so much better than it should have. It was a rush I hadn’t felt in a long time. And yet…it still wasn’t the same. With my powers, I could have really wasted him. Probably would have had some smart-ass comment for him, too. And I sure as shit wouldn’t have been caught by some lumbering, asshole bouncer, no matter how much bigger he was than me.” He sighed again before turning to face you. “I know this makes no sense and you probably think I’m fucking insane, and I’m sorry. I just…fuck…some days I wish I weren’t so goddamn ordinary.”

“Five, you are the least ordinary person I know. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

His eyes searched your face and suddenly you realized how close you were to one another.

“But you don’t believe me, do you?” he softly.

You paused, taking in the sadness that was evident in his eyes. He somehow appeared years older, with the weariness of an older man. What he said made no sense. But you didn't think he was crazy.

“I believe you, Five.”

His eyebrows furrowed even more. “You do?”

“I think so. But I’d love for you to tell me more about it. I’d like to hear about your life.”

“I’d like to tell you,” he said with a slight nod.

A cool breeze passed over you and you shivered. Five shrugged his jacket off and placed it over your shoulders. You resisted the urge to bury your nose into the fabric to inhale the scent of him. Instead, you just smiled.

“Again, very chivalrous of you,” you teased.

He smiled. “Don’t get used to it.”

After another glance back at the bar behind you, you turned back to Five. “Well, it doesn’t look like the people we came here with are going to be joining us anytime soon. So, how about you tell me everything now.”

“Here?”

“Why not? You’ve got me curious now.”

Five paused. “Yeah, alright. Why not? But just so you know, I won’t blame you if you suddenly want to run back inside or down the street to get away from me.”

You laughed. “I can’t imagine doing that.”

“Well, just wait.”

Over the next hour, you and Five sat on the curb, ignoring the drunken groups of people that would come stumbling past you on their way in or out of the club. You were fully invested in his story. The longer he talked, the more enchanted you became, until it felt like you and he were the only people in the world. He told you all about past timelines, his power to manipulate time and space, and his ultimate downfall that led to a lifetime of loneliness and suffering. He explained about his family and all of their suffering, as well. How he just wanted to save the world and all of them with it. And about how a few years ago, it was all stripped away from him.

“So, being that I had no identity and I looked like a fucking child, I didn’t have a lot of prospects. My family took me in for a while until I figured things out, which I am grateful for but was no picnic. Eventually, I was able to secure a few fake documents in order to get a job and weasel my way into an upstanding position.” He flashed you a devious smile. “That PhD I have hanging in my office? Not exactly legit.”

You laughed, astonished. “You mean you don’t have a doctorate?”

Five shook his head. “Worse. I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

Your mouth hung open for a minute before you let out a loud, long laugh. “Holy shit! You really are a genius!”

Five laughed along with you until you both quieted down and a comfortable calm settled over you both. When he looked at you, he appeared lighter. Like he wasn’t so world-weary anymore.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Listening. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to talk to about this.” He looked away again. “And I don’t expect you to believe any of it, but the fact that you didn’t run away screaming means a lot.”

“I already told you. I believe you. And thank you, too.”

“For what?”

“Trusting me. Not too many people confide in me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m usually so quiet, or because I’m small and look younger than I am. But no one seems to take me seriously most of the time. So, thank you for seeing something else in me.”

“I see a lot of things in you,” Five said.

Just as you were about to convince yourself that maybe there was something going on between the two of you after all, the bar door opened behind you, the sound of thumping music and loud laughter spilling out into the night. When you turned, you saw your group of friends come stumbling out, giggling and falling over one another.

“There you are!” one of them laughed, pointing in your direction.

“Ooh, she’s not alone, either.”

As your face burned bright red, another one of your friends made a loud shushing noise. “Shut up, you guys…she’s trying to seal the deal. Damn, girl, go for it! He’s smoking hot!”

“Ok, then…” you said over the loud laughter, barely risking a glance in Five’s direction. You slipped his jacket off and handed it back to him. “I am so sorry. They’re usually not this obnoxious, I swear.”

Five chuckled. “I’m very familiar with being surrounded by obnoxious people.”

You stood up and Five followed. Your friends started to flag down a cab as you awkwardly smiled down at the ground.

“Thanks again for punching that guy.”

“My pleasure.” He paused. “By the way,” Five started with a grin. “I wasn’t initially sure you needed help. It looked like you were enjoying it for a second there.”

When you looked at him, he tilted his head to the side with a cocky smirk, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets. Your face burned hotter.

“Um…yeah. I guess I thought it was someone else at first,” you answered truthfully.

“Hmmm…” Five mused. “Interesting.”

Just then, you heard your friends call you over as a cab pulled up. With a wave, you left Five on the curb and got in the car. But the rest of your night was consumed with thoughts of him, and the amazing story he had told you.

*****************************

A week passed and you had been working late. The campus was quiet on the way to your car, but on a whim, you decided to cut through the building where Five kept his office. As luck would have it, you saw the light on behind the frosted glass of the door. You thought briefly of passing right by, but then you gathered enough courage to rap lightly against the frame. After a few seconds, he opened the door.

Looking amazingly fuckable, Five had shed the jacket and vest of his usual three-piece suit, and was left in his white dress shirt and black slacks. His hair was messier than normal, and when your gaze drifted behind him, you saw an opened bottle of whiskey on his desk.

“H-hi,” you stuttered out. “Am I interrupting you?”

Five paused for a second, looking you up and down, before shaking his head slowly. “No.”

He didn’t elaborate and you thought maybe you’d made a mistake coming there, but he suddenly seemed to snap out of whatever haze he had been in. He opened the door wider and gestured inside. “Please, come on in.”

You nodded, stepping inside, and he shut the door behind you with a loud click that made you jump. He was still eyeing you up as he walked to his desk and picked up the bottle of liquor.

“Can I pour you a drink?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

After another moment of silence, with just the slosh of liquid and clink of the bottle against the desk to fill the quiet, Five handed you the glass. You took it from him and his fingers brushed against yours in the process.

You cleared your throat before taking a small sip. The whiskey burned on the way down, but it was delicious. “What are you doing here so late?”

Five shrugged. “Just don’t feel like going home.”

He wasn’t exactly being short with you, but you could tell he was holding something back. After your deep conversation that night outside the club, you felt that you had made a real connection with one another. This, however, seemed like you had taken a step backwards.

“Oh.” You looked around, noticing the somewhat messy mahogany desk that acted as his work station. Behind it rose a wall of bookshelves that were filled with what you imagined to be very advanced physics texts. There didn’t appear to be any real personal items anywhere. No photos of family. No trinkets or tchotchkes on display. Not even any awards or plaques, although you were sure he’d earned some.

“So,” you started nervously. “I’ve figured out my thesis.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. The theory of time travel and its hypothetical consequences on multiple timelines.”

He paused before snorting out a laugh and taking a drink out of his own glass. “Sure you are.”

“I’m serious. You opened my eyes to a whole new world and I want to learn more about it. I thought…you know…I thought you could help me with my research. Since you have first hand experience.”

His eyebrows drew together as he peered at you over his glass. “Why would you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Throw your entire life’s work down the drain for some stupid ass theory that no one is going to believe. They’ll laugh at you.”

You were hurt, but tried to hide it behind a small smile. “People will believe, Five. I believe you. And we have the scientific facts to back it up. Or, at least, you do. But you can teach me. You can explain all of the physics required to work your powers.”

“I don’t have any powers,” he said dryly.

You sighed loudly. “You know what I mean. Come on, I thought you would be excited by this.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I can help with whatever you need.”

There was another awkward pause while you regarded one another, but since he didn’t say anything else, you assumed that was the end of the conversation.

“Thank you. This is really going to change our field, Five, you have no idea.” You set your glass down on the desk. “Well, it’s late, so I’ll leave you be. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

As you moved towards the door, you heard him slam his glass down next to yours. “That’s it?”

When you spun around, you had never seen him looking at you the way that he was right then. You obviously had made him mad in some way, but you weren’t sure what it could have been. His darkened eyes narrowed as they scanned your face and then your body, the muscles in his jaw working in quiet concentration. It unnerved you, but it also made your heart flip in your chest.

“I don’t understand.”

“What more do you want from me?” he asked, voice low and measured.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you answered him meekly. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what else to do to make you notice me.”

“I…I do notice you. Of course I do. We have a whole thing…I thought we were friends…I…,” you stammered before he cut you off with a shake of his head and a step towards you that had you backing up.

“That’s not what I mean and you fucking know it,” he stated plainly, right before he took another step and then another, all the while corralling you away from the door and back into the room.

You sucked in a loud breath as your butt hit the desk behind you, trapping you. “Five…I really don’t–”

“Stop,” he hissed. “You’re the smartest person I know, so cut the shit. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Stop pretending that you don’t.”

At that, you felt a fire light inside of you. It was a combination of the months-long hunger you’ve felt for him and the urge to defend yourself against his asshole remarks.

“Whatever the fuck you’re talking about Five, I’m not playing your little guessing game. If you’re accusing me of something, just say it.”

His lips curled into a sinister smile as he crowded into your personal space. “Fine, I can be blunt. I have done everything I can think of these past few months. We had good conversations, we connected; I tried flirting, although I admit I’m not very good at it. I knocked some shit head to the ground for you.” He stopped and swallowed hard, his voice becoming quieter. “I told you everything.”

“But you’re still not telling me what you want,” you argued, trying to stay strong as your eyes drifted to his lips.

“You,” he rasped. “I want you. And I think you fucking know that.”

You shook your head almost imperceptibly. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Liar,” he said with a smirk before closing the few inches between you, making you lean back with your hands supporting you on the desktop behind you. You drew in a sharp breath as his hand trailed gently over your cheek, spreading what felt like fire across your skin as he placed his palm against the side of your neck. “Tell me the truth.”

With a hard, audible swallow, you raised your hand to clasp it around his wrist. His skin was warm against yours and you could feel his thrumming pulse under your fingers. “I want you, too. I just didn’t think–”

Cut off from finishing your thought, Five’s mouth was on yours in a heartbeat. Your lack of resistance was immediate as you gave into him; kissing him urgently as you clenched harder onto his wrist. The quiet whimper that you gave made him smile as he used his teeth to gently nip at your bottom lip.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” Five said when he pulled away.

“What have you been thinking about, exactly?” you said with a flutter of your eyelashes. You weren’t sure where this new assertiveness was coming from, but you let your free hand slide down the side of his chest and stomach before hooking a finger into the belt loop of his pants.

A feral look crossed Five’s face as he pressed into you. With an easy twist of his wrist, he forced your hand off of him until he was the one grasping yours. Taking your soft gasp as a positive reaction, he did the same with your other hand. He leaned his head in close, his eyes closing as he brushed his lips against yours for just a second.

“Fucking you,” he replied plainly, as if that were obvious, his voice even and low. He pushed his thigh between your legs. “Right here.” His mouth trailed along your jaw; the scruff of his chin scraping against your neck. “Making you come on my cock while you’re moaning my name.”

As if he put some sort of spell on you, you automatically whined out, “Five…,” as your eyes fell shut and you pressed your groin against his leg.

“Just like that,” he praised with a smirk, holding your wrists just a little tighter. “Only louder.” When your hazel eyes opened again, they were met with his emerald ones staring steelily down on you. “We could play this game a little more, but I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You blinked up at him, your lips parted, and you gave him a small nod of assent.

He dove onto your mouth again, his tongue slipping inside, as he squeezed your wrists. When he moaned quietly, his body flush with yours again, you tried to free your hands so that you could feel more of him, but he held tight. When he moved away from your mouth, he slid his soft lips over your cheek and down your neck, nuzzling into you with his nose and chin.

“I’ve wanted this for so long. You’re the only one that understands me,” he whispered before finally letting go of your wrists and boosting you up onto the desk. Your skirt rode up your thighs as you spread your legs just enough to let him stand in between.

Letting your hands roam over the soft material of his dress shirt, following the curve of his firm, trim waist, and around to his back, you answered him softly. “I do understand you, Five. You’re amazing.”

He didn’t say anything to that, only continued kissing down your neck and over your collarbone. His fingers came to rest at the hem of your sweater, lifting it just slightly above your waistline before stopping. Drawing his head back, he looked deeply into your eyes. That untamed intensity was still there and you held your breath in anticipation of what was going to come next.

“Do you know how to be a good girl?” he asked in that tone that made your mouth water.

His brazenness took you off guard, but only for a second. Fuck, you wanted to be his good girl more than anything. “Yes,” you breathed out a little too eagerly; the panties under your skirt already soaked.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face and then your chest. “Because I’m going to need you to be very, very good for me.”

You had never been so hot for someone in your life, and you felt like you were going to die if you didn’t feel more of his body on you. He pushed his hips in closer, his hard cock dragging across your pelvis, and enticing you even more.

“Five…” you whimpered.

“Shhh,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you. The feel of his lips against yours and the heat of his skin was too much and you bucked your hips sharply against him, your butt sliding forward on the desk. He drew back from your mouth, breathing hard. “Stay quiet for me, ok, sweetheart? Can you do that?”

With another pathetic nod of your head, you let him completely take command. He pulled your body roughly towards him, moaning quietly as his fervent kisses deepened and you gave yourself over to whatever power he had over you. He could have told you almost anything, and you would have followed his orders. He was all you needed; all you cared about at that moment. And, fuck, if he didn’t feel amazing with his sizeable dick straining in his pants and pressing against you.

