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pucksandpower · 3 days ago

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Empires and Emperors

Toto Wolff x Cadillac team principal!Reader

Summary: the old adage says “don’t mix business with pleasure,” but Formula 1 requires pushing boundaries … both on the track and off of it

Warnings: mentions of a career-ending crash

The Bahrain sun is merciless, already scorching the tarmac at ten in the morning. Camera crews buzz like flies, microphones aimed at anyone in team gear, but the paddock doesn’t truly snap to attention until the Cadillac garage doors roll up and you step out — aviators low, Americano in hand, ponytail like a loaded weapon.

You don’t flinch when the press crush starts.

You barely blink.

Toto watches from the Mercedes garage with the faint smirk of a man who’s seen every variety of hype crash and burn. But this … this is different.

“Christ,” mutters a race engineer, watching the growing commotion. “She’s not even driving.”

Toto hums. “That’s the point.”

You stride past Sky Sports, nod at a reporter who tries to corral you into an impromptu hit. You say, “Sorry, I’m not caffeinated enough to be charming yet,” without breaking pace. They laugh. You don’t.

Your white Cadillac team shirt is immaculately crisp, tucked into tailored black trousers that mean business. Your name is embroidered over your heart like a signature. There's something terrifying about how calm you look. You pass McLaren, Ferrari, Red Bull. Eyes track you like hawks. You’re not even trying to cause a scene, you're just unapologetically here.

By the time you reach the team principals’ press conference, the seats are mostly filled. Toto’s already on stage, seated with Christian, Fred, and Andrea. You take the last chair, perfectly on time, and thank the moderator like you're doing him a favor.

“Welcome, Y/N,” the moderator says, clearly over-eager. “Exciting moment for Cadillac today. First day of testing. First American-led team since Haas. How does it feel?”

You lean into the mic, flick your gaze across the room — sizing it up.

“It feels like everyone wants to see if we crash or combust. I plan on disappointing them.”

A ripple of laughter. Christian chuckles like he’s amused, but Toto watches your fingers tap idly on the desk, left ring to index, again and again. A tic? A tell?

Fred leans forward. “A lot of buzz around your car. You think it’s ready?”

You arch a brow. “I think our car’s been ready since before you all started noticing it.”

Toto finally speaks. “Strong words for a car that hasn’t run a lap.”

You look at him. Really look. The moment hangs.

“I’ve seen plenty of cars run laps and still not show up when it counts.”

Christian makes a low, “Oof.”

Toto tilts his head, amused. “Hopefully your strategy is better than your temper.”

“My strategy,” you say sweetly, “is to keep everyone guessing. Starting with you.”

Laughter, again. Louder this time. Cameras flash.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text from your PR Officer.

Calm down. You’re going to give the FIA a stroke.

You ignore it.

The questions move on. Andrea is saying something about wind tunnel data. Christian’s lobbing vague insults at the cost cap. But you’re still aware of Toto. He doesn’t look at you anymore, but you can feel his attention like static.

The press conference ends. Everyone stands. There's the shuffle of paper, the awkward murmurs of media trying to corner principals before they vanish. You take your time. You’re about to walk off when-

“I take it you’re not planning to make many friends in here,” Toto says, low enough that only you hear.

You don’t smile. “I’ve got a team. That’s enough.”

He nods once. “Mm. Must be nice.”

You blink. The look in his eyes is fleeting, but something sharp lives behind it. You know it when you see it — resignation, maybe. Or regret.

“I don’t do politics,” you say. “Not anymore.”

“Then you’re in the wrong sport.”

You smirk. “I’m not here to fit in, Toto.”

He doesn’t flinch at the name. Most people don’t say it like that — like a challenge.

“Clearly,” he says, dry as sand. Then, with a glance at your lanyard, “You ever think about going back?”

The flashback hits like a punch.

A wall of flame. A split-second decision to pit. Your engineer shouting too late. The impact sharp enough to rattle your soul. The sound of carbon shattering. The way silence follows trauma like an old friend.

And after: the meetings where they called you difficult, aggressive, uncooperative. When you pushed back, you were “a liability.” Not marketable enough. Not compliant enough.

You left IndyCar with trophies and screws in your shoulder. You left knowing you’d never crawl back.

“Not even if it paid double,” you say.

He nods. “Fair.”

You pause. “You actually care?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been watching motorsport long enough to know when someone gets chewed up.”

You look at him differently, then. Not soft, not grateful. Just ... seeing him, maybe for the first time.

“You think I’ll get chewed up here?” You ask.

“No,” he says, turning. “I think you’ll bite back.”

You watch him walk off, all precise posture and tailored black. An engineer falls into step beside him, murmuring something. He answers without looking back.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Toto says. His voice is just loud enough for the words to carry.

The engineer frowns. “What, like — media trouble?”

Toto’s mouth curves. “No.” Then, quieter, with a smile that’s almost fond, “The interesting kind.”

***

The FIA meeting room smells like stale coffee, over-conditioned air, and the permanent tension of eleven egos shoved into one overlit box. There’s a bowl of untouched almonds in the center of the table. You wonder if they were here yesterday. Or last season.

You’re seated between Andrea and Christian, who are both smiling like diplomats but vibrating with the low-level condescension of men who are used to being the most interesting person in the room.

“Let’s talk about your diffuser,” Christian starts, as if the word diffuser is a veiled insult. “Interesting interpretation of the regulations.”

You don’t look at him. “Everything we’ve done is legal.”

“Legal’s not the same as sporting,” Andrea chimes in. “There’s a spirit to these things.”

“Oh, please.” You finally turn. “The spirit of the sport died the day you all decided performance was negotiable and politics were a KPI.”

That earns a few raised brows. You glance at Fred, who just shrugs like he’s too old to pretend any of this isn’t performative.

“The FIA cleared our design. If you have an issue with it, file a protest,” you add, sipping from the coffee you brought in yourself because the FIA’s is undrinkable. “Or better yet, copy it like you usually do.”

Christian lets out a short laugh, more amused than offended. “You’re not interested in playing nice, are you?”

“I’m interested in winning. I don’t know what you all are doing here.”

Andrea leans back. “You’re new. That’s fine. But you’ll learn — this isn’t just about the car. It’s about relationships.”

You glance around the room. “Funny. I thought it was about racing.”

Toto hasn’t said a word. He’s across from you, fingers interlaced, watching with the infuriating patience of someone who’s not here to win the argument, he’s here to win the war. You meet his gaze once. It’s unreadable. Then he looks away.

The meeting drones on. Brake ducts. Tire allocations. Something-something sustainability. Everyone has opinions, none of them productive. You say less as the hour drags. You’re learning the rhythm of this room — the pauses, the fake outrages, the knowing glances exchanged over your head.

At the end, as everyone rises and starts gathering notes they won’t read again, Toto approaches.

“Coffee?” He says, tone almost offhand. “Neutral ground.”

You raise a brow. “Why? You bored of watching me set fires in here?”

He doesn’t smile. “Just curious what you’re actually trying to burn down.”