Five was back to pulling at the bottom of your shirt, but this time he didn’t stop. You helped him by raising your hands over your head while he yanked it off. Taking a moment to look you over, his hands made their way around to your back, already working at your bra clasp. You didn’t protest, and soon you were topless while his eyes roamed hungrily over your naked chest.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he moaned before attacking your mouth again.

You made soft moaning noises as his fingers grazed over your breasts and down your stomach. You had spent so much time imagining what this would feel like and now it was really happening. He had pulled away again, breathing hard as he watched his own hands as they sensually massaged your tits, before moving down and around again. As he squeezed your ass roughly, you captured his mouth with yours, not willing to wait for him to come to you. He didn’t resist or back off, even as he continued exploring your body. Sucking at his lips, biting voraciously because you couldn’t get enough, you devoured as much of him as you could get.

Your breath was ragged and harsh as you breathed through your nose, unable to tear yourself away from his delicious taste. With a sudden flinch, Five drew back from you, leaving you panting for air. Raising his hand to his mouth, he pulled his fingers away, showing a small amount of blood on them. Five smiled evilly and licked at his lower lip.

“Biting?”

With a slow smile, you blinked up at him. “I’m sorry. You just taste so damn good.”

He made a humming noise low in his throat as he regarded you thoughtfully. With no warning, he pulled you off of the desktop, and spun you around, ignoring your sharp cry of surprise. With the edge of the desk digging into your lower stomach, you felt Five’s hands on either side of you, his strong fingers grasping at your hips. The unmistakable feeling of his hard cock pushing against your ass was next, and you supported yourself with your hands as you pushed back in response.

One of Five’s arms snaked around to hold you tighter across the front of your waist as he leaned over, covering your back with his body and nuzzling his face against the side of your neck.

“Good girls don’t bite,” he warned, his voice thick with lust. “You lied again.”

You shook your head, your hair hanging down and covering your face. “No, I can be good.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured into your neck. “Let’s see about that.”

Five moved his body so that he had you fully at his mercy. Trapped between him and the desk, you could barely move, and he was strong enough to keep you there as long as he wanted. But you had no desire to leave. Feeling him hard, with his chest heaving against your back, and his harsh breath covering your shoulders, you couldn’t think of any place else you’d rather be.

His hands were on your tits again, squeezing and pushing them together, all while he sucked painful bruises down your neck. You would be marked with his love bites tomorrow, that much was clear, and there would be no way to fully cover them. You had a feeling that was exactly what he wanted, though. Just the thought of everyone seeing what he had done to you was enough to send another surge of wetness between your legs.

Five’s hands slowly made their way down your sides and then your thighs, before coming to the hem of your skirt. This time, unlike with your sweater, he did not hesitate to pull it up. Bunching it around your waist, you were fully exposed to him, aside from the very small pair of thong underwear you were wearing.

“Oh, fuck,” Five moaned as he caressed your ass cheek, and then gave it a light slap. “God, this ass is perfect.”

He enveloped your entire body again, leaning over you so that your upper half was forced down onto the desk. You let out a whimper and bit at your lower lip in an effort to control yourself. You wanted him so badly it hurt, but you also wanted to be good for him, just like he asked. So instead of crying out and begging for him to fuck you, you stayed quiet. The only signs that you were desperate for him were the harsh sounds of your breathing and the way your ass rhythmically rocked against his crotch as if it had a mind of its own.

His fingers wound into your hair as he gave it a tug, forcing your head back as he whispered softly against your neck; his lips tracing feather-light patterns over your skin, but never kissing you.

“Tell me you want me.”

Your answer caught in your throat as you closed your eyes. “I want you.”

Five moved his mouth down to your shoulder, the vibration of his dark voice sending a blissful chill down your spine.

“Tell me you want my cock.”

“I want your cock,” you whined, not even a little ashamed of your submission or arousal.

When Five’s fingers slid their way around your front and into the side of your panties, you gulped in a loud breath and exhaled with a sigh. He knew what he was doing, that much was clear, and he began quickly working you into a frenzy while you shamelessly rolled your hips with each stroke of his hand. Slowly massaging your throbbing clit with his thumb, he entered you with his middle finger. You were so wet for him that you were dripping down his hand and onto his wrist. That just seemed to urge him on, and he continued to slide in and out of your hole with ease, hitting every nerve on the way, until you were moaning and panting with desire.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he demanded. He sucked another bruise onto your shoulder and pressed his thumb harder against you, making you cry out.

“Yes! Please…I want you to fuck me!”

“Say it again.”

“Five!” you whined pitifully. “I want you to fuck me! I’ve been wanting you to fuck me for so long. Just…please!”

With a quiet laugh, Five removed his fingers from between your legs. In another second, he was pulling your panties down your hips and thighs, until they fell onto the floor. Left in nothing but your bunched up skirt, you waited for his next move.

For a minute, you only heard the rustling of clothing mixed with his harsh breathing. When you looked to the side, you saw his shirt being discarded onto the floor. You instinctually made to turn around, but he immediately placed a hand on your back, keeping you in place. His palm was warm and firm against your bare skin as you submitted to his wordless request. The sound that followed was the clinking of metal on metal as he began to undo his belt with his one free hand.

You involuntarily pushed your ass back, but received nothing in return except for a low chuckle. The agonizingly slow pace with which he was unzipping his fly was killing you. A thin river of your arousal slipped down the inside of your thigh, but you could do nothing but wait.

When finally you felt his warm, thick cock slide against your backside, you let out a shaky groan.

“What do you think, sweet girl?” he teased, rubbing the swollen head between your legs, spreading your wetness over you both. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes…fuck yes…” you gasped. You could barely make out any words; your focus was entirely on his dick and how badly you wanted him inside of you.

You widened your stance when he used his foot to gently nudge your feet apart and allow him better access. His hands grasped at your hips as he pulled you back, and you let your head hang down.

Five eased his cock into your waiting pussy, pausing a few times as he stretched you open. You forgot to breathe as he pushed slowly into you until you were fully penetrated and you heard him make a low growling noise as his pelvis became flush with your ass.

“Five,” you whispered under your breath as you remembered to take in oxygen again.

“What is it, darling?” he asked, the restraint evident in the tightness of his voice.

You arched your back in desperation and made a sad, crying noise that might have sounded painful if you didn’t answer him loudly. “More! Five, please!”

Hugging you tightly to his chest, his dick still fully buried inside of you, he moaned against your shoulder. “Fuck…you are my good girl, aren’t you?”

After one grunting slap of his hips against your ass, you braced yourself with your hands in preparation. Any restraint that Five had been holding onto before that moment was lost, and he began fucking you hard and rough; pounding his thick cock into you over and over again while you whined and moaned beneath him. He told you how beautiful you were, and how long he had been waiting for this moment, all while driving himself deeper inside of you. His dick was hitting just the right spot and you had never felt this amount of intensity from someone else before. You wanted more. It didn’t matter that he was giving you everything he had, his firm body covering your back and his warm mouth brushing down your neck. You still wanted more.

When his fingers found their way to your clit again, that’s when you started to really lose it. You sounded like you were sobbing as you cried out his name, but it was all from pleasure and you reached down to press his hand harder against you.

“Yes…oh god…fff–oh yeah…oh my god…Fi-ive…aaAHH!”

Right as you were about to tip over the edge, Five pressed his forehead against your shoulder. “Let me come inside you. Please.”

You nodded eagerly and squeaked out a weak “Yes” before fully giving yourself over to the building warmth in your groin. The orgasm that washed over you was the most intense you had ever experienced. Your entire body was trembling as your fingers dug into the desktop and your ass pushed back against him in sporadic thrusts. Five delivered one last punishing drive before his hips stilled and he emptied himself inside of you. Your moans were mixing together, combining with the humid air from your collective panting. The scent of sex and arousal filled the room as hot waves of pleasure pulsed over you both. Five’s last rasping growl faded out as you tried to catch your breath. He held you close to him, his hair tickling your neck as his damp chest heaved against your back.

When he slipped out of you, he placed a soft kiss next to your ear before letting you go and backing away. You turned around, facing him for the first time since he had bent you over the desk. His hair was disheveled, with strands of it sticking to his forehead. His eyes that were once dark and piercing were back to their soft green as he gave you a shy smile and pushed his hair back. You took in his hard body, all sculpted abs and lean muscle. Your mouth watered at just the sight and even though you were still in the process of coming down from the strong orgasm he just gave you, you couldn’t help wanting him again.

“Well…” you said with a smile as you leaned back against the desk. “You may not have a real doctorate, but I can say with certainty that you have earned a very real Phd in fucking, Professor Hargreeves.”

Five’s eyebrows raised up his forehead before letting out a shocked laugh.

“What?” you said with a casual shrug. “I’m an introvert…not a prude.”

“Clearly,” Five noted with a smile before bending down to pull up his pants that were still around his ankles.

“No, no,” you said. “Don’t bother. Just take them off.”

With another pleasantly surprised smile, Five did just that and stepped out of his pants. While you pushed your skirt the rest of the way off, he neared you again, holding you close to his naked body and looking down on you with gentle eyes. His hand came to rest on the side of your face.

“I know I’m not special anymore, but you gave me something back. Something I had lost. Thank you.”

“Five, you are special. You’re special to me.” He leaned down to kiss you sensually, and your body responded immediately, already trying to pull him in for more. “Besides,” you smiled as you perched yourself up on the desk again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I think you just proved you have all the power you need.”

Five’s arrogant grin grew as he pressed his already hardening cock between your legs. “That I do, sweetheart. But, I think we may need to prove this a few more times.” He kissed you roughly on the mouth. “For science.”

#number five x reader #number five x you #five hargreeves x you #five hargreeves x reader #number five smut #five hargreeves imagine #number five imagine #five hargreeves smut #tua smut #five hargreeves #number five #female reader #reader insert #smut requests #requests open #five x reader #five x you #badkittywrites

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scribbledlovenotes · 1 month ago

Text

distracted. p.t.r

mdni. professor tom riddle. good grades. bad distractions. age-gap sex.

Months. For months you’ve trapped within the flickering candlelight of the libraries restricted section, parchment and quill in hand as you scribble down notes, pretending to care about the intricacies of advanced magical theory. It’s a ridiculous assignment for a stupid class and the only reason you’re even committed to finishing it is him. Your obsession. The one thing that causes your heart to race and forces your thighs to clench uncomfortably beneath your desk. Him. Professor Riddle. Potentially the one and only reason you returned back for your seventh year. You can’t get enough. Come to notice it; either can the other female students around you from the whispers you’ve heard them speak.

He’s forever tailored to perfection, the robes which drape over his lean frame as intoxicating as the silken menace of his voice as he discusses topics such as the ‘seduction of power linked to dark arts’ or your personal favourite, the ‘elegance of a well cast spell’, as if the words were a spell themselves. You’re hooked; lustful. He knows it, surely. Those dark, melted chocolate eyes of his catch yours just a little too often. Lingering with a heat that feels like what you presume legilimency would as he peels back the subtle layers of your restraint.

It was last Tuesday, after a lecture on the morality of the dark arts that left your head spinning that he stopped you as you gathered your textbooks and piled them neatly into your arms. His presence standing before you was polished yet predatory. Almost like a knifes blade wrapped in velvet. The curve of his smirk; stealing your breath.

“I’d like to discuss a recent essay you submitted”, Professor Riddle explained, taking his time to fold a piece of parchment between his fingertips tat you couldn’t for the life of you, pull your gaze from. The simple movement almost ritualistic in practice. “Come to my office tomorrow evening. Any time after 6.”

Your heart lurched at the proposal; frantically thudding against the inside of your chest as you felt the back of your neck warm up with a scarlet style fever you’d potentially have to see a nurse about. Every sensible part of you knows that this is just a student-professor discussion. Nothing more, nothing less. However you can’t help but wonder. Should you agree, should you tell anyone, should you brag, should you mention something to your absolutely oblivious Hufflepuff boyfriend who you loved dearly but ugh – god, he was fucking useless when it came to feelings. Your wants. Desires. Needs.

“Of course, Professor”, you responded with a small smile; innocently tucking some hair behind your ear which you flicked up on and over the back of your shoulder. “Um, should I bring my boyfriend? He did help me with the paper. Perhaps he could learn something.”

The question came out as pure innocence whispered from between your gloss coated lips as you’re waiting, patiently to try and catch any look or expression that might give away a little more than what Professor Riddle already has; but the shadow in his eyes that transpires like a storm is gone in a blink, as his smile sharpens. A chuckle, rumbling just at the back of his throat. “Just you will suffice. I prefer… focused discussions.”

And with that; the air crackled as if there had been some kind of sudden declaration of a silent challenge.

This evening; the castle is as quiet as the fields of Scotland midwinter as you climb, step by step the stone staircase to Professor Riddle’s office. The air surrounding you on the way thickened by the scent of burning ensconces and a shimmer of magic which leads the way. You knock against the hard wood door before his voice commands you to enter. As the door creaks open, he’s revealed to be sitting behind a desk – quill in hand, grading papers as the roar of the fireplace lights up the office almost.. romantically.

Professor Riddle’s features are sharp. More so now than when you see him during class. He looks absolutely devastating in what he’s wearing; robes hooked up on a wall behind him, the crisp white shirt he’s wearing pulls to sit exactly as it should on his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms twilled with a quiet strength. You swallow harshly, eyes tracing up one particular vein that you notice beneath his skin almost poetically and he gestures to the chair across from him as you hesitate before taking a seat. The office’s intimacy – shelves of tomes, trinkets and artefacts on display in a curated yet chaotic fashion closing in like a charm you might just become.

“Your essay”, he begins, picking up the work almost delicately off a pile of others before he hands it to you, “…is bold. I’ll give you that. Yet your research clearly lacks precision.”

You gaze down at the essay; eyes taking in the corrections and question marks scattered over it in a dull, red ink – the grade scribbled into the top corner something you’re vaguely satisfied with but Professor Riddle is clearly not. You attempt to stammer out some kind of response; some knitted reply as an excuse for work you were actually content with, yet you notice from the corner of your eye the way he rises from his seat. His critique a pretence to a game you know you both shouldn’t be playing, yet as he circles around the desk, coming around to where you start, you can’t help but note that each step seems deliberate. Like a wolf closing in on a lamb or in this case, a snake on a mouse which is desperate to feast.

“You have potential”, he murmurs as his steps stop behind you. he’s standing close enough that you can feel his breath graze the back of your neck. “…but clearly you’re distracted.”

Your pulse hammers; skin beginning to gleam with a soft sweat that coats your brow and a thin line down the nape of your neck. You’re suddenly grateful that you never told your boyfriend about coming here; about this little meeting – just that you’d see him tonight, as always for a little alone time and well…

“I’m not”, you manage as a response. Words clear. “Distracted – that is.”

Professor Riddle’s hands find your shoulders as he scoffs a chuckle; running down to the small of your back, burning through your robes. He leans in; lips to your ear, his voice sounding like that of a velvet hex. As his fingers trace along the curve of your skin; slow – possessive, you feel a slick heat that you want to curse away blooming between the chaffing of your thighs.

“Aren’t you? Well..”, he gently guides you up onto your feet, pushing you forward so that you’re pressing against the edge of his desk as he cages you in, body warm pressed up against you. “I still think I’m right. You see that’s a perk to teaching. With a little experience, you begin to learn to read a classroom and see through masks that students prevail while hoping to fool you… and you dear, most definitely, are, distracted.”

A hand slips up beneath your skirt, finding the dampness of your underwear which his fingers push aside with ease and before you know it, both skilled and merciless; he parts your folds, a slick drag up towards your clit that rather quickly swells with need. It’s a blend of a gasp and a choke that escapes you. You lean forward; hands clawing at the wood of his desk and as his fingers continue to circle exactly where you need them, your body trembles; like a wanton secret of his to please.

What follows? That’s a blur. Professor Riddle twists you around; his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s bruising. One that tastes like a rich red wine. He manages to muffle your gasps with a firm hand as he undoes his belt with the other and before you know what you’re doing yourself, you shift back and lift onto his desk – lips parted; eyes glued to that wicked smirk he wears before they drop down to his waist, taking in full view of his cock; thick, glistening, that he pumps twice before pressing against your entrance with a friction and tease.

You shouldn’t have. You’re not meant to. Either way, you whisper a desperate ‘please’, and without any patience as what he’s known for, Professor Riddle shifts your thighs further apart to wrap lets around his waist as he fills you with a single deep thrust that takes your breath away. The office falls into silence. You fall back onto the desk. A bottle of ink is spilled. Papers go flying. You hear a quill crack beneath you but couldn’t care less. His thrusts are both torture and bliss. Each movement a revelation. It’s forbidden; it’s fucking perfect. Your thighs split further as he grasps at the soft flesh and you bite down on a knuckle to try and keep yourself quite; relishing the fact that he’s thorough and rough, satisfying. Not quite like your boyfriend.

You hear him spit; saliva hitting your clit which he draws out a series of wand motions you – you know them, they’re the unforgivables and yet you couldn’t care. Your cunt begins to clench around him. You claw a little further at his desk. The desk lamp gets knocked over; you hear the bulb shatter as you cry out a moan through gritted teeth and your back arches up as he spills out inside of you. A warmth flooding in but also dripping down your legs as he withdraws – the both of you breathless.

“Much improved”, he mutters, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear almost tenderly before he taps a teasing slap against your clit as a reminder of what’s just happened. It’s about a minute before you can stand. A minute before you make yourself look a little more decent that you just had been. A minute for your cheeks to swell down from a harsh red to a soft peachy pink and by this time, Professor Riddle has already returned to his seat.

“Same time next week. We can discuss any course work you might be struggling with.”

Is that an offer, or a request? You fix your hair; running your hands through it before you lick your lips and nod. Unable to shake the feeling of what’s just happened.

“You’re an exceptional student. Just – don’t get distracted. Wouldn’t want you being dissatisfied; it’s a shame about the boyfriend.”

Ugh – that prick. He’d been inside your head the whole time.

“Yes Professor”, you respond as you make your way towards the door to exit; making a mental note to keep this little rendezvous to yourself forever and ever and e—

“Tom.” He corrects you. “Professor Riddle is merely a formality we must maintain within the classroom.”

Fuck. Why’d he have to wait until seventh year.

#sln work #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #professor riddle #professor riddle x reader #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle drabble #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle you #professor riddle smut #slytherin #harry potter #slytherin smut

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

Hiii! I really love your work, you're the first full LH writer I found and followed. I read and re-read all your fics and loved them. I was wondering if you could please write one in where reader is Lewis private chef and he falls for her...? I really thank you in advance if you decide to write it and if not for also reading my request :) (English is not my first language so I hope that makes sense lol) Have a good day <3

𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’ve still got three more requests to work through, but I’m trying my best! I’m so glad you love all my fics! Have a wonderful day, lovely. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton falls for his private chef as shared meals turn into something more.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve cooked for A-listers, Olympians, and people whose names are whispered more in boardrooms than on red carpets. Your work is quiet, behind-the-scenes, and exactly how you like it. You know the rhythm by now book the gig, learn their preferences, adapt, excel, move on.

So, when your agent sent through the request for a new high-profile client, the message felt routine. Until one name jumped out, as if someone had taken a marker and underlined it twelve times:

Lewis Hamilton.

You blinked. Read it again. Then leaned back in your kitchen chair, letting it sink in. Not just any world-class athlete. The seven-time Formula One World Champion. Vegan. Socially conscious. Globally adored. And, yes, drop-dead handsome in a way that didn’t make you flustered but did make you keenly aware.

You weren’t nervous not really. You’d cooked for the best, fed entire sports teams, crafted tailored menus for Oscar winners. But this felt different. Not because he was famous, you were used to that. But because something about his request felt intentional.

He wasn’t just after someone to cook vegan meals. He wanted someone who could travel with him, fuel his body through the most physically demanding season of the year and this was the line that stuck with you “someone who understands that food is connection.”

Aww

The tasting was scheduled at his Monaco apartment, which was a sleek, minimal space overlooking the shimmering water, all muted stone and soft lighting. You arrived early, allowing yourself a moment to take it in before the doorbell echoed.

When Lewis opened the door, he was in black sweats and a sleeveless hoodie, his curls damp and tousled from a recent shower. His smile was polite but distant in a professional, cool, like a champion used to people hovering around him, wanting something.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “I’m Lewis.”

“I figured,” you replied with a grin, which earned the smallest amused huff.

He led you into the kitchen a stunning open-plan space that looked more like a set for a photoshoot than a functional cooking zone. But it was well-stocked. Sharp knives gleamed under soft lighting. Spices lined the shelves. A gleaming Vitamix sat ready. You raised a brow.

“You cook often?” you asked, unpacking your carefully prepared ingredients: jackfruit, creamy avocados, cashews soaked from the night before, lentils cooked just right, flaky sea salt, rich maple syrup, shaved dark chocolate.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning against the island, arms crossed casually. “Not like you. I mostly blend stuff and hope for the best. This is where I unwind, you know?”

You liked that answer. A lot.

He poured himself chamomile tea, no sugar and you noticed the deliberate calm in his routine. As he made it, his gaze flickered to your hands focused, precise, moving through familiar motions.

“You sure you don’t want me out of your way?” he asked, watching you pour a blended cashew creme into a small saucepan.

“Not at all,” you replied, glancing up with a small smile. “You’re part of the process. Remember? Connection.”

That earned a real smile, the kind that lit up his eyes.

While the jackfruit cooked low and slow with smoked paprika, you talked. About expectations. Logistics. Travel. The gruelling hours of race weekends.

Lewis was straightforward, precise. “I train in the mornings, usually want something light after like smoothies, easy digestion. Bigger meals in the evening, when I have time to relax. But race weekends? Different story. I’ll need food packed, labeled, heat friendly. No microwave stuff. I don’t touch that.”

You nodded. “Understood. Heat-friendly means things that reheat well, no soggy textures. I can prep stuff that keeps its flavour and integrity.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll have to trust you with my nutrition. My performance depends on it.”

“And it has to taste good,” you added firmly. “You shouldn’t feel like you’re missing out just because it’s healthy.”

He met your eyes, a little challenge in his own gaze. “No compromises.”

You smiled, “None.”

He glanced over the ingredients you’d laid out, then tilted his head. “Why jackfruit for the main? You think it’s the best for post-training recovery?”

You explained, “It’s a versatile meat substitute rich in fibre, low in fat, and it absorbs spices well. With the smoked paprika and chipotle, it adds a smoky depth without overpowering. I balance it with the chipotle cashew crème to add healthy fats and creaminess. Plus, pickled red onion gives a sharp contrast to refresh the palate.”

He crossed his arms again, nodding slowly. “I like that you thought it through. Not just throwing something together.”

As you moved to plate the dishes for jackfruit tacos, lentil-stuffed sweet potato drizzled with lemony tahini, and a tiny chocolate chia mousse topped with flaked sea salt and a shard of candied hazelnut - he watched you like it was a performance. Not judgmental but invested.

He picked up the taco first, took a deliberate bite, and paused.

Then looked up at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Not doubt. Not surprise. Just quiet disbelief.

“You did this for me?” His voice was low.

You nodded, “Of course.”

There was a pause.

Then a smile. The real kind. The one that curved slow and soft and warm across his face like maybe something inside him settled.

“Alright,” he said, licking his thumb where some crème had smudged. “You’ve already ruined every other chef for me.”

Before you could respond, a soft shuffle echoed across the tile floor. You turned just in time to see a floppy-eared bulldog trudge into the kitchen, blinking sleepily and plopping down next to Lewis’s bare feet.

Roscoe.

His collar jingled softly as he sat, then turned those soulful brown eyes up toward you. And then at the plate you assembled.

“Roscoe,” Lewis warned lightly, nudging him with a foot. “No begging, mate.”

But Roscoe didn’t move. Just stared at your food with comical intensity, then gave a soft, hopeful whine.

“May I?” You asked giving Lewis a quick glance and he gestures a nod of approval.

You crouched down, offering Roscoe a small, safe piece of sweet potato. He accepted it like royalty.

When you looked up again, Lewis was watching you - not your food, not your technique, but you. Something thoughtful in his gaze.

“You’ve thought about everything,” he said quietly. “Packaging, textures, timing. How do you manage this on the road?”

You smiled, “Routine. Prep meals that reheat well, pack them in reusable containers labeled by day and time. I use silicone bags and glass containers as it’s good for the environment and the food.”

He nodded, impressed. “Sounds like you’re ready to hit the track with me.”

You felt your pulse quicken. “I am.”

He studied you a moment longer, then his expression softened, something almost vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.

“So, do I get the job?” you asked, trying to steady your heartbeat.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think you do.”

And just like that, the next chapter began, one you’d never seen coming but already felt like it was meant to be. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of your small but efficiently packed carry-on as you double-checked the last containers sliding into your insulated bag. Everything was labeled by meal and day, exactly like you’d promised. The precision felt satisfying, even if your nerves buzzed just beneath the surface.

You caught your reflection in the mirror of the hotel room: calm, composed, but wide awake and ready. This was the real test. You weren’t just cooking you were becoming part of Lewis’s rhythm, his routine, his relentless world.

A soft knock on the door announced your cue. Lewis stood in the doorway, dressed casually in a fitted black track jacket and joggers, his curls pulled back loosely. He looked up at you and smiled less reserved than before.

“Ready for day one?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied with a grin, zipping up your bag. “You?”

He shrugged, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “Depends. You sure you can keep up?”

“You’ll be the judge of that.”

The car ride to the airport was quiet but comfortable. Lewis’s phone buzzed with incoming messages from his team, but he silenced the notifications as soon as you climbed in.

“Alright,” he said, glancing over at you. “Tell me what you’ve got planned for the flight food.”

You pulled out your meal plan sheet, laying it on your lap. “Light and easy to digest for the flight I made chia pudding with fresh berries, cashew and vanilla overnight oats as well as a handful of raw nuts for crunch and energy. I’ve packed it all in a small cooler with ice packs, so it stays fresh.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “No junk food?”

“Junk food never made a world champion,” you teased, earning a chuckle from him.

“Fair enough.”