You should say no. You don’t.

***

The paddock lounge is quiet when you arrive twenty minutes later. Cool-toned, clean lines, suspiciously good espresso. There’s an understated confidence in the way everything is exactly where it should be. Nothing flashy. Just efficient.

Toto’s already seated at a small table in the back, a steaming cup in front of him. No assistants. No PR. Just him, white shirt rolled at the forearms, reading something on his phone with that same unsettling stillness.

You slide into the seat across from him.

“Still neutral?” You ask.

He sets the phone down. “That depends on how you define neutral.”

“I define it as: no offers, no threats, no press leaks.”

He nods. “Then yes.”

A pause.

You take in the lounge. The screens showing pit lane footage, the muted international voices from a side room, the slow drip of espresso behind the bar. Controlled. Precise. Familiar, if you squint.

“You remind me of Penske,” you say, almost to yourself.

Toto lifts a brow. “In what way?”

“Quiet until it matters. Never without a plan. Likes to watch before you strike.”

He folds his hands. “You’ve studied me?”

You shrug. “I study everyone. Occupational hazard.”

“I’ve studied you, too.”

You lean back. “That sounds ominous.”

“I don’t mean it to be.” He pauses. “You were fast. In Indy. Efficient. Cut through the noise.”

You laugh once. “They said I was difficult. That I didn’t smile enough.”

“They say that about anyone who doesn’t need approval.”

You don’t say anything to that. Not yet.

The coffee arrives, and you both thank the lounge staff at the same time — reflexive, polite. You clock it. He does, too.

“So,” he says, resting one arm on the table. “What’s the endgame, really? Visibility? Disruption? A Netflix arc?”

You blink once, slowly. “You think I came here to be an influencer?”

“I think you came here knowing exactly how much attention your appointment would cause.”

“Of course I did,” you say. “But that’s not the end game. That’s just the noise.”

“Then what’s the signal?”

You study him. His eyes are sharp, sure. Not cruel, but relentless. There’s no wasted motion in the way he speaks, listens. You don’t hate it. You recognize it.

“The signal is innovation,” you say finally. “The car, the structure, the tech we’re developing — Cadillac didn’t join to sell more SUVs. We came because the sport needs a hard reset.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And you think you’re the one to do it.”

“No,” you say. “I know I’m the one who’s not afraid to try.”

Silence, but not heavy. Just considered.

Then he leans forward a little. “You don’t recognize tradition.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t recognize innovation unless it’s wearing silver.”

He smiles, just barely. “That’s not true.”

“Oh? You didn’t try to bury the DAS system in regs the second someone else used it?”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“It wasn’t only yours anymore,” you say, sipping your coffee. “There’s a difference.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not.”

Another pause. You watch people come and go behind the glass — engineers, interns, drivers. Nobody interrupts you. They all know better. This is what you came for. The real meetings never happen in FIA rooms. They happen like this — two people sitting across a table, pretending not to size each other up.

Toto finally speaks. “You could’ve joined any team. Taken an advisory role. Sat back. Why Cadillac? Why a full team principal position with a rookie team and a target the size of a billboard?”

You stir your coffee. “Because I’m tired of fixing other people’s broken systems. I want to build something from scratch. Something that doesn’t need politics to survive.”

“You think that’s possible here?”

You meet his gaze. “Not yet. But it will be. Eventually. Maybe not this season. Maybe not for a few. But it’s coming.”

“You’re going to get hit hard.”

You nod. “I’ve been hit harder.”

A flicker of something moves across his face — approval? Curiosity? You’re not sure.

“You were right about one thing,” you add. “I don’t care about fitting in. But I do care about impact.”

He nods slowly. “Then I suggest you learn how to play the long game.”

“Oh, I’m playing it. But not with the same pieces as you.”

He stands. Not abruptly. Not coldly. Just … finished.

You rise, too.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say.

He inclines his head. “Thanks for not flipping the table.”

“Yet.”

That earns a real laugh, short and clean.

You pause at the door, glance back. “By the way — your wind tunnel data’s off by 0.2 percent. Rear aero.”

He raises a brow. “How do you know that?”

You wink. “I read.”

Then you’re gone.

***

Back in the Cadillac garage, your lead engineer looks up from the pit wall.

“How was your playdate?”

You throw your headset down gently. “Exactly what I expected.”

He grins. “And?”

You shake your head. “He’s testing me.”

“Did you pass?”

“No idea,” you say. “But I think he did.”

The sun is lower now, but still sharp. You can feel the paddock humming again, whispers curling around your name, your car, your meetings. You let them talk.

Toto watches from across the way as you rejoin your team.

“She’s good,” says Shov, standing beside him now.

Toto doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as you lean in to talk with a mechanic, one hand on the front wing, completely in control of the chaos you’ve created.

“She’s dangerous,” Toto says.

He doesn’t sound worried. Not even a little.

He sounds … intrigued.

***

The Melbourne circuit is a festival of chaos and sunscreen. Fans draped in American flags chant CA-DIL-LAC like they’re tailgating a college football game, not watching a brand-new F1 team fumble its way through its first real Sunday.

You knew this race would be hard. You planned for it, trained for it, told everyone — including yourself — that the only goal was to finish clean.

But watching both your drivers sink like stones after Lap 15 is a different kind of pain.

The car looks fast on Fridays. Hell, it is fast in qualifying. Top ten for both drivers. You’d been calm on the pit wall then, headset snug against your ears, fingers steady on the tablet. You even let yourself believe it might hold.

But now, with ten laps to go, you’re crouched low beside the wall, headset slung around your neck like dead weight, watching the times drop sector by sector. The Caddy’s chewing through tires like they’re made of tissue paper. The balance is off. There’s understeer in the mid-speed corners. One driver is already radioing in frustration, the other’s silent. You hate the silence more.

“Y/N?” Your lead strategist calls, voice tinny in your earpiece. “We could try offsetting the stint, pit now and pray for a safety car-”

“No,” you say.

“It could-”

“No.”

He goes quiet. Everyone always goes quiet when you use that voice. The one you used in IndyCar when you were flying at 220 mph and someone told you to back off. The one that means: I’ll take the blame, but I’m not gambling just to gamble.

You don't speak for the rest of the race.

The checkered flag drops. P13 and P15. No points. You don’t move.

Eventually, the garage begins to wind down, packing gear, muttering half-hearted debriefs. You remove your headset. Stand. Leave the garage without a word.

You walk until you’re behind the pit wall again, away from the paddock, from the PR handlers and tech directors and sponsor-friendly excuses. You crouch low, same as during the race, elbows on knees, eyes on the empty straight like it might still hold some kind of answer.

It doesn’t.

Footsteps crunch softly behind you. You don’t look up.

Toto doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking out at the track beside you like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does.

Finally, his voice cuts through the still air.

“You don’t trust your engineers.”

You exhale through your nose. Not laughter, not quite. “That’s the problem, huh?”

He nods once. “One of them.”