Once on the plane, the cabin dimmed for takeoff, and you unpacked the meals with quiet efficiency. Lewis watched with genuine interest as you prepared his tray not just assembling the food but explaining why you chose each element.

“Chia seeds are great for omega-3s and slow energy release,” you said, spooning the pudding into a small container. “The berries add antioxidants and the oats give you complex carbs to keep you steady.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. You’re like my nutritionist and chef rolled into one.”

You laughed softly. “I get that a lot.”

The flight passed quicker than you expected, punctuated by small conversation, a few questions from Lewis about ingredients, and a surprising amount of laughter when Roscoe curled up in your lap under the seat.

At your first hotel stop - a sleek, modern building overlooking the circuit you had just enough time to set up the kitchen space before Lewis’s training session.

He watched you unpack your supplies, then gave a slow nod. “I can tell you’re used to this. Everything’s got its place.”

“It has to,” you said. “When you’re on the move, you don’t have the luxury of chaos.”

Lewis smiled. “Good. I like order.”

Later, after training, Lewis swung open the kitchen door, sweat still clinging to his brow. You were plating up a post-workout meal quinoa salad with roasted veggies, a bright lemon-tahini dressing and a side of grilled tempeh.

He leaned against the counter, watching you work. “I’m going to be picky,” he warned, “but I want honest feedback too.”

You raised a brow. “Bring it on.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “The dressing is great fresh, not too heavy. But the tempeh? I usually prefer something a bit less chewy after training. Maybe baked tofu or seitan?”

“Got it,” you said, jotting down notes. “Texture matters.”

He smiled, clearly pleased you weren’t offended. “You’re already adapting. That’s good.”

By the end of the day, something had shifted. The professional distance had softened into something more real. You felt the edges of exhaustion from jet lag, the new routine but also a quiet thrill.

Lewis caught your eye as he packed his gear for the next morning. “You’re good at this. Better than I imagined.”

You shrugged, cheeks warm. “I’m just getting started.”

He grinned. “Good. Because this season’s going to demand everything.”

You met his gaze and, for the first time, felt less like the new person trying to fit in and more like a part of something bigger.

Your routine with Lewis built itself with the kind of quiet rhythm most people search their whole lives for effortless, unspoken and steady. It was the way his mornings began, how your days folded neatly into his and how the world seemed to fall away in the simple sanctity of shared moments. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Breakfasts were always early, the sun barely awake when you slipped into the kitchen to prepare his first fuel of the day. You crafted smoothies thick with spirulina, flaxseed, hemp protein, and frozen blueberries - a blend dense with nutrients yet light enough to stir awake without ever weighing him down. You knew the delicate balance between flavour and function and you found satisfaction in seeing the way his lips would twitch in approval with every sip.

Sometimes he’d shuffle in, still tangled in the remnants of sleep, hair tied loosely back as if still caught in a dream. His voice would come out gravelly, a half-mumbled compliment on your “magical” abilities to make healthy taste like indulgence.

Post-workout meals followed with an almost ritualistic precision: vibrant bowls filled with roasted vegetables like sweet potatoes, red capsicum and tender zucchini mingled with fluffy quinoa, creamy avocado, earthy black beans and bright citrus tahini drizzled just so. Each bowl topped with something crunchy such as toasted pumpkin seeds, crushed almonds, or crispy chickpeas adding texture and life to every bite. Next to each meal, you placed a turmeric-ginger recovery shot, chilled just enough to soothe his muscles without dulling the sharp zing of spice.

You didn’t need to be reminded that food was fuel. But with Lewis, the act of cooking was becoming something more a language of care, a quiet offering in a world that never stopped moving.

Traveling with him was a whirlwind, a blend of jet lag and adrenaline and the constant shuffle from one city to the next. Back-to-back Grand Prix weekends, testing days in Bahrain under the blistering sun, simulator sessions in Brackley where you’d both grin at the virtual tracks, and media runs in cities so unfamiliar you lost track of their names.

No matter where he went, so did your knives, your spices, and your laminated, colour-coded meal plans of those colourful little guides you’d painstakingly assembled to make sure the menus never repeated, and the macros never slipped. You’d unpack and set up kitchens in sleek hotels or cramped paddock spaces turned temporary culinary stations, sometimes improvising with whatever was available.

Lewis made it easier, in his own quiet way.

He never hovered, but he was always there through the way he’d casually help carry bags of groceries, rinse berries without a word of thanks, or hand you a clean towel just when your hands were slick with moisture from washing produce. Sometimes, he’d drift into the kitchen mid-prep, hair damp from a post-gym shower, the faint scent of eucalyptus and citrus clinging to him like an invisible cloak. He never asked for much just leaned on the counter with soft curiosity shining in his eyes, and would say something like:

“You don’t mind cooking at mine all the time?”

You’d smile without looking up. “Not when your kitchen’s nicer than most restaurants.”

And it was. Sleek marble counters that caught the light, industrial burners that roared to life without hesitation, a double oven, and a fridge so advanced you half-expected it to suggest new recipes. But none of that was why you liked it.

It was because it was his.

Because the moments in between those small pauses and shared silences were becoming the parts you treasured most.

Like the way he always brought you a fresh glass of sparkling water without needing to be asked, catching your tired eyes with a quiet smile.

Or how he hummed under his breath when he was relaxed, a soft sound that blended with the whirl of your blender and the chopping of knives.

Or those rare evenings when you found yourselves both lingering in the kitchen after a long day Lewis perched on a barstool, watching you finish prep, and he’d look up from whatever he was scrolling on his phone and ask how you were doing. Not just the polite “how are you?” but really asking, like he wanted to hear your answer.

And then there were the snack boxes.

You started them as a practical solution of bite-sized fuel that could live in his bag, waiting patiently to bridge the gap between qualifying and race briefings or long travel days.

Protein bites dusted with cinnamon and cacao, coconut-date balls rolled in shredded coconut, seaweed crisps for a salty crunch, almond butter-stuffed dates that melted with every bite.

At first, your notes were purely practical:

“Don’t forget to hydrate.”

“This one’s got extra turmeric, I know you hate ice baths.”

“Packed extra energy - you’ve got this.”

But slowly, the notes began to shift.

They grew softer, more personal, and somehow more you.

“Hope this one makes up for how early your wake-up call was.”

“A little sweet for my favourite speed demon.”

“For when you need a quick win just like you on the track.”

You didn’t mean anything by the “favourite speed demon” line. It was just a joke; a casual phrase scrawled in purple ink on a sticky note you found at the bottom of your bag one day.

But later, when you were reorganising his pantry, you found that very note folded once, tucked carefully inside a drawer beside his magnesium powder and zinc capsules.

You stood frozen, hand resting on a vitamin bottle, heart doing a quiet flip.

He hadn’t pinned it to the fridge or stuck it where anyone else could see. He had just kept it quietly, privately.

And then something changed.

Lewis became warmer, more present.

He lingered in the kitchen longer, even when he had somewhere else to be.

He started texting you mid-flight, checking if you’d remembered to eat.

He noticed when you wore your hair tied up instead of down and he offered you his jacket without a word when a breeze caught your shoulders one night after dinner in the paddock.

One evening, you found a note waiting for you in your own snack box.

It was small, written in his unmistakable hand on a folded slip of paper:

“Thanks for making even the busy days feel like home.”

From then on, little notes from Lewis started appearing tucked into your bags, slipped between cookbooks, or left on the kitchen counter.

They weren’t grand gestures.

Just quiet messages like:

“Don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing great.”

“Found this spice you love - thought you might want to try it.”

You smiled more than once, your chest warming with each one.

You noticed him too.

Not the famous Lewis Hamilton who’s the racing legend or the icon but the man who double-knotted his shoes before a run, who softened when Roscoe climbed into his lap, who looked at you with quiet curiosity not trying to solve you but wanting to understand.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it was something.

Something simmering, unfolding quietly in the spaces between the roar of engines and the flash of cameras.

Something that smelled like rosemary, sea salt, and something else - something you hadn’t found words for yet. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your phone vibrated sharply on the kitchen counter just as you were about to start dinner for yourself. Lewis’s name flashed across the screen, yanking you out of the quiet comfort of your evening routine. The soft hum of the city outside mingled with the distant sounds of traffic and occasional footsteps in the hallway.

“Hey,” you answered, surprise threading through your voice. “Everything okay?”

There was a breathless edge to his voice, as if he’d been running or rushing. “Hey. Listen, last minute my dad and Linda want to come by tonight. They want to check in, see how I’m doing. Could you come over and whip up something? Nothing fancy, but nice. I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

You glanced at the clock on your stove just over an hour before they’d arrive. Your mind kicked into high gear, the familiar thrill of being thrown into the deep end mixing with a flutter of nerves that had nothing to do with the race.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your bag and keys with steady hands, trying to mask the little surge of excitement that bubbled inside.

The city air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of rain and blooming jasmine as you stepped into Lewis’s apartment building. You pushed open the door to his place, and immediately, the quiet buzz of controlled chaos hit you. Lewis moved through the space with a jittery energy on the phone with his manager, half-folding a shirt draped over a chair, the sharp, clean scent of his cologne lingering in the air: crisp eucalyptus layered with a subtle hint of musk.

“I’m so sorry for the rush,” he said, running a hand through damp hair that clung slightly to his forehead, eyes darting anxiously. His usual calm, effortless confidence was replaced by a restless edge. “I just didn’t expect them to want to come so soon.”

You gave him a warm, reassuring smile, setting your bag down carefully on the counter. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

You slipped into the kitchen and flipped on the stove with practiced ease, the familiar click and whoosh grounding you. You pulled out fresh ingredients you’d brought along: bright, glossy cherry tomatoes, fragrant cloves of garlic, a handful of fresh basil leaves, creamy mozzarella and a colourful medley of vegetables. The rhythmic chopping soon filled the room, mingling with the soft hum of the extractor fan and the faint city noises drifting through an open window.

The sizzle of garlic hitting hot olive oil made your mouth water as you stirred gently, the warm, rich aroma wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. You slid a tray of vegetables into the oven, watching the soft golden edges promise a perfect roast.

As you worked, your fingers moved with smooth confidence, even as your mind kept track of the ticking minutes. A soft melody hummed in your throat, blending seamlessly with the sounds of the city outside and the distant revving of engines somewhere far away.

Meanwhile, Lewis flitted around the bedroom like a restless spirit, trying on shirts and adjusting his braids before checking his reflection in the mirror. His glances toward the kitchen were frequent, filled with a rare mixture of admiration and quiet gratitude reserved just for you.

“Do you need help?” he asked suddenly, leaning casually against the doorframe, an amused eyebrow raised.

You held out a spoon dripping with sauce. “Only if you want to taste-test.”

He laughed, taking the spoon cautiously and nodding with approval after one careful sip. “Definitely better than anything I could make.”

You smiled, the tension in the room softening between you.

Together, you set the table. You unfolded crisp napkins with gentle care, polished the silverware until it caught the soft light just right, and arranged fresh wildflowers in a small glass vase delicate bloom that brought a touch of life and colour to the sleek apartment. The room, with its clean lines and subtle shadows, transformed into a cozy sanctuary a warm refuge from the relentless speed and pressure of Lewis’s world.

“Okay,” you said, brushing flour from your hands. “Ready for company.”

Lewis grabbed his jacket and ran a hand through his hair once more, attempting to summon that effortless charm that came so naturally but felt just a bit elusive tonight. “Yeah. Just need to look like I have my life together.”

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with his as you shared a quiet, steady moment before the inevitable storm.

Lewis walked you to the door, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, a silent thank-you. His eyes caught yours deep, steady, and sincere.

“Thanks for this,” he said, voice low and earnest. “Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart fluttered, a warm rush blooming in your chest. You smiled, steady and sure despite the sudden wave of emotion. “Anytime.”

You took a small step back, ready to leave his place and opened the front door however everything seemed to freeze.

Standing just beyond the threshold, bathed in the soft glow of the light outside the door, were Anthony and Linda. They had arrived earlier than expected.

Anthony’s smile was steady and warm, eyes full of the kind of cautious kindness that had softened over the years. Linda’s face was bright, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and curiosity as she took in the scene of the neat kitchen, the flowers on the table, the subtle tension still lingering in the air.

For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke.

Lewis cleared his throat, stepping forward with a calm that belied the nervous energy humming beneath.

“Dad! Linda!” he said, his voice steady, welcoming, carrying an unspoken promise of a better evening to come.

You exchanged a glance with Lewis, the unspoken question hanging between you, how was this night going to unfold now?

Anthony steps inside first, his gaze settling on you with a mixture of curiosity and quiet respect. Linda follows, taking in the thoughtfully arranged table and the soft hum of city life filtering through the open window.

There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Anthony clears his throat, glancing at Lewis. “Lewis, we don’t often get to meet the people who mean a lot to you. And we don’t believe we’ve met this lovely lady before. Who is she?”

Lewis looks at you, and for a second, you see the hesitation in his eyes like he’s weighing how much to say, how to protect both you and himself.

You step forward, steadying your voice. “I’m Y/N, Lewis’s personal chef. I’ve been helping him tonight with dinner, and I guess I’m lucky enough to be here now.”

Linda smiles warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lewis speaks highly of you even if he’s been a bit secretive.”

Lewis chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. I just wanted to make sure it was the right time.”