You stand, slowly. Turn toward him. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes … your eyes are flint.

“I don’t trust anyone yet.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just studies you. Like a problem worth solving.

You cross your arms, lean your shoulder against the pit wall. “You think I don’t want to trust them? You think I enjoy second-guessing every call from the box, every predictive model that tells me what I should do while I watch my drivers skid through corners like amateurs?”

“No,” Toto says. “I think you were trained not to.”

That silences you. Just for a moment.

Then, voice low, “I was trained to win. In a world that didn’t expect me to survive, let alone lead.”

Toto nods. “And now?”

“Now I’m trying to lead a team that still thinks leadership means shouting louder than the telemetry.”

“You hired them.”

“I hired who was willing to jump off a cliff with me. Some of them are good. Some are bluffing. And I don’t have time to wait and see which is which when every second on track costs us ten in the media.”

Toto studies your face. You hate that he can see through you. Even more than that, you hate that you don’t want to hide.

“You miss being in the car,” he says.

The admission sits heavy in your chest, like a truth you didn’t mean to bring to the surface. You don’t answer.

“You think if you were driving, you’d have made up the time.”

Now you look at him. “I know I would’ve.”

“You would’ve overdriven it,” he says. “Tried to outmuscle the problem. It’s not the same up here.”

“I know it’s not the same.” The words come out sharp, bitter. “You think I haven’t figured that out every day since I handed my race suit to a kid half my age and told him to go make headlines?”

Toto doesn’t push. He just waits. You hate that, too.

You pace a few steps, then stop. The paddock is quieter now. The race over, the noise receding. Just the hum of logistics and engines cooling down. You’re too wired to sit, too angry to leave.

“You know what it is?” You say finally. “It’s not just the car. Or the engineers. It’s that I still see everything. Every line, every brake point, every corner entry. And I see where it’s going wrong in real time, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can do something about it,” Toto says. “But not everything.”

You glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”

He smirks. “Just an observation.”

“You like doing that. Observing.”

“People reveal themselves when they’re losing.”

“And what have I revealed?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“That you care more than you let on.”

You scoff. “That’s not a revelation.”

Toto shrugs. “Maybe not to you.”

A long silence stretches between you. Then you ask, almost idly, “Do you remember your first real loss as a team principal?”

He nods. “Nürburgring. 2013. We lost a front wing in Turn 2. Strategy failed. P9 and DNF.”

“And what did you do after?”

“I rebuilt the strategy department from the ground up. And hired someone who knew how to say no to me.”

You nod slowly. “Smart.”

“Painful,” he corrects. “But necessary.”

You glance down at your hands. They’re steady. They weren’t earlier, mid-race. You’d clenched the tablet so hard you left marks on the casing.

“Everyone told me to hire safe,” you say. “Experienced. People who’d been in the paddock for a decade.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because those people helped build the system I want to break.”

Toto’s expression shifts — something between surprise and admiration.

“And yet,” he says, “you still chose to play in the system.”

“I’m not here to burn it down. I’m here to prove it can be better.”

“And if it can’t?”

You hesitate.

“Then at least I’ll go out knowing I tried.”

There’s something raw in your voice now. Not broken. Just exposed. Toto sees it. That unrelenting belief in what this could be if you just had enough time, enough patience, enough people who gave a damn. But beneath it is the fear you don’t say aloud.

The fear that they won’t follow you.

Or worse, that they will and it still won’t be enough.

“You’re not going to get many more races like this,” Toto says, voice low. “Where no one expects anything. Where you can fail quietly.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So use them.”

You glance at him, a flicker of something like gratitude in your eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.

“Thanks for the unsolicited coaching.”

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

You both linger in the quiet a moment longer.

Then he turns to go, footsteps slow and deliberate. Just before he disappears back toward the Mercedes motorhome, he calls over his shoulder —

“Get some sleep. You’ll need it before Jeddah.”

You don’t answer. Just stare out at the track a moment longer.

The silence feels like failure. But beneath it, if you listen closely, there’s something else.

Resolve.

Because the difference between a broken team and a building one is just time.

And you’re not done yet.

***

The invitation arrives sealed in creamy card stock, embossed with the gold FIA crest as if that somehow softens the blow. You stare at it for a full minute before tossing it onto your desk like it’s radioactive.

“Absolutely not,” you tell your assistant without looking up.

“They said attendance is strongly encouraged.”

“So is hydration. Doesn’t mean I go to Dasani’s Christmas party.”

But hours later, after three different calls, two sponsor nudges, and one not-so-subtle email from an FIA board member about “team visibility,” you find yourself pulling on a sleek navy dress and walking into a dimly lit ballroom in London filled with too much money and too little sincerity.

The lighting is designed to make executives look interesting. It fails.

Waiters drift by with expensive wine and tiny hors d’oeuvres no one knows how to eat. Conversations bloom and die in corners. You scan the room. Everyone is here. Christian, already holding court like he’s emceeing his own eulogy. Andrea, pretending not to look bored. Zak, laughing too loudly.

You steel yourself. You can do this. Smile. Shake hands. Laugh politely at someone’s joke about American engineering.

Then you see the place card at your assigned seat and feel your stomach drop.

Y/N Y/L/N … right next to Toto Wolff.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the chair just as he arrives, tall and too composed, dressed in black like he’s attending a private funeral for the concept of relaxation.

He sits with the grace of someone who’s done this too many times. “Evening.”

You nod. “They ran out of neutral corners?”

“I requested the seat.”

You blink. “Did you.”

“I was curious if you’d still try to escape halfway through the salad course.”

“That depends. Is the salad course edible?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, and just like that, the chill between you begins to thaw.

The dinner begins with toasts from people you don’t care about, celebrating values they don’t uphold. “Innovation.” “Excellence.” “Legacy.” You sip wine through the speeches and feel your spine calcify.

Toto leans in, voice low. “Do you think they rehearse those?”

“Oh, for sure,” you whisper. “Some poor intern had to time that speech to match the fireworks on the highlight reel.”

He chuckles softly, and you hate that it warms something in you.

By the second course, the wine is flowing freely and the table’s conversations splinter off. You swirl your glass, lean back, and eye him.

“So what made you request the seat, really? Curiosity? Strategy? Morbid fascination?”

He shrugs. “You interest me.”

“That’s vague.”

“So are you.”

You look away. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you think we’re similar.”

“We are.”

You snort. “You think you’re like me?”

“I think we both don’t sleep,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think we both control more than we show. And I think we’ve both lost something that changed the shape of everything after.”

You go still.

He doesn’t push. Just sips his wine and looks out over the room.

You let the silence linger before asking, carefully, “What did you lose?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, “Control. In 2021. The final race.” A pause. “I thought we were prepared for every scenario. We weren’t.”

Your voice is quieter now. “How long did it take to come back from that?”

He thinks. “I’m not sure we have.”

You nod, slowly. “I remember watching it. I was halfway through rehab. Crutches, ice machine, full of pain meds. Screamed at the TV like it was a horror movie.”

His brow lifts. “Rehab?”

You glance down. This part you don’t talk about often.

“There was a crash. IndyCar. Mid-season. Rear suspension failure at speed. Hit the wall at 220. Didn’t wake up for three minutes.”

He says nothing. Doesn’t pity. Doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“Broke my femur. Collapsed lung. Grade three concussion. They told me I’d walk with a limp. I told them I had a sponsor dinner in three weeks.” You smile faintly. “The sponsor was Cadillac.”

He’s watching you now with a different kind of intensity. Not evaluative. Something softer. Earnest.

“They brought me on after,” you say. “Not just as a driver, but as part of the R&D think tank. I couldn’t race, so I built. Helped design simulator feedback loops, performance modeling.” You pause. “Three months later, they offered me a job that didn’t involve a steering wheel.”

Toto is quiet for a long moment.

“And you said yes.”

“I said I’d think about it. Then my former team tried to pin the crash on me to cover the parts failure.” You laugh once, dry. “Suddenly, I didn’t feel so sentimental about staying a driver.”

He studies you. “So this wasn’t your dream.”

“No,” you say. “This was my decision.”

That lands between you like a stone in water. Heavy, slow, true.

You glance around. The dinner’s winding down. Someone’s giving a speech that no one is listening to. Laughter bubbles at another table. Glasses clink.

Toto leans in again. “Do you miss it?”

You nod. “Every day.”

“And would you go back?”

You take a breath. “If I thought it would change anything? No. I gave everything I had to a system that didn’t protect me. Now I want to build something that does.”

His gaze softens. “And you don’t trust anyone to help.”

You meet his eyes. “Would you?”

“No.”

You laugh. This time it’s real.

Something shifts in the space between you. The air feels quieter. The noise of the room fades. It’s not romantic — not yet — but it’s intimate. Honest.

You realize you’re still looking at him. And he’s still looking at you.

That’s your cue.

You stand, smooth your dress.

“Leaving already?” He asks.

“I hate long goodbyes.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You leave through the side entrance, past the press, into the cold London night. Your car’s parked by the curb, driver waiting.

You open the door, slide in, close it-

A knock on the window.

You blink. Lower it.

Toto.

“I’m walking,” he says. “But I figured I’d see you off.”

You look at him, uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he adds.

“About what?”

“You don’t trust anyone-”

You open your mouth to argue.

“But I’d like to change that,” he finishes.

You stare at the hum for a second too long.

He doesn’t smile. Just waits.

And for once, you don’t know what to say.

The driver asks, “Shall we go, ma’am?”

You nod.

But you look back at Toto once more before the car pulls away.

And he’s still there. Still watching.

Like maybe, just maybe, you’re worth believing in.

***

The news breaks on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday.

You’re mid-strategy call, marker pen in hand, sketching out a race-weekend plan across three whiteboards when someone clears their throat behind you.

“Y/N,” your assistant says, hesitant. “You might want to see this.”

You glance back, ready to wave it off. You hate interruptions. But then you see her expression — careful, cautious, like she’s delivering news about a death in the family.

“What is it?”

She hands you a tablet. You don’t recognize the site at first. Not motorsport. Not serious. But the headline is loud enough to punch through:

PADDOCK POWER COUPLE? F1 INSIDERS WHISPER ABOUT CADILLAC’S Y/L/N AND MERCEDES BOSS WOLFF

You scroll. The article is trash — pure speculation, stitched together with blurry photos from the FIA dinner in London and a conveniently timed sighting of you both walking near the paddock in Jeddah. But the tone drips with implication. Power imbalance. Bedroom politics. A sidebar wonders aloud if your rapid climb in F1 might have “benefitted” from “strategic alliances.”

You feel your stomach clench.

“Who leaked this?” You demand, voice cold.

“We’re still checking. But it’s … making rounds.”

The article’s already been picked up by a dozen smaller outlets. Social media’s chewing on it like raw meat. You know how fast this kind of thing spreads. Especially when you’re the only woman in the paddock running a team. Especially when the man in question happens to run Mercedes.

You head straight for the Mercedes hospitality.

Toto’s in a meeting when you arrive. You don’t wait. You walk straight in.

The room goes silent.

“Toto,” you say, curt. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Everyone out,” he says calmly.

The engineers file out quickly, eyes flicking between the two of you like they’re fleeing an earthquake.

Once the door shuts, you round on him.

“You leaked it.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Excuse me?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice the timing? The angle? It frames you like some kind of generous kingmaker and me like a fame-hungry idiot with good hair.”

“I don’t write gossip columns.”

“No, but you have people. And you like to control the story.”

He stands, slow and deliberate. He’s taller than you, but you don’t back down. Not even a millimeter.

“I don’t use people like that,” he says, voice low, tight. “Not even you.”

You blink. The sharpness of it cuts through your anger. But you don’t let it go yet.

“I’ve been here three races and already someone’s trying to rewrite my career into a tabloid plotline.”

“Yes,” he says. “Welcome to F1.”

That sets you off again. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you that if I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t know until you were already dancing to my music. And you’re not.”

You narrow your eyes. “Flattering. So you admit there’s a game being played.”

“There’s always a game being played.”

“And what’s yours?”

He meets your gaze, unwavering. “I don’t like what they’re saying about you. Not because of me. Because you’ve earned better.”

That stops you.

You step back, slightly. Your heartbeat’s too fast, your jaw tight. You hate how much the article got to you. How much it still matters what people think, even after everything you’ve survived.

He doesn’t press.

You leave without another word.

***

It’s nearly 9 p.m. when the truth comes out.

Your head of comms calls, voice tight.

“We traced the leak. It was your junior driver’s agent. The oldest one. He tipped off a reporter. Was trying to get him a reserve driver slot with Mercedes. Thought the buzz would make him more marketable.”

You stare at the floor of your office, fury blooming again — but now it’s cleaner, more directed. And shame colors the edges. You’d aimed at the wrong target.

“Did Mercedes bite?”

“No,” she says. “Toto shut it down personally.”

You hang up. Let the phone sit heavy in your lap.

Then you stand.

***

The paddock is quiet at night. Crews have mostly gone home. The media’s packed up. The motorhomes hum softly under security lights, like sleeping giants.

You find him in the Mercedes motorhome. Lights dim, one lamp glowing in the corner. He’s alone, reading something on his phone. A glass of wine at his elbow.

He looks up as you enter. Says nothing.

You cross the room and stop beside his table.

“You were right,” you say softly.

He tilts his head. “About which thing?”

You hesitate. “Not using people.”

He gestures to the empty seat. You sit.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long pause. “I was angry. And humiliated. And I thought-”

“You thought I was like everyone else.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down.

“You said it yourself,” he murmurs. “You don’t trust anyone yet.”

You glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. Like he’s holding it up, not to shame you, but to understand you better.

“Why did you shut it down?” You ask.

“Because I wouldn’t want someone like that on my team. And because … I care what they say about you. Even if you don’t care what they say about me.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

A long silence stretches between you. The kind that used to feel awkward, but now feels full — weighted, not empty.