The tension begins to ease, replaced by a gentle understanding. Anthony nods, stepping closer to the table. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. Let’s eat, get to know each other If you aren’t in a rush to get home of course.”

You exchange a look with Lewis a mixture of relief and something quietly hopeful.

As you all sit down, the conversation starts to flow, sometimes hesitant, sometimes easy. The evening stretches out like a fragile promise that maybe, just maybe, this new chapter could be something steady, something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was after Silverstone when everything began to shift.

You’d flown in early that week, slipping quietly into Lewis’s flat like you always did before a big race arms full of market bags, fingers smudged with ink from handwritten meal plans and shopping lists. His fridge had been half-empty when you arrived, his pantry stocked with old protein bars and two near-empty jars of almond butter. You sighed, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.

Silverstone was different. It wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was his race. The energy around him was different - charged, frantic, and buzzing like electricity in the bones. And you felt it, even in the kitchen. Especially in the kitchen. You knew him well enough by now to sense when he was just a little too quiet, when the weight of expectations pressed into the back of his neck and down his spine.

You felt it too, but your job was to anchor him. Not with words, but with routine. With quiet comfort. With nourishment.

Race morning, you were up before dawn.

The city was still cloaked in blue-grey quiet, the light just beginning to break through the blinds. You padded barefoot across the cool tile, pulling your hair into a loose bun as you lined up ingredients like a surgeon prepping for an operation. Sliced banana. A scoop of almond butter. A dash of maple syrup, just enough to sweeten but not overwhelm. You poured oat milk into the blender and calculated macros in your head as it whirred to life. Spirulina, maca, oats, hemp, chia every spoonful measured, every decision deliberate.

When Lewis walked in hood up, curls damp from the shower, sleeves tugged over his hands he looked like he hadn’t fully landed in his body yet.

You handed him a glass. “Try this.”

He blinked at you sleepily. “What’s in it?”

“Banana, almond butter, maca, oats, a little maple, and love.”

He cracked a grin. “Heavy on the love, I hope.”

Before you could answer, Roscoe trotted in, tail wagging, toenails tapping against the tile.

“I didn’t forget you, bub,” you murmured, crouching to add warm lentils, steamed sweet potato, and nutritional yeast into his bowl. Roscoe responded with a happy little sneeze, tail thumping wildly as he buried his face in the food.

You stood, turning back to Lewis. He was still watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely wore in the morning. You handed him a small container.

“Eat this between FP3 and quali. Chia, coconut milk, goji berries, almonds. All your All your favourites.”

He glanced down at it, then back at you. “You sure you don’t want to drive today? I think you’re more prepared than I am.”

“You’re joking,” you said with a wink, “but I’d still lap a few people.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine as he leaned in, brushing a kiss to Roscoe’s head before heading out. “I’ll see you there.”

You kept a low profile in the paddock.

Press passes tucked deep into your jacket pocket. Roscoe’s leash looped securely around your wrist as he trotted beside you like he owned the place. You stayed on the periphery of team meetings, close enough to be needed, far enough not to intrude. You watched Lewis with quiet pride as he moved through the garage focused, poised and magnetic in that way only he could be. When he came in for lunch, you were ready. When he needed quiet, you gave it.

This was how you showed up for people through quiet acts of care. Through food, through forethought. You didn’t need thanks, not really. But every now and then, when his eyes found yours from across the motorhome, holding that long, unreadable look, your heart gave something away.

He finished on the podium that Sunday.

P3 at home. Union Jacks waving like waves on a sea of roaring faces. The noise was thunderous from press, fans, photographers. But when he found you behind the garage, away from the chaos, all of it seemed to fall away.

He looked exhausted. Euphoric. Alive.

“Did you eat?” you asked, holding out a water bottle before he could say anything.

He laughed, hoarse and bright. “I just finished a race and you’re asking me that?”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Because that’s my job.”

He stepped closer, his smile softening into something quieter, something more personal. “You’re more than your job.”

And then he reached for your hand. Just for a second. A quick squeeze but it said everything.

That night, back at his flat, the windows were open, and the air was heavy with the scent of rain on asphalt. Roscoe was curled in his favourite corner, snoring softly. You stood at the stove, stirring the butternut squash risotto he always asked for after a good race your own little post-podium tradition.

Lewis hovered nearby. He always did. Sometimes he asked questions, sometimes he just watched. Tonight, he didn’t say much at all.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He nodded slowly, leaning on the counter, his eyes following the movement of your hands. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

You smiled, still stirring. “Because of the risotto?”

But he didn’t smile back. Not fully. “No. Because of you.”

Your hand stilled.

He stepped forward. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the salt on his collarbone, the faint trace of soap from his post-race shower.

His fingers reached up and gently brushed a smear of coconut cream from your cheek.

“You take care of everyone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But who takes care of you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Not because you didn’t know the answer because, for the first time, you were beginning to understand it.

He didn’t press you. Didn’t push. He just stood there, looking at you like he already knew.

And maybe just maybe you were ready to let someone take care of you for a change.

The confession came weeks later, in Tokyo.

The air in the city buzzed, thick with neon and noise, but inside his rented apartment, it was quiet low lights, a candle flickering on the coffee table, and the smell of miso broth warming on the stove.

You hadn’t meant to stay for dinner. You rarely did. You liked your boundaries, liked giving him space to wind down, to rest, to be just Lewis and not Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion. Still, that night, when he asked you to stay to sit, to eat you said yes. Maybe because of the way he asked. Maybe because of the way he looked. Or maybe because your heart had already stopped pretending.

You plated the food together, your hands brushing occasionally as you moved in sync without thinking. Bowls of soba noodles with sesame glaze, crisped tofu, steamed bok choy dressed in tamari and ginger. A side dish of Japanese sweet potatoes roasted until golden.

“I feel bad letting you cook for both of us,” he said, settling into the floor cushions around the low table, Roscoe snuggled into a blanket behind him.

“You paid for the groceries,” you teased. “And the entire apartment.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I just show up and drive. You’re the one making all the magic happen.”

You tried to laugh too, but your cheeks flushed as you looked down at your bowl. Something in the air felt different tonight weighted and delicate, like a moment balancing on the edge of something new.

Halfway through the meal, between casual chatter about free practice sessions and a ridiculous story involving Toto, Roscoe, and an unfortunate eggplant, he went quiet.

You glanced up, catching the shift. His shoulders were tense, chopsticks stilled midair, eyes fixed on his bowl but not seeing it.

“Everything okay?”

He set the chopsticks down gently. “Yeah. I just…”

Then he reached for your hand across the table.

It was tentative barely more than a touch, but it sent a ripple through you. You didn’t move. Just stared down at where your hands met. His thumb brushed the side of your finger, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I know you didn’t sign up for this,” he said, voice low and unsteady. “To be anything more than my chef.”

You looked up slowly, heart thudding, pulse skipping.

“But I think about you,” he said. “Even when I’m not hungry.”

The words settled into the silence like a secret being laid bare.

“I think about your smile,” he continued, eyes searching yours. “Your stupid little notes. The way you hum when you cook. And the way everything tastes better when it comes from you.”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt too much like hope. Your fingers curled around his instinctively.

“Lewis…” you whispered, unsure what you were even going to say.

“If it’s too much,” he said quickly, stumbling over his own breath, “tell me. I’ll drop it. I swear I’ll drop it. But I had to tell you. Because if I didn’t, I’d regret it.”

You stared at him for a long, heartbeat-heavy moment. At the vulnerability stretched raw across his face. At the way he looked both terrified and hopeful all at once.

And then softly, like something inevitable you let go of his hand.

Only to rise from your place at the table, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your ribs, and step slowly around the corner of the table. You lowered yourself onto the cushion beside him, knees brushing.

He turned to you; lips parted like he might say something else.

But you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Delicate. Nervous.

The kind of kiss that trembled on the edge of something fragile and new. Your nose bumped his slightly, and you both let out a tiny, breathless laugh against each other’s mouths, barely breaking contact. His hand rose to your cheek, featherlight, fingers trembling as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You could feel the tiny tremor in his touch the same nerves that were making your own hands shake.

You deepened the kiss just barely, lips molding softly to his, like a secret passed between you. His other hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently, and for a moment, you forgot everything else. The race. The world outside. Even Roscoe, snoozing in the corner. It was just this - warmth and want and the wild beating of two hearts afraid to say too much.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you a little breathless, a little dazed.

There was a second of silence, then:

“Okay,” you whispered, voice still catching. “Okay.”

He blinked, brows lifting with surprise. “Okay?”

You let out a tiny giggle nervous, giddy, and overwhelmed. “I just kissed you, didn’t I?”

He laughed too, that quiet, full-bodied sound that always made your chest ache. “You did. Definitely did.”

You peeked up at him, grinning now, cheeks flushed and lips tingling. “And I didn’t mess it up?”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

Your nose brushed his again, a breath shared in the small space between you.

Outside, Tokyo glowed. Inside, the whole world had shifted and neither of you would ever taste dinner the same way again. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It’s been three months since that night in Tokyo.

Three months of shared kitchens and tangled limbs in bed. Of early mornings where he pads in quietly behind you, barefoot and warm from sleep, wrapping his arms around your waist while you blend frozen bananas and almond butter into something silky. Of whispered goodnights and murmured dreams, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets, Roscoe snoozing at the foot of the bed like he’s claimed the space as much as you both have.

Three months of racing and resting and falling deeper into something neither of you had planned but both of you now held onto with quiet, grateful hands.

You still cook every meal. You still leave notes.

Only now, they’re part of a rhythm. A ritual. Kisses over coffee. His chin resting on your shoulder as you stir something on the stove, his voice still rough with sleep as he mumbles, “Smells amazing, babe,” and drops a kiss to the side of your neck. He picks at ingredients like a kid stealing cookie dough nibbling raw cashews, sneaking tofu cubes before they crisp. You swat him away, but he always gets his way with a smile that crinkles his eyes and a dimple that still weakens your knees.

The notes still live in his containers tucked beside overnight oats, quinoa bowls, roasted veggie wraps. But now they’re folded into tiny hearts. Sealed with silly stickers you found at a grocery store in Milan a grinning avocado, a winking sun, a turtle in sneakers. You don’t know if he ever shows them to anyone, but you do know he saves them. You found him once, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dressing room in Barcelona, fingers brushing over one you’d written weeks ago:

Carrots for your eyes. Kale for your heart. And a kiss for everything else.

His smile, when he caught you watching, was quiet and reverent. Like he’d been caught holding a treasure.

This morning, in the soft grey light before dawn, you handed him a smoothie in a frosted glass bottle. He was half-dressed in his team gear, hair tied up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. You’d packed it all carefully into a cooler bag: the smoothie, a small container of baked tofu bites, a banana and a warm square of oat crumble from the batch you’d made last night.

The note was simple.

Win or lose, I’m already proud of you.

He read it just before leaving for the track.

You were rinsing out the blender, humming softly to yourself, when the front door clicked open again. You froze, sponge in hand, turning just as the quiet thud of his boots came back down the hall.

“Lew—?”

He didn’t say a word. Just crossed the kitchen in four purposeful strides, dropped the cooler bag to the floor and cupped your face with both hands.

The kiss was sudden, fierce but not rushed. It was grateful. Deep. Like he needed you to feel everything he didn’t have time to say. Like the note wasn’t enough. Like you were the thing grounding him more than any steering wheel ever could.

When he pulled back, his lips brushed your cheekbone. The tip of your nose. Then he whispered it against your skin.

“I don’t care if this is too soon, but god I love you.”

The words were quiet. Steady. Familiar now, like your name on his tongue. But still enough to make your stomach flutter like it was the first time all over again.

You smiled, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his team hoodie.

“I know,” you murmured. “You murmur it to me under your breath every time you finish your vegetables. I love you too.”

He laughed into your shoulder, the sound muffled and warm. “Well. I’ll finish them forever if it means I get to keep you.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You already do.”

When he left again, it was with three kisses: one on your lips, one on your forehead, and one pressed right above your heart. The door shut gently behind him, and you stood in the kitchen a long while, smiling to yourself. Roscoe wandered in, stretching before curling at your feet with a huff, as if to say, He’ll be back soon. He always comes back.

Later that afternoon, between race debriefs and stretching Roscoe’s legs in the garden, you decided to bake.

“Come help,” you called, already tugging a mixing bowl from the cupboard.

Lewis padded in a few minutes later, barefoot and curious, a towel slung over his shoulder. “What are we making?”

“Oat cookies. With dark chocolate chunks and orange zest,” you replied, measuring oats into a bowl. “Help me stir?”

He reached for the wooden spoon. “You just want me to get messy.”

You grinned. “I like you messy.”

He smirked but didn't argue, and soon enough you were both shoulder to shoulder, ingredients flying, laughter bubbling between measurements. He leaned in close, whispering something cheeky in your ear, and you nudged him with your elbow, sending a small puff of flour into the air.

That’s when he did it.

A smudge of flour, right on your nose.

You froze. Narrowed your eyes.

“Oh, you did not.”

His grin widened. “I did.”

You lunged for the flour bag. He yelped, dodging as you smeared a cloud of it across his cheek, the both of you giggling like children. It turned into a full-on war with flour in your hair, streaks on his hoodie, laughter so loud it startled Roscoe in the next room.