You reach for the bottle between you and pour a second glass. He slides it toward you, fingertips brushing lightly against yours.

You don’t pull away.

Another beat passes.

You take a sip. Then ask, quietly, “Do you miss when it was simple?”

He chuckles. “It was never simple.”

“When you were still just … managing people and not empires.”

Toto leans back in his chair. “The first time I sat on the pit wall, I thought, this is it. This is the dream. Then I realized the dream was mostly budgeting spreadsheets and answering questions about tire strategy on live TV.”

You smile faintly. “Still. You’ve built something.”

“So have you.”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You look down, quiet again. The warmth of the wine lingers in your chest. So does his voice.

After a long stretch, you whisper, “Sometimes I feel like if I stop moving for one second, it’ll all fall apart.”

His voice softens. “And what if it doesn’t?”

You shake your head. “I can’t afford that kind of hope.”

A silence falls, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of everything unsaid.

You glance at his hand — resting on the table, fingers splayed. His other cradles the wine glass, but he isn’t drinking anymore. Just watching you.

He reaches out — lightly, deliberately — and his fingers brush yours. Just a whisper of contact.

You don’t pull away.

Not tonight.

There’s no kiss. No dramatic gesture. Just quiet. Contact. A kind of peace neither of you are used to.

He doesn’t say anything more.

And for once, neither do you.

***

The skies over Imola threaten rain all weekend, but never follow through. It’s worse than an actual storm — this looming, suspended tension that makes everyone twitchy, including you. Your engineers bicker over tire strategies, your drivers don’t trust the brake upgrades, and the data simulator is doing its best impression of a brick wall.

By the time Sunday arrives, you’ve slept four hours total in three nights and consumed more espresso than should legally be allowed.

But something clicks.

Maybe it’s the revised pit strategy. Maybe it’s the aggressive tire call on Lap 32. Maybe it’s just sheer, stubborn Cadillac will. Whatever it is, the car flies.

You don’t dare breathe during the final ten laps.

P3 is right there. Right in front of you.

When your lead driver crosses the line in fourth — just half a second off the podium — you swear the collective scream from your garage could level the surrounding trees.

It isn’t a trophy. But it’s proof.

Cadillac belongs.

You belong.

The moment feels … huge. Humbling. Everyone’s hugging. Someone pops a bottle of something probably not FIA-legal. Your driver tackles you in a sweaty embrace and you laugh for the first time in what feels like a month.

You stay late, long after the broadcast ends, surrounded by the people who have been pulling miracles from underfunded wings and sleepless nights. Mechanics. Data analysts. Your aero guy who hasn’t taken a full weekend off since Bahrain.

You’re still in the garage when the paddock starts emptying out. Your hair’s in a messy bun, race suit tied around your waist, black Cadillac t-shirt soaked with beer and effort.

You don’t notice Toto standing across the way, outside the Mercedes garage, arms folded, watching you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Just smiles to himself. Quiet. Almost proud.

You’re not his, he thinks. You belong to yourself.

And that’s so much better.

***

You stare at the hotel ceiling for thirty minutes before giving in.

You don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not with this weird ache in your chest that’s part adrenaline, part exhaustion, part something you can’t name.

You don’t even think about it. You just throw on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and walk down the hotel corridor barefoot, still slightly buzzed on the ghost of the race.

His door is ajar.

He opens it before you knock.

You blink. “Were you expecting someone?”

He leans on the doorframe, not smiling. Not serious. “Not exactly.”

You exhale. “Can I come in?”

He steps back. “Always.”

His suite is quiet. Low lighting. A decanter on the table, half-full. A few race notes open on a tablet, abandoned. He closes it as you walk in.

“Sorry. I should’ve — this was probably stupid.”

“You want to be alone but not alone,” he says, like he’s read this chapter before.

You nod. “Is that allowed?”

He tilts his head. “With me? Yes.”

You sit on the edge of the couch. He offers you a drink. You decline. He pours you water instead.

Silence stretches.

“So,” he says eventually. “P4.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d make it out of Q2 this weekend. Then the car just … worked.”

“It was aggressive,” he says. “Risky strategy.”

“I had to trust the numbers. And my gut.”

“Did it feel like being back in the car?”

You glance at him. “Exactly like that. Except worse. Because now I’m responsible for six hundred people and not just me.”

“Do you regret it?” He asks. “This life?”

You think about it.

“No,” you say. “But it’s lonelier than I thought it’d be.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits next to you on the couch, not close enough to touch, but not far either.

You lean your head back.

“I used to think even the little wins would feel more final. Like they’d fix something. Or earn back everything I lost.”

“And now?”

“Now I think they’re just proof you survived long enough to try again.”

He nods. “That’s all this sport is. Trying again.”

You’re quiet.

And then, because it’s late and you’re exhausted and this version of the world feels gentler than the one outside, you ask, “What were you like before all this?”

He smiles faintly. “Angrier. Less patient. I thought I could control everything.”

“Bet that worked out well.”

“I crashed a GT3 car into a wall at Red Bull Ring once because I didn’t want to lose to a guy half my age. Broke three ribs. Didn’t tell anyone.”

You laugh. “Seriously?”

He nods. “Pain is a better teacher than pride.”

You watch him for a moment.

“There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” you say. “Not even my team.”

He looks at you, waiting.

“I still hear the crash sometimes. In my dreams. It’s never loud. Just … this sharp silence before everything shatters. I wake up before the impact.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits still.

“It’s not that I want to drive again,” you continue. “I just want to stop remembering.”

Toto’s voice is quiet. “That doesn’t go away. But it stops owning you.”

You look down at your hands.

“You know,” you say softly, “for someone so famously calculating, you’re weirdly good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. Being … human.”

He shrugs. “Takes practice.”

You don’t realize how close he’s sitting until your shoulders brush.

But he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits with you.

You fall asleep like that. On the couch, legs tucked under you, head tilted back, listening to the sound of his quiet breathing beside you.

***

When you wake, it’s still dark.

You’re not on the couch anymore.

You’re in his bed. Still fully clothed. The covers pulled gently around you.

Toto’s on the couch now, asleep, arms folded, as if he’s been guarding something.

The ache in your chest is different this morning. Deeper.

You slide out of bed quietly. Pad over to him.

He stirs.

“You should’ve let me stay on the couch,” you whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d sleep like that.”

You hesitate.

“Thank you,” you say.

He nods. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t ask for anything.

And that’s somehow what unravels you most.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone wanted nothing from you except to let you rest.

And you have no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.

So you just stand there, caught in the early morning light and everything unsaid between you.

Not lovers. Not yet.

But something real.

And quietly — terrifyingly — you realize you don’t want to lose it.

***

Toto pulls away the next weekend.

No message. No follow-up. Nothing.

He nods at you in the paddock like you’re just another team principal. His smile is neutral, professional, precise. Mercedes posts their usual press photos — clean, sterile, branded to hell. Your name doesn’t pass his lips.