By the time you finally calmed, both of you were coated in white dust, breathless and flushed, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of the flour-covered kitchen.

He looked at you, eyes soft. “You’re the best thing I never saw coming.”

You leaned in, brushing your flour-dusted nose to his. “And you’re the best mess I’ve ever made.”

He kissed you again slow, sweet, warm and you tasted oranges and chocolate and everything you’d built, one note, one kiss, one morning at a time.

Because love, like food, is better when it’s shared.

And you’re just getting started.

There will be more notes. More flour fights. More airports and early flights. More quiet nights and chaotic afternoons.

And always, there will be him.

Coming back to the same kitchen.

To you.

To home.

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theonlyonesora · 2 months ago

Text

The Quiet Equation

Toto Wolff x You

The leaves had just begun to change—burnt orange and brittle gold curling at the edges of Harvard Yard—when he walked into your life like an equation that didn’t balance.

You were seated in the third row of Maxwell 202, your laptop open, fingers idly tracing the rim of your coffee cup. It was your first lecture of the semester, an advanced seminar on sports business leadership, a course you’d only taken because you craved something challenging. Something unfamiliar.

You didn’t expect him.

Toto Wolff.

He entered the room not with fanfare but gravity—like a planet arriving into orbit, unannounced yet impossible to ignore. Six foot five, dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater and slacks that looked tailor-made for his long, deliberate strides. His accent curled around his words like silk-wrapped steel. Every student in the lecture hall straightened unconsciously. A few whispered. A few stared.

But he didn’t scan the room for admiration. No, he scanned for curiosity. For sharpness. For minds worth his time.

And when his gaze landed on you, it stayed there half a second too long.

You looked away first. You always did.

You weren’t used to being noticed.

At 27, you’d already earned your master’s in engineering, and now you were folding into a second program focused on organizational strategy. Most people thought you were a scholarship kid who studied too hard. Maybe you were. You liked silence, liked order, liked the click of logic falling into place. You liked data because it never lied.

But now, data had a voice, and it came in the form of a man twice your age with sharp eyes and a voice like dark chocolate and gravel.

And then came the email.

Subject: Extra Credit Assignment—Mercedes-AMG F1 Guest Lectures You were one of three students selected. Three.

To assist Mr. Wolff during his time as a guest lecturer.

The first time he said your name, it was late afternoon. The sun had begun to dip behind the old stone buildings, casting the seminar room in an amber glow. You had just finished walking him through an analysis of cross-market brand loyalty between Formula One and other global sports franchises.

“Brilliant,” he said, like the word meant something ancient and reverent. “But you already knew that.”

You swallowed. “It’s just data.”

Toto tilted his head, studying you. “No. It’s the way you see it that matters. You find meaning in numbers the way others find it in poetry.”

You flushed. You hated that. He was too perceptive. Too calm. You liked your walls. He was already walking through them like they weren’t even there.

Over the weeks, something began to shift.

He stayed after class longer. Asked you questions no one else would dare ask—about why you never raised your hand, about how you learned to think the way you did. About what you were really afraid of.

He listened when you spoke, not just with attention—but with intention. As if every sentence from you deserved space to unfold.

And you?

You began to crave it. That space. That steady, quiet pull of him. The way he stood too close without ever touching you. The way he would call your name lowly in passing—never inappropriate, never unprofessional, but still enough to echo in your stomach long after he left the room.

There was an age difference, of course. Twenty-four years. But it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like… depth. Like gravity finding gravity.

One night, well past midnight, you stayed behind after a guest seminar to help him with a data model. The others had left. The building was quiet, shadows climbing the bookshelves. The glow from his laptop cast him in silver light, jaw tense, brow furrowed as he reviewed your notes.

“You’ve done this before,” he said softly. “Built something and never taken credit.”

You looked at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you remind me of myself. At your age.” He paused. “Hungry. Brilliant. Lonely.”

That word landed like a pebble in still water.

You didn’t respond right away. Then, quietly: “I don’t mind being alone.”

“No,” he said, watching you. “But maybe you’d like someone who understands it.”

You turned your head to meet his eyes—and the room, the night, the world—it all shifted. Everything suspended.

His hand didn’t move first. Yours did.

And when his fingers closed around yours, it wasn’t the beginning of anything reckless.

It was the beginning of something inevitable.

You never told anyone.

Harvard whispered, as universities always do. But there were no scandals. No rumors. Just the quiet glances exchanged in the corners of classrooms, the subtle shift in your breath when he entered a room.

And on the last day of term, he handed you a folded note with only two lines written in his precise, deliberate hand.

You are the most elegant mind I’ve ever met. Come to Brackley this summer. We have work to do.

You stared at the signature beneath it.

Toto.

Not Mr. Wolff. Not Professor.

Just Toto.

And for once in your carefully structured life, you didn’t hesitate. You were already packed.

Maybe part 2 ?

165 notes · View notes

mischiefinbloom · 6 months ago

Note

Heyy could you do a Regulus Black x fem reader? Maybe a sunshine and grumpy dynamic? I’m in love with your writing

hi, lovely! thank youu for the request! you're making me blusshhh 🤗🤗 hope you enjoy it! ᡣ𐭩

୧ ‧₊˚ little miss sunshine

₊⊹ summary: at hogwarts, you and regulus black struggle with unspoken feelings, while your brother james watches closely. as emotions and fears collide, will you both find a way to face the shadows of the past and the uncertainty of the future?

₊⊹ pairing: regulus black x reader, no use of y/n

₊⊹ warnings: reader is james's sister, regulus is a little coward who struggles to confront his own feelings, and overprotective james (and sirius). i think that's it!

₊⊹ author's note: i HATE that tumblr doesn't let me use my cute dividers because of photo limits!! ugh, improve, tumblr!

hogwarts was especially cold that november afternoon. the winds seemed to cut through the castle's stone walls, carrying with them a sense of urgency no one could quite explain. you were walking through the corridors of the third floor, your steps echoing in harmony with your distracted thoughts. the dim light of the torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, but for you, it was just another ordinary afternoon in a place that, despite its magic, no longer seemed so mysterious.

it was when you turned a corner that you saw him up close for the first time. regulus black, leaning against the stone wall as if he were carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. his impeccable posture, the perfectly tailored slytherin uniform, and that distant gaze... he looked like a painting, but not the warm or inviting kind. regulus had the kind of beauty that intimidated, the kind of presence that made anyone hesitate before saying something.

but you weren’t just anyone.

when you saw him there, with an expression as lost as it was impenetrable, you felt an almost natural urge to break that silence. that’s when you noticed he was holding a piece of parchment in his hands, his fingers tense, as if he was on the verge of crumpling it completely.

"need help?” you asked, your voice gentle but clear enough to make it hard for him to ignore.

he lifted his eyes slowly, as though weighing every word he might say. “no.” the response was short, almost rude, but there was something in his tone that didn’t quite match the disdain he seemed to want to project.

you could have walked away, could have simply continued on your way and left regulus with his problems, but there was something about him that sparked your curiosity. not because he was a black, nor because he was james’s best friend’s younger brother, but because, no matter how hard he tried to appear untouchable, regulus black seemed deeply human.

“alright,” you replied with a slight smile, not insisting but also not hiding the calmness you carried with you. "if you ever need anything, just let me know!"

there were no more words between you in that moment. regulus stayed where he was, and you continued on your way. but somehow, that brief encounter seemed to plant a seed that only time could reveal.

it was only the next morning that coincidence—or perhaps destiny, as poets might say—decided to cross your paths again. ending charms class, professor flitwick announced that regulus black would need a tutor. his performance, though acceptable in some areas, was below expectations in advanced spellwork. and to your surprise, yours was the name the professor called for the task.

“you have the patience and talent to help, miss potter,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “and I believe mr. black could learn a lot from you.”

regulus didn’t say a word. he merely maintained his impassive expression as you nodded.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the first meetings between you were, to say the least, tense. regulus seemed determined not to make anything easy. he answered your questions with monosyllables, avoided looking directly at you, and rarely stayed longer than necessary.

"you know, if you actually paid attention, you'd improve quicker," you commented once, trying to break the uncomfortable silence as he attempted to execute a basic transfiguration spell.

he didn’t reply immediately. his eyes were fixed on his wand, his jaw clenched. when he finally spoke, his voice came out low and controlled. "I don’t need your help for this."

you just smiled, used to the walls he tried to build around himself. "then why are you here?"

he didn’t answer.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

as the weeks passed, something began to shift. though regulus still maintained his facade of indifference, you noticed small cracks in his armor. he no longer complained as much when he made mistakes and, occasionally, allowed his frustration to show instead of hiding behind silence. in an especially memorable moment, he let out an almost imperceptible 'thank you' after you corrected his posture during a complicated spell.

it was like watching a puzzle slowly come together, piece by piece.

but for regulus, it was more complicated than it seemed. he was used to distrusting everyone, to seeing kindness as a means to an end. but you... you were different. there were no ulterior motives in your gestures, no hidden judgments in your words. and that unsettled him.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the days at hogwarts were always hectic, but you knew you couldn’t escape your older brother’s relentless curiosity for long. james had a particular talent for noticing any change in you, even when it was something you weren’t entirely sure how to put into words. that afternoon, while you were reviewing your notes in the gryffindor common room, he approached with the subtlety of a mountain troll.

"you’ve been spending a lot of time outside the tower lately." the statement wasn’t exactly a question but an invitation for explanations. james sank into the armchair beside you, his eyes gleaming with a mix of concern and mischief only he could muster.

"can’t I study in peace now?" you retorted, trying to hide your smile.

"study?" he raised his eyebrows dramatically. "I know it’s not that. lily mentioned you’ve been spending a lot of time in the library. and you know who else has been there?" he paused for dramatic effect. "regulus black."

the name lingered in the air like a spark about to ignite a fire. you didn’t lift your eyes from the parchment, but you felt james’s piercing gaze.

"professor flitwick asked me to help him with charms, james," you finally responded, keeping your tone calm. "that’s all."

"that’s all?" he repeated, leaning forward as if hoping to extract some hidden truth. "I can’t believe you’re actually wasting your time on him. he’s a black. you know what that means, don’t you?"

you raised your eyes to meet his, and there was something steady in your gaze that made james hesitate for a moment. "I know very well who he is, james. but maybe you don’t."

he frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the idea that you might be defending regulus. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means you can’t judge someone just by their last name, even if that someone is your best friend’s brother or part of a family that’s done terrible things. regulus isn’t perfect, but neither is anyone else. he’s... more complicated than he seems."

james was silent for a moment, the words weighing heavier than usual. finally, he sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I just don’t want you to get hurt."

you smiled softly, touching his arm. "I know. but trust me, james. I know what I’m doing."

despite the confident tone in your voice, you knew that trust was still something you were building—for yourself as much as for james. because, even as you tried to see past regulus’s barriers, you weren’t entirely sure if he would ever let you through them.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the next morning, you walked through the halls of hogwarts with a stack of books balanced in your arms, feeling the weight not just of the paper, but of a thought you couldn’t shake: regulus black. no matter how much you tried to convince yourself he was just a student struggling with charms, there was something about him that made you want to know more. it wasn’t just curiosity; it was a persistent feeling that he carried something he’d never shared with anyone.

when you arrived at the library, there he was, sitting at the same table as always, his expression alternating between focus and frustration. regulus had a habit of running his fingers through his hair when he was irritated, and at that moment, he looked like he was on the verge of pulling it all out.

you approached quietly, placing the books on the table. he looked up, clearly surprised by your arrival, but quickly returned to his guarded posture.

"I brought some things that might help," you said with a light smile, motioning to the books.

"you didn’t have to go through the trouble," he replied, his voice low and slightly rough.

"I wanted to. and frankly, it looks like you need it," you countered, pulling out a chair beside him.

he didn’t respond immediately, just watched as you opened one of the books and started flipping through it. there was something unsettling about the way you seemed so comfortable sitting beside him, as if the walls he’d built around himself meant nothing to you.

"have you always been like this?" he asked suddenly, his voice almost a whisper.

you looked up, confused. "like what?"

"so... persistent."

the comment caught him off guard as much as it did you. he quickly averted his gaze, as though regretting having said something so personal.

"I don’t know if it’s persistence," you replied after a moment, with a calm smile. "but I think I like to believe no one is impossible to reach."

he let out a dry, humorless laugh. "then you believe wrong."

"I don’t think so." you tilted your head, trying to catch his gaze. "you might be reserved, regulus, but that doesn’t mean you’re impossible to understand."

for a moment, he was silent, as if processing your words. then he turned his attention back to the open book, his shoulders tense.

"if you’re so determined to understand me, you might want to reconsider. it’s not always worth it."

"that’s something I get to decide," you said gently, but your determination was unmistakable.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the nights at hogwarts often invited quiet reflection, but the gryffindor common room rarely adhered to that rule. on that particular evening, you sat near the hearth, reviewing notes while james and sirius engaged in a game of wizard’s chess, their concentration so intense that the pieces almost seemed to sweat with the effort.

“so, how’s it going with the little black?” sirius asked suddenly, his eyes never straying from the board.

james sighed heavily, crossing his arms. “don’t start, sirius.”

“what?” sirius responded, raising his hands in mock innocence. “I just find it curious that my adorable little sister is spending so much time with regulus, of all people.”

“he’s not as bad as you two make him out to be,” you replied, not looking up from your parchment.

james shot you a wary look. “he’s a black. that’s all you need to know.”

“you know that’s not fair,” you said, finally meeting his gaze. “sirius is a black, and look where he is now. regulus is different. he just... didn’t get the same chance to choose.”

“maybe he doesn’t want to choose,” james retorted, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

“or maybe he’s waiting for someone to show him that it’s possible,” you responded calmly.

sirius let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “good luck with that. regulus has always been good at pretending he doesn’t need anyone.”

“maybe he needs someone more than he lets on,” you said, returning to your notes, though your thoughts were far from them.

james and sirius continued their banter, but your mind was elsewhere, lingering on regulus—the way he kept everyone at arm's length, how he seemed so adept at hiding his true feelings. you didn’t know why it mattered to you so much, but you were certain you wouldn’t give up.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the days that followed brought small but noticeable progress. regulus remained his usual guarded self, but there was a shift in his demeanor, as though he was slowly becoming accustomed to your presence. perhaps it was the way you never faltered in the face of his cold indifference, or how you remained determined to treat him with kindness despite his sharp responses.

on a particularly overcast afternoon, you found regulus in the library, as you often did. he was hunched over a parchment, his quill moving with meticulous care, as though he were trying to will the ink into perfection.

“hey, regulus,” you greeted, setting your own books down on the table and taking a seat beside him.

he didn’t answer right away, but his eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to his work.

“if it’s another book about charms, you can save yourself the trouble,” he said, his voice flat and detached.

you let out a soft laugh. “actually, no. I thought we could try something a bit more practical today.”

he raised an eyebrow, finally turning his gaze toward you. “practical how?”

“like actually casting spells, instead of just studying them.” you tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “unless, of course, you’re afraid of making mistakes in front of me.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” he replied automatically, but a faint flush crept into his cheeks, betraying him.

you suppressed a laugh, picking up your wand. “great. then show me the levitation charm.”

he hesitated for a moment, as though weighing the worth of indulging you. but, to your surprise, regulus drew his own wand and murmured the incantation. the feather in front of him lifted a few inches before tumbling back onto the parchment.

you said nothing at first, simply raised your wand and repeated the charm, making the feather float and spin gracefully in the air. when you glanced at regulus, you noticed the frown on his face, his dissatisfaction with himself palpable.

“it wasn’t bad,” you said sincerely. “you just need to relax a little more. spells work better when you’re not so tense.”

“I'm not tense,” he retorted, though there was a hint of irritation in his voice.

you smiled, leaning slightly forward. “if you weren’t, you would have nailed it on the first try.”

he shot a look in your direction, but this time, something was different. a faint, almost imperceptible curve tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying not to smile.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

as the weeks unfolded, the dynamic between you and regulus gradually shifted, becoming almost comfortable. he remained distant, but there were moments when the ice between you seemed to crack, revealing fleeting glimpses of vulnerability that he couldn't fully conceal from you.

on one particularly cold evening, you found him once again in the library. this time, he was alone, devoid of books or scrolls, simply staring into the emptiness before him.

"is everything alright?" you inquired, sitting beside him without waiting for an invitation.

he took a moment before responding, his gaze fixed on an invisible point in the distance. when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, tinged with uncertainty.

"sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here," he confessed, not meeting your eyes.

you furrowed your brow in confusion. "at hogwarts?"

"no," he replied, his voice soft. "here. with you." he turned to face you, and there was something in his expression that made your heart tighten. "I don't know why you care so much. no one ever has."

his words struck you unexpectedly, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes. regulus wasn't accustomed to acknowledging his weaknesses, not even to himself.

"perhaps because I see something in you that you don't see," you answered gently.

he let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "you're fooling yourself."

"maybe," you conceded, but there was an unwavering determination in your voice that made him pause. "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

for a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you both more profound than any words could express. then, regulus broke the stillness, his gaze shifting away, his expression retreating once more into its familiar mask of indifference.

"you're infuriatingly persistent," he murmured, though there was a trace of warmth in his tone that hadn't been there before.

"and you," you replied with a soft smile, "are infuriatingly stubborn."

for an instant, you could have sworn you saw the faintest curve of a smile tug at the corners of his lips before he concealed it once more beneath his habitual mask.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the following days were a careful dance between maintaining your friendship with regulus and balancing the constant concern from james. you felt the weight of each conversation, each glance from your brother, as though he were trying to decipher whether your intentions were truly safe. james never directly told you to stay away, but the worry in his eyes spoke louder than any words.

on the other hand, regulus seemed increasingly uncomfortable with the growing closeness between you two. he continued attending your meetings in the library, but his posture was more tense, his comments shorter, and his once-guarded glances were now aimed anywhere but at you.

one afternoon, while reviewing charms, you decided to finally confront him about his growing distance.

"regulus," you began, your voice soft but firm, "what’s going on?"

he didn’t look at you immediately, his eyes fixed on the parchment in front of him. when he finally spoke, his voice was cold, almost cutting.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"you know exactly what I mean." you crossed your arms, leaning slightly forward. "you've been avoiding me, regulus. you can hardly look at me."

he finally lifted his eyes, but what you saw there wasn’t anger or coldness; it was fear.

"I'm not avoiding you," he said, but the lack of conviction in his voice betrayed him.

you sighed, shaking your head. "you can lie to yourself, but not to me."

he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply before meeting your gaze again. "maybe it’s better this way. maybe I should just stay away."

his words hit you like a punch, but you didn’t retreat. "why? what have I done to deserve this?"

he hesitated, the internal struggle clearly written on his face. "it’s not you... it’s me."

"that’s a ridiculous excuse, regulus." your voice trembled slightly, but you kept it steady. "you’ve been pushing me away because you're afraid. afraid to open up, afraid to care."

"and what if I am?" he shot back, his voice finally rising. "what if I’m afraid? because that’s what you do. you come into my life, break down all my barriers, and I don’t know how to deal with that!"

the silence that followed was deafening. you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the confession torn from him like it was too painful to say.

"I never wanted to hurt you," you said, softly but with the strength needed to reach his heart.

he turned his gaze away, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I don’t know how to be... this. how to be someone who deserves you."

"you don’t need to be perfect, regulus. you just need to be you."

he looked at you again, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to say something more. but then he closed off, muttering something inaudible before quickly standing up and leaving the library, leaving you alone with the weight of the conversation.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

later that evening, you found james in the common room. he was laughing at something sirius had said, but when he saw you, his expression changed instantly.

"what’s wrong?" he asked, rising to approach you.

you hesitated for a moment before collapsing onto the couch next to him, the words spilling out in a rush. you told him about regulus, about his hesitant confession, and the fear that seemed to control him.

james stayed silent as he listened, his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed. when you finished, he ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with his own emotions.

"I don’t like this, you know? you and him. I don’t think it’s a good idea."

"I know," you said, tired. "but I care about him, james. and I think he cares about me too, even if he’s too afraid to admit it."

james let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "you know, sometimes you’re just as stubborn as I am."

you smiled faintly but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

"if you really believe he’s worth it, then go ahead. but if he hurts you..." james stopped, his expression darkening. "he’s going to have to deal with me."

you nodded, touched by your brother’s protectiveness, even if he didn’t fully approve of your choices.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

the library was nearly empty, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting long shadows between the shelves. you found him sitting at the same table as always, but something was different. regulus appeared drained, his shoulders slumped, his hands gripping the parchment in front of him as though it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

you approached slowly, the sound of your footsteps the only break in the quiet. he didn’t lift his head until you were seated, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of guilt and resignation.

"I didn’t think I’d see you here anymore," he said, breaking the silence, but not the tension that lingered between you.

he didn’t meet your gaze, his fingers tapping on the parchment. "I didn’t plan to come."

you waited, sensing there was more beneath his words. regulus black never did anything without a reason, and something in his expression suggested he was teetering on the edge of something deeper.

"I don’t know how to start," he admitted, finally looking at you again. his eyes were darker than usual, heavy with something he couldn’t share.

"then don’t start. just say it," you encouraged gently, your voice soft but firm, urging him to break down the walls he had built.

he let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound hollow in the stillness of the library. "you make it sound so easy."

"because it is, regulus. you just have to be honest."

he shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight line. "honesty isn’t something I was taught to value. I was raised to lie, manipulate, hide. and now... now, I don’t even know who I am anymore."

the words hit you like a blow, and you could feel the raw pain in his voice. but you didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at the vulnerability he was offering, however painful it was for him.

"maybe it’s time to find out, regulus. maybe it’s time to stop being who they want you to be and start being who you really are."

he closed his eyes, his shoulders trembling slightly as though he were fighting something inside. "I tried to push you away because I thought it would be better that way. I thought if i didn’t care, I couldn’t hurt you. but the more I push away, the more I realize that... I can’t. I can’t forget you."

the words came out with such intensity that they almost stole the breath from your lungs. you knew regulus had feelings for you, but hearing it directly from his lips, laden with so much pain and hesitation, was overwhelming.

"why do you think you’d hurt me?" you asked, leaning forward slightly, as if you could bridge the emotional gap he’d created.

"because it’s what I do," he replied, his voice low and rough. "everything I touch shatters. my family, my brother, my future... everything. I’m not someone who deserves... this."

"this what?" you pressed, your voice breaking slightly. "reg, tell me. be honest."

he hesitated, his eyes locking onto yours with a kind of unbearable intensity. "you. I don’t deserve you."

the silence that followed was suffocating. you could feel the weight of his words, the pain behind them, and above all, the fear that regulus carried with him like a shattered shield.

"don’t you see?" you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. "I chose you. with all your imperfections, your fears, your insecurities. I chose you because I see who you really are, and that’s more than enough for me."

he laughed again, but this time, there was something broken in the sound. "and what if I can’t live up to that? what if I fail you, just like I failed everyone else?"

you moved closer, reaching out to touch his hand. he hesitated, but didn’t pull away, his eyes locked on the gentle touch of your fingers.

"then fail," you said, your voice full of emotion. "fail as many times as it takes. but stop hiding, regulus. stop pushing me away, because I’m not going anywhere."

he finally broke, his shoulders slumping as a tremulous sigh escaped his lips. "I’m so scared..."

"I know," you replied, squeezing his hand gently. "but you don’t have to face it alone."

and in that moment, something shifted. it wasn’t a dramatic break or a sudden revelation, but a quiet understanding that passed between you. regulus was still broken, still battling his own demons, but for the first time, he was allowing you to help him carry the weight.

when he finally looked up at you again, there was a new determination in his eyes. a glimmer of hope that, though small, was enough to begin with.

"I don’t know how to do this, I..." he admitted.

"then let’s figure it out together," you said, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away.

the touch of his hand on yours felt like the only bridge between fear and desire, between pain and hope. regulus was vulnerable, more exposed than he had ever allowed himself to be, and you could feel the fragility in every ounce of courage he was trying to summon.

he didn’t pull away, didn’t shy away from the touch, and for the first time, something inside him seemed to give way. the look he gave you, full of insecurity, was also a silent plea. "don’t let me go."

without a word, you leaned in slightly, your face only inches from his. the rhythm of your hearts seemed to align, as though the world around you had faded away, leaving only the two of you in that moment of pure vulnerability.

regulus’s breathing was uneven, as though the weight of his own uncertainty was choking him, but there was something in his eyes—something deep and desperate—that made you hesitate for no longer. your gaze dropped to his lips, the same lips that were so close, yet so far away, like a promise that had never been kept.

he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, the tension in the air almost palpable. you could see the inner struggle on his face, the battle between the fear of surrendering and the desire to finally give in to what you both knew was inevitable.

"I’m not sure if..." he started to say, but his words trailed off as you, gently and softly, pressed your lips to his.

the kiss was tentative at first, a light touch, as though you both were testing the boundaries of what was safe. but soon, the tenderness grew into something more urgent, more profound. regulus, hesitant at first, began to surrender to the kiss, his fingers tightening around yours, and the kiss deepened, as if every movement was an attempt to unravel the knots of fear that had bound him for so long.

the taste of his kiss was both familiar and new—a blend of frustration and yearning, of insecurity and hope. it was as if, in surrendering to you, he was allowing himself, for the first time, to be more than the expectations placed on him. more than the mistakes of his past.

regulus’s hands, once tense and restrained, now moved with greater confidence, his expression, once closed and distant, now open in quiet surrender. he pulled you closer, as if to reassure himself that you were there, that you weren’t leaving, and you gave yourself to him with the same intensity, meeting his desire and his fear with the same certainty.

when you finally parted, your breath was heavy, ragged, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. regulus kept his eyes closed for a beat, as if allowing himself to feel that moment completely, before opening them and looking at you with something that, for the first time, was pure.

"I don’t... I don’t know what this means," he murmured, his voice trembling.

you smiled softly, your fingers brushing his face gently. "we don’t need to know right now, regulus. we’ll figure it out together."

and, for the first time, he didn’t pull away, didn’t try to protect himself. the insecurity was still there, but there was something new—an inkling that maybe, just maybe, the fear was no longer stronger than the connection beginning to grow between you.