And you know what this is.

He’s building a wall.

You see it in the stiff set of his shoulders at the team principals' meeting in Spain. The clipped tone he uses when you pass him in the paddock in Montreal. You say “morning.” He says “yep.”

You want to punch something. Preferably him.

But instead, you bury yourself in upgrades. Your tech director calls it obsessive. Your engineers call it inspiring. You call it survival.

The new front wing design works in the wind tunnel. You burn through simulations like caffeine, throw out half the aero plan and rebuild it from scratch. Every sleepless night, every ignored text, every time you walk past Toto and feel nothing from him fuels you like gasoline.

You tell your team: Silverstone is ours. They believe you.

It starts raining during FP2.

You grin at the sky like it’s personal.

***

You don’t speak to Toto all weekend.

Not during track walks. Not during press conferences. Not even when your drivers both qualify in the top six and the entire paddock starts whispering that Cadillac might actually do it.

And then race day comes.

And you finally snap.

He’s in the pit lane before the race, talking to someone from Pirelli. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you’re checking tire pressures with your race engineer.

You don’t even think about it.

You march across the line.

“Hey.”

He turns. Sees you. Hesitates. “Y/N.”

You’re already furious. His voice — his face — ignites something in your chest that feels suspiciously like heartbreak but tastes like gasoline.

“I get it,” you say. “You pulled back. You’re scared. Fine. But at least have the spine to say it to my face.”

He glances around. The pit lane’s crowded, noisy, full of mechanics and techs and photographers. It doesn’t matter. You’re locked in.

“I’m not scared,” he says.

You step closer. “Then what is it? You changed overnight. One minute I wake up in your hotel room, and the next you’re acting like I’m a PR liability.”

“You’re not.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“I’m treating you like someone who terrifies me.”

That halts you.

You blink. “What?”

Toto runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You terrify me. Because you make me forget how much this job costs. How many knives are out. How easy it is to lose everything.”

“And?”

“And I like it. I like you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

“Then say it,” you demand.

“I just did.”

“No. Say the part where you let yourself want something. Say the part where you’re not a control freak running scared because someone finally sees you.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low. “I can’t afford the distraction.”

“You think I can?” You snap. “You think I can afford to feel anything and still wake up every morning knowing the sport I bled for will never respect me the way it respects you?”

Toto’s jaw tightens.

“I see you,” you say, softer now. “Even when you hide. I still see you.”

He doesn’t answer.

Then the call comes over the loudspeaker. “Formation lap in thirty.”

You walk away first. No dramatic exit. Just one last glance.

His eyes are still on you.

***

The rain starts on Lap 23.

It’s light at first — enough to make the track glisten, not enough for inters. Half the grid hesitates. The other half spins.

Your radio explodes with chatter.

“Front’s going — too slick — should we box?”

Your lead driver’s voice is ragged with tension.

Your race engineer is mid-debate when you pull the headset off him and grab the mic yourself.

“Box now,” you say. “Full inters. Don’t argue.”

The pit crew isn’t ready. You scream at them through the rain.

“Get the tires! Now! Get the goddamn tires!”

It’s chaos. But somehow, your driver’s in and out faster than the Red Bull next to him. Two laps later, half the grid is pitting. The other half is aquaplaning off the track.

You take a deep breath.

“Tell him to defend like hell. We are not giving this away.”

***

Cadillac wins its first Grand Prix on Lap 52 of a rain-soaked Silverstone.

Your driver screams across the radio. Your garage erupts. Mechanics cry. Engineers kiss. Your comms chief sprints into your arms like a lunatic and you let her because right now you’ve done it.

You did it.

You lift the headset off, rain slicking down your arms.

The trophy is heavy and ridiculous. Champagne stings your eyes. The Star-Spangled Banner plays, and for a moment, the sound of thousands of people screaming drowns out everything else.

You scan the crowd from the podium.

Toto isn’t there.

You search for him anyway.

He’s already gone.

***

Back at the garage, they replay the race on the screens while your team takes selfies with the trophy. Someone made an edit out of your pit wall scream. You’re soaked and exhausted and still vibrating with adrenaline, but all you can think is he wasn’t even there.

Your assistant hands you a towel. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

“You sure?”

You look up at the sky. Rain’s easing now. The world smells like wet tarmac and victory.

“I’m not sure of anything,” you say. “But we won.”

She smiles. “That’s something.”

You nod.

But it’s not everything.

Not tonight.

***

It’s Friday. Spa. The garage smells like rubber and heat and stress, like it always does when qualifying’s creeping up and the sensors keep glitching. You’re elbow-deep in a conversation about tire deg curves when someone taps your shoulder.

You turn, expecting your race engineer or maybe a PR rep with bad news.

Instead, it’s Toto Wolff.

You blink.

He’s standing there in black Mercedes team kit, sunglasses hooked in his collar, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the damn paddock.

You say, sharp as ever, “Lost, Wolff?”

“No.”

“You’re in enemy territory.”

“I’m aware.”

Your crew is watching from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to. Someone coughs awkwardly.

You nod toward the back. “Office.”

He follows you through the garage, past spare parts and laptops and the low hum of tension. Inside your office, you shut the door. The silence is sudden and thick.

You cross your arms. “What?”

Toto doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands in front of your desk like he’s about to confess to corporate espionage.

“I watched Silverstone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You and seventy-five million others.”

“I watched you.”

Something in your stomach tenses.

He swallows. “I left because I was afraid. Of the distraction. Of what this could cost me. Of how easily you could undo me without even trying.”

You stay still.

He takes a step closer.

“But I’m tired of safety,” he says. “I’m tired of guarding everything I’ve built like it’s sacred when it’s already broken. You make me want to risk things I’ve spent over a decade protecting.”

You feel the breath leave your body.

“Toto,” you start.

“No,” he interrupts, voice low and serious and unmistakably yours. “Let me finish.”

You let him.

“I haven’t slept right since Imola. I think about you when I watch your pit wall react to strategy calls. I read your press conferences just to see if you mention me. I see you with your team, and I think this is what it’s supposed to look like. Not the polished machine I’ve kept running on habit and fear.”

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He steps even closer.

“And the worst part is, I don’t want to stop.”

You inhale, slow and sharp. “Then don’t.”

The kiss isn’t soft.

It’s not gentle or delicate or romantic in the storybook sense.

It’s need. Weeks of it. Months, maybe. Pinned under frustration and silence and professionalism.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting to memorize it. Your fingers dig into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again. His mouth is warm, urgent, a little desperate. Yours is no better.

You pull back once. Just enough to say, “Close the door properly.”

He does.

***

His suite smells like coffee and paper. His race notes are scattered across the desk. You don’t even get halfway to the bed before he’s kissing you again — slower this time, but no less hungry.

He doesn’t rush.

And neither do you.

Because if this is a bad decision, you’re going to make it the best bad decision either of you has ever had.

You undress him carefully. He does the same, unhurried, reverent. He touches your shoulder like it’s something holy. You run your hands down his spine like you want to remember how his body fits against yours.

The bed is large and too white, but he warms it like he’s made of fire.

The intimacy isn't in the sex itself — it’s in the way he kisses your throat afterward, in the way you curl into his chest without asking, in the way his hand finds yours under the covers like a reflex.

You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He breathes evenly for the first time in months.

***

You wake to the smell of coffee.

His room is flooded with pale Belgian morning light. Your clothes are still scattered, but you don’t care. You find his white Mercedes button-up hanging over the back of a chair and shrug it on. The sleeves drown your hands. The collar smells like him — clean, expensive, slightly burned espresso.

You walk barefoot into the suite’s kitchen area.

He’s standing over a French press, eyebrows furrowed, as if he’s trying to solve an engineering problem with the water temperature.

He glances up. His expression softens the second he sees you.

“You’re stealing my shirt,” he says.

“It’s not stealing if you weren’t wearing it.”

He hands you a mug. “That’s not how shirts work.”

“It is now.”

You both sit at the table, quiet for a few beats. It’s domestic. Too domestic. You in his shirt, him sipping coffee in boxers and half-mussed hair.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. “So. What now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not going to disappear again.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m still Cadillac,” you say.

“I know.”

“You’re still Mercedes.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“And this is … very stupid.”

“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done in years.”

You grin. “Good. I hate being the only reckless one.”

He leans back, watching you. “I’m serious, Y/N. This won’t be simple.”

“I know.”

“There will be questions.”

“There always are.”

He watches you for a long moment. “You’re not scared?”

“I am,” you say honestly. “But I’ve been scared before. Didn’t stop me then either.”

He smiles.

You drink your coffee. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s thick with possibility.

Eventually, you stand. “I should go. FP3 in a few.”

He stands too. “I’ll see you on track.”

You smirk. “Try not to stare too hard.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

You walk to the door. He follows.

Before you leave, he says, voice low, “I meant what I said. You make me want things I thought I buried.”

You kiss him one more time — just soft enough to make him curse under his breath.

“I’ll see you out there,” you say.

And then you walk back into the world, still wearing his shirt, heart beating faster than it ever did in a race car.

***

It starts with a headline.

Love in the Wolff Den: F1 Power Couple or Conflict of Interest?

Then come the blurry photos. Your hand on his chest. His fingers brushing your jaw. Grainy, flash-washed shots snapped from across a Stavelot hotel lobby that make everything look sleazier than it was.

It spreads like wildfire. Not just gossip sites, but major outlets — Sky, Motorsport, Bloomberg, for God’s sake. Everyone with a byline and an opinion suddenly thinks they understand what this is, what you are.

And then come the calls.

Not from your comms team. Not from PR.

From the board.

You’re standing in the middle of Cadillac’s race operations suite in Indiana when it comes in — your CFO, voice clipped, polite, fake. He phrases it delicately, like it’s your idea. Optics, you understand. Just a temporary step back, maybe for the rest of the season. Let things cool off. He uses the word “professionalism” three times in one sentence. You count.

“You’re asking me to sideline myself,” you say, tone dangerously calm. “Over a man.”

“It’s not that-”

“It is that.”

“There’s pressure. External. The headlines are framing it as a conflict. You’re both decision-makers. If this were a boardroom-”

“It’s not a boardroom. It’s a goddamn pit lane.”

He doesn’t argue. Which pisses you off more.

***

Toto’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing either.

He ignores it until it starts vibrating his desk.

Shaila barges in. “You need to respond.”

“I have,” he says, flipping through tire comp analysis. “I told them I wasn’t leaking strategy to my girlfriend over breakfast.”

She blinks. “You called her your girlfriend?”

He glances up. “That’s the word everyone else is using.”

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Well. The shareholders want a closed-door call. Today. They’re throwing around words like ‘governance’ and ‘interteam transparency.’”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw tightens.

“Tell them I’ll take the call after I finish reviewing the telemetry,” he says. “But if they suggest I pull back from managing the team over something that hasn’t affected a single race outcome, I’ll remind them that Ferrari and McLaren literally ran a married couple in engineering for five years.”

“Noted,” Shaila says, and walks out with the speed of someone who wants to live.

***

You don’t talk for three days.

Not because you’re angry at each other.

Because you’re both working.

Because the world is watching.

Because you’re trying — maybe futilely — to hold your ground.

You’re staring at a mockup of the new rear wing, not really seeing it, when Derek, your number two, comes into your office.

“You’re going to want to see this,” he says.

You look up. “Is it a fire?”

“Sort of.”

He turns the monitor toward you.

You squint.

It’s a live press conference. Mercedes-branded backdrop. Toto behind the mic.

Someone off-camera asks, “Toto, with recent rumors about your relationship with Cadillac’s team principal, how do you respond to those saying it presents a conflict of interest?”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that it’s interesting how quickly some people invoke ‘conflict of interest’ when a woman dares to take up space at the same table.”

Your breath catches.

“In this sport,” he continues, “we celebrate cutthroat negotiations. Aggressive contracts. Power plays. But the second a woman builds something formidable, people start calling it a threat.”

He’s calm. Surgical. But you can see the steel under his words.

“I have not compromised my team. She has not compromised hers. We are professionals. We are rivals. And if anyone believes the existence of mutual respect — or affection — between two team principals undermines the integrity of the championship, perhaps their issue isn’t with governance. It’s with equality.”

Someone tries to interrupt. He cuts them off with a single glance.

“And for the record,” he adds, “she’s done more in four months to shake this sport out of its stagnation than most of us have in ten years. I suggest we stop punishing her for succeeding.”

The clip ends.

Derek looks at you. “That was a choice.”

You stare at the screen for a long time.

Then you stand.

“Cancel my dinner with marketing,” you say. “And get me a driver to the hotel.”

***

It’s late. You don’t knock.

Toto opens the door like he’s been expecting you.

You step inside. Neither of you says anything for a beat.

He closes the door behind you. “I didn’t do it for a thank you.”

“Good,” you say. “Because you’re not getting one.”

A pause.

You look at him, all carefully unbuttoned collar and tired eyes, and say, quieter now, “But I saw it.”

“I meant it,” he says simply.

You sit down on the edge of the couch. Your hands are still curled into fists.

“You know I almost agreed to step back?” You admit. “Just for a second. I thought maybe it would make everything easier.”

“And then?”

You look up. “And then I realized I didn’t fight this hard to build something just to let them push me out the second I’m inconvenient.”

He watches you. “No. You didn’t.”

You swallow. “You didn’t have to speak up.”

“Yes,” he says, crossing to you, “I did.”

He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“This sport chews people up,” he says. “It makes us choose between the parts of ourselves we care about most. But you … you make me remember why I cared in the first place.”

You study him. His face is open, unguarded in a way you don’t think he’s ever allowed himself to be on purpose.

You speak slowly. “We’re both trying to build empires.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Let’s see if we can share one.”

His smile is small. Real. “God help Formula 1.”

You lean in.

This kiss is different.