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #james potter #sirius black #grumpy x sunshine #marauders #timothée chalamet

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marigoldenblooms · 1 year ago

Text

An Important Lesson - One-Shot

Pairing: Professor!Wanda x Fem!Reader (MINORS DNI - 18+)

Prompt: After years of rigorous study, you were nearing the end of your graduate program. Companionship had become a figment of your imagination, until your film professor caught your eye. Taking something from her desk, you hope you could catch hers- and you got more than you bargained for.

MINORS DNI - 18+

Tags: Who is Y/N I don’t know her, Dom!Wanda, Sub!Reader, Porn with plot, teasing, orgasm denial, vibrator use, thigh riding, Mommy kink, Professor kink (sparingly), no aftercare, slight dub-con, dumbification, praise, dom/sub dynamics, power imbalance (professor/student), age gap (Reader is 26 while Wanda is 34), brat taming if you squint.

A/N: Holy balls, I did not realize smut was so hard to write. Major kudos to all who seem to do it so effortlessly! I know I envy ‘em. This is my first foray into writing this kind of fic (my university’s spring break has brought a lot of writing firsts), so if you have any feedback I’d love to hear it! This is also vaguely proofread! Wanted to do some practice before the evental sex in Unica Sempter Avis (Because USA is certainly an Abbreviation of All Time), and other ideas I’ve got cooking up. I'd love to write another part to this, if y'all would be down! Thanks y'all again! Edit: An Important Lesson is getting a second part! Read a teaser here! >:)

Word Count: 2.5k - Read length: 9 minutes, 5 seconds. Pictures aren't mine, credit to their owners! ~~~

The pen hadn’t been worth stealing, and yet here you were.

Professor Maximoff’s classroom was overwhelmingly quiet, dark and empty with familiar rows of tables curved in a half arc around her desk, pushed off to the side. She’d always pace within the front few rows where you sat, and you’d have to crane your neck to keep her in view when you weren’t scribbling down paraphrases of what she said. She taught Advanced Film and Media Critique, which generally lended itself to analyzing the shit out of old TV shows. Maximoff was a difficult professor, but you weren’t looking for easy, especially in your graduate program. After a few years of working your ass off to make enough money, you’d wiped the floor with your bachelors and now you were vying for your masters, in your last few weeks of grad school. And you knew Professor Maximoff liked you, which didn’t make it so bad.

You knew other things about her too - for instance, there was no way she wasn’t a lesbian. Whenever you’d raise your hand her eyes would snap to you, and you swear her face would curl into a smile that was beyond professional. You’d catch her staring in your direction during exams on multiple occasions (to be fair you did the same when she wasn’t looking, but that’s besides the point), and you swear up and down that she winked at you during your midterm. She’d hold onto your hand a little too long when you turned in papers, and always offered ‘tutoring’ sessions which you humbly declined in the beginning of the semester, your grade being nigh perfect in her course. Between that, the short nails, tailored suits, and the rings- oh, so many rings- there was no way your professor wasn’t gay, and possibly had the hots for you. Your studies had been your priority over companionship for so long, And now, within a few weeks of your final, why not make a move?

Heist films had been the topic of last week’s lecture, and so nicking something small would be a good segway, right? You’d return it to her tomorrow after class, mention something flirty (perhaps about stealing her heart), and see where it went. If you were lucky, you’d have her number by the end of the course, and perhaps take the older woman to coffee after your final exam. You’d bring her to the movies, but that might turn into more of a lesson than a date.

As you’d pluck a pen from one of her desk drawers, you notice that it was slightly heavier than most. You clicked it once, then a second time- and nothing happened, so it went into your pockets. You’d move to exit the dim room, before a plaque caught your eye- her degree. It was neatly pressed into its frame: Wanda Maximoff, Masters of Arts in Film and Media Studies. You remembered her mentioning she was working on her doctorate, a proud grin sparking at that. Perhaps you’d get to know more about her dissertation and herself shortly. ------------------------------------------

Class went by faster than most, although it didn’t help that you were anxiously awaiting the end of Professor Maximoff’s lecture. She had worn a trim fitted sleeveless blouse and buttoned pants, both beautiful shades of burgundy. A myriad of gold rings decorating her hands as she’d motion with them through her talk. You’d have to keep your eyes off her fingers, nose deep in notebooks as you’d scramble to collect her words before your incoming final exam.

“And what is the significance of I Love Lucy’s laugh tracks?” Wanda would ponder aloud before your hand immediately shot up, the lone attempt out of your fifty or so classmates. She’d grin at you, “Yes, dear?”

You almost forget what you were about to say, holding onto the vestiges of it as you’d sputter, “Oh, uhm- yes, well, I Love Lucy didn’t have laugh tracks, mostly- they were the first sitcom to have a live studio audience.” Her eyes would crinkle with mirth, and you could tell immediately that you had the right answer. You tuned out her words as your mind would swim, thinking back to the weighted pen in your jeans pocket. The pet names were new, settling a joyous fuzz both in your mind and between your legs. It was things like this that had you on the back foot- this was your chance to get her back.

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“And I’ll see you all in two days,” Wanda would return to her desk, sitting atop it rather than in the chair behind it. One of your classmates had asked why in an icebreaker towards the beginning of the semester, and if you remembered correctly she said ‘Just like the view from up here,’ or the like. If you’d been on the same track mind as now, you probably would have noticed how she stared at you during her spiel, a detail only discovered in hindsight. Now, you had all the pieces.

You pack up slowly, shimmying your belongings into your overly stuffed bag. Hanging back until there were few students left, you flag her gaze with a hand and an upturned smile, “Professor, I was wondering if I could..” Your words would halt in your throat, thoughts thickened and syrupy as she’d look down to you, head tilted a degree off kilter. Would it be embarrassing to admit you’d never been this close to her before? Her lips would be pursed, but would break into a wild grin, and you felt yourself melt right there. You weren’t a teen anymore goddamnit, focus- “Talk-” you’d squeak, clearing your throat hastily to camouflage the blunder, “Talk with you, after class. Professor.”

Her brows would raise, and you could almost see the cogs rotating in there. Her eyes would dart within the now-empty room, adjusting her position on the desk- and it’d become increasingly obvious (you can deny it no longer) that you were standing directly in between her slightly parted legs. This wasn’t how you were expecting it to go, but here you were. She’d start taking off her rings. “Of course, darling,” she’d tease again with a roughened lilt. Those damn pet names. “What do you need?”

“I think I have something of yours, Professor-” Your mouth would open a few seconds before you’d speak, and you swear she’d smirk at how she had you, devoid of any thought. Something about her had you smiling and kicking your feet, and boy did she know it. Without any further bravado, you’d pull out the pen, “I hate to say it, but I think you’ve stolen-”

“Oh,” She’d breathe, Wanda’s face tinting with a pinkish hue, yet her smile only grew larger. Her gaze would narrow, voice dripping with a sultry air that almost knocked you off balance, “I didn’t let you borrow that, did I?”

“No Professor,” you admit, beginning to launch into your story, before she’d shush you- shush you, words piling up into a lump in your throat.

“And do you know what it does, darling?” She asks, her tone a breathy whisper now. You swallow, shaking your head no. She fucking giggles. She takes the pen from your hand, clicking it three times, and it’d start to buzz. Oh, my god. It was a fucking vibrator.

“Too dumb to even recognize what this is? And I thought you were so smart..” She’d tease, a flush forming on your face in tandem with a shiver down your body. You open your mouth to speak, and yet her warm, calloused fingers would clasp your jaw shut. “Shhh, don’t want your pretty little head to even think, darling. How about Mommy show you how it works, hm?”

You’d nod immediately. She’d abandon the toy, clicking it off as her hands would slip beneath your shirt, and it felt like time had frozen. She was so soft, and your mind glazed over. Your breath hitched as she’d trail upward, palming your skin before running her fingers over your bare breasts. You’d watch as Wanda’s pupils would blow in seconds, a devious smile bubbling into view, “No bra?” She’d murmur lowly shaking her head as she’d start to knead your flesh, “Just couldn’t remember it, hm? My precious student, too busy thinking of me to get dressed, were you?” You nod again, a pitiful mewl escaping your throat.

“Yes- Yes, Professor..” You arch into her touch, although that bliss was short-lived as you feel her dig her hands further into your tits, sharper than you’d like. She’d tsk at your reply, and you look up to meet her eyes- oh, that was the wrong answer.

“Did you already forget my title, baby?” She’d ask almost tauntingly, her gaze sharpening as she’d shift her hands from your skin. You’d chase her warmth, dazed as your skin would flush and tremble, slotting yourself up against her. She’d run her thumb over your lips, crooning at your immediate submission. She could use that.

“It seems Mommy has a lot to teach you, dear..” Her touch would ghost across your exposed forearms, her feather-light touches only stuttering your breath further. “And I think you’re ready for your first lesson. Think you can handle that, darling? Keep your eyes on me,” Her hands would dig into your jeans, rougher against the hem’s fabric, “Think you can take this off for Mommy?”

“Please..” You beg, raising your hips to strip yourself bare, your glance trained on her. You don’t miss how her eyes darted down to your bare cunt, having slid off your panties too, or how she licked her lips at the sight of your slick. Her hands would hold your legs open, the cold lecture hall’s air chilling your exposed skin. Still staring at Wanda, you’d discard your shirt in the same breath, her jaw clenching as all of you felt the cool air. Feeling exposed, the urge to flee ebbed away some of your arousal. Were you really about to fuck your professor in her own classroom? Your focus was immediately drawn again as she’d capture your chin in her hand, pulling it harshly to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dilated, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow as she’d pant, both from your disobedience and your thighs rubbing against hers. “Look at me,” she’d hiss, taking your lips into a searing kiss. Your answer? Fuck. Yes.

Your cunt would grind against her leg as Wanda would pull your hips up and onto her thigh, grip bruising as your lips would crash together. You could smell her vanilla perfume as she’d tug at your bottom lip with her teeth, a familiar buzzing sound heard but not registered before you felt it on your clit. “Mommy- yes, Fuckin’ christ, there-” You’d keen, lurching back as Wanda’s hand would rest on your hip, keeping you from escaping her touch.

Wanda would groan at your words, voice a little breathier as her hips would stutter against yours, “There’s my good girl..” Teasingly, she’d circle your clit with the pen-shaped toy, gasping herself as she’d feel the aftershocks of its pulse on her clothed cunt. “Taking Mommy’s toy so well..such a sweet girl for your Professor-”

You’d rock your hips against her, the friction from her dress slacks and the vibrator’s pulse bringing you to the edge embarrassingly quick. Wanda wouldn’t notice your frenzied breathing or how you lost your rhythm, but she would hear your words; drawn between husky whines, “Mommy, please, I’m so close, fuck-” Your face would flush, legs beginning to tremble before the whole feeling was ripped away from you, Wanda’s grip leaving as the buzz would click off. With shaky breaths, your eyes would rise to meet hers- only to see a teasing grin. She’d pat your arms, gently coaxing you off of her thigh, the few sparks of friction from that not enough to bring you anywhere close to your release. You’d blink, thoughts thickened and reeling, brow furrowed ever so slightly for her- and Wanda loved it.

“You did so well for your first lesson, dear..” She’d croon, brushing herself off as she’d rise to her feet, leaving you on her cluttered desk. “But, Professor, I didn’t-” You’d begin and she’d silence you right there, hand rising to close your jaw shut again.

“And you won’t come unless you call me by my title, darling. You’ve received your correction for your first mistake- and for stealing from me,” You nodded slowly, absorbing her words as though they were molasses, and her smile only widened at how dazed she’d made you. “And if you disobey again when you’re with me, alone- then I’ll lower your grade by five points. Understand?”

If you were in any kind of fog before, you cleared it from your thoughts immediately. “Yes, very clear- uhm,” You pause, noticing the stain on her pant leg where your pussy had ground into the fabric, and you feel your face warm. Wanda would shift her stance and you’d look up- she leaned above you, a single brow raised. You’d swallow, keeping your eyes on her completely, “Yes, Mommy- I understand.”

“Good girl.” That was the right answer. She’d smile at you, her praise going straight to your cunt. Could she not have given you a few more seconds? Maybe you could’ve gotten off without her noticing. She’d interrupt your mind with a quick peck on the lips, and you felt your wits slow, swimming with thoughts of her mouth. Oh, that was why- couldn’t get away with anything if you didn’t think anything at all. Wanda’s grin would only intensify as she’d watch you dress, clothing rumpled from the haste it had been taken off. After a few minutes, you were back to prim and proper..besides your racing heart and flush whenever Wanda so much as moved. “This was great..” You’d murmur, pressing the wrinkles from your shirt, gaze flicking back up to Wanda’s- your professor still watching you with a smooth, secretive smirk.

“Of course it was, dear..but it’s still nice to hear you say that. Anything for my best student,” She’d wink at you and you’d fold, feeling your palms clam up. Since when were you this weak in the knees? She’d settle at her desk again, her hands clasped together on its wooden grain. You’d be taller than her now, with her sitting down- and yet there was an aura she commanded that you couldn’t outdo. You turn to leave without any further fanfare but her voice would seize you again, just as warm as her touch. “I’ll be expecting you after tomorrow’s classes, then? I think some…after-hours remedial work for my course would do you well.”

Were you really about to fuck your professor in her own classroom, again? You’d leave her hall with a bright smile, a reply, and a secret. Your answer? The same as before - Fuck. Yes.

And your secret?

You’d stolen the ‘pen’ again.