It’s not born from tension or defiance. It’s something else. An alignment. A decision.

You don’t say you love him. Not yet.

But it’s there. In the way your hand rests on his cheek. In the way he kisses you like he’s found a home.

***

The next morning, a headline reads:

WOLFF AND Y/L/N: FORMULA 1’S NEW POWER COUPLE GOES PUBLIC

You sip your coffee and shrug.

Toto glances over. “You’re not going to throw your phone this time?”

You grin. “Depends. Did you leak it?”

He raises a brow. “Did you want me to leak it?”

You laugh.

And then the day begins.

Because empires don’t build themselves.

But maybe you don’t have to build them alone.

821 notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 3 days ago

Text

The Kart

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

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Felicity and Oscar buy their daughter’s first kart.

Warnings and Notes: Mention of Bee's very traumatic birth.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Felicity had come prepared.

Not just in the vague, casual sense of a mother running errands on a Wednesday. No. This was Felicity in operational mode—the version of her Oscar had once described as “a hybrid between NASA ground control and a Bond villain,” with spreadsheets instead of schematics and a maternal instinct that could level a city block if sufficiently provoked.

She’d spent the last two months reading every safety manual known to man. Scoured obscure parenting forums in three different languages. Joined private Facebook groups full of middle-aged Italian dads who debated kart chassis flex like it was religion. She’d made a spreadsheet so detailed it had conditional formatting for seatbelt ranges and color-coded tabs for crash-tested child helmets by manufacturer region. She’d read up on acceleration ratios, steering response, and weight distribution curves so aggressively that even Oscar had paused one evening and said, with a baffled sort of awe, “You scare me a little.”

So when they pulled into the kart dealership lot — Bee at kindergarten, blissfully unaware — Felicity was ready. Dressed in white trainers, black leggings, and a crisp oversized button-down shirt, sunglasses perched high on her nose. She looked less like someone buying a kart for her daughter and more like someone preparing to perform a hostile corporate takeover.

Oscar, naturally, was delighted.

“She’s going to lose her mind when she sees it,” he said, practically bouncing beside her, hands in his pockets, already grinning at the possibilities. He nodded toward a bored-looking staff member at the front desk. “Want me to—”

“I’ve got it,” Felicity replied crisply, already walking.

Oscar paused. Blinked. Then followed at a safe distance.

There was a particular kind of focus Felicity summoned when she was on a mission. A quiet intensity, tightly coiled and surgically polite, that made people instinctively get out of her way. It wasn’t arrogance—Felicity was too methodical for that. It was just… preparedness, turned into precision. She didn’t walk so much as advance. Like a woman who had already memorized every shelf in the store and had a list that could kill.

She approached the counter with the calm, commanding energy of someone who had read every version of the product catalogue and had personally cross-referenced crash data with karting forum anecdotes from 2008. Before the man behind the desk could even introduce himself, Felicity launched into a request for a specific model, safety features, and a delivery window tight enough to fit between Bee’s music class and Oscar’s next simulator stint.

She was halfway through a detailed explanation of why a reinforced side pod was necessary for a kart under 60kg when the man — mid-twenty-something, polo shirt tucked in too confidently — raised a hand.

“Sorry—just to check—this is for your daughter?” he asked, with a smile that hovered on the edge of patronizing.

Felicity didn’t even blink. “She’s turning four.”

“Right,” the guy said, drawing out the vowel. “Well, you know, sometimes kids that young are too small to properly support themselves in the seat. You know, they had to Velcro Lando Norris into his kart when he first started—”

Oscar, behind her, made a strangled sound. Somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

Felicity did not turn around.

“Did they,” she said flatly.

“Yep. Had to practically glue him in. He was tiny.”

“I read that,” she said evenly. “I also read the race report from that year where he couldn’t reach the brake properly and spun out three times in the wet.”

The man paused, clearly not expecting that level of detail.

“I mean—yeah, but he turned out okay. He made it to F1.”

“He could’ve broken his neck,” Felicity said, and though her voice stayed calm, Oscar recognized that tone. The silken, steel-laced one.

“I’m just saying—you might be overestimating what a four-year-old can manage,” the guy added, still trying to look helpful.

Oscar took a small step backward.

Rookie mistake, my guy, he thought.

Felicity smiled. The kind of smile that suggested she was now actively sharpening her verbal knives.

“Are you under the impression,” she asked sweetly, “that I haven’t done my research?”

“I just meant—”

“Because I’ve read the FIA and MSA technical requirements for Bambino karts twice in the last six weeks. I’ve looked up impact test ratings for every child-sized rib protector currently on the market. I’ve spoken to two different pediatric physiotherapists about early posture development under low-G strain. I know the weight-to-power ratio of every Bambino-legal kart in Western Europe.”

The man opened his mouth. She didn’t let him.

“I have a degree in mechanical engineering. I restored a 1966 Mustang with a cracked manifold while seven months pregnant. I am married to a Formula 1 driver, whose kart seat nearly caved in his sternum at the age of sixteen because it wasn’t fitted properly.” She tilted her head. “So no, I don’t think I’m overestimating.”

Oscar, behind her, added helpfully, “She also welds brake calipers for fun.”

The man’s jaw worked. No sound came out.

Felicity softened her voice. “Our daughter weighs 14.9 kilos. She has enough core strength to hold a wall sit for forty-five seconds. Her arms are short, but her center of gravity is ideal. We’ve already ordered the rib protector and neck brace. We’ll be installing custom padding in the seat for ergonomic fit. And we will not be Velcroing our daughter into anything.”

The man blinked.

“I’d like to see the Tillet seat options. And the steering column with the best adjustable feedback.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, “Yes. Of course.”

Oscar offered the man a sympathetic shrug as they followed him toward the back of the store.

They left forty minutes later with a sleek papaya bambino kart and a sticker kit with Bee’s name in glittery silver. Felicity carried the box with the seat inserts like it was sacred. Oscar carried the kart manual under one arm, smiling like a man who knew he’d just witnessed a masterclass.

As they walked back toward the car, he bumped her shoulder.

“You scared the poor guy,” he said, far too pleased.

Felicity didn’t look up. “I was being polite.”

“You dismantled his ego with a sentence.”

“I didn’t even bring up the time you cracked your sternum.”

Oscar held up his hands. “Okay, okay. You win.”

Felicity handed him the box with the inserts. “Good. Because if anyone tries to mess with Bee’s kart setup…”

She paused. Slid her sunglasses back down.

“I will Velcro them to the pit wall.”

***

They got the kart loaded with a bit of maneuvering — Felicity adjusting the padding around the seat with military precision, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration, while Oscar tied it down with the kind of care most people reserved for antique furniture.

By the time they closed the boot with a soft thunk, the dealership lot had emptied. The low hum of a faraway motorway faded behind them. Sunlight caught the chrome edges of the kart frame through the rear glass, casting orange highlights across the boot. A bright flash of Bee’s future, wedged in between emergency snack kits and old towels Oscar still hadn’t taken out from their last road trip.

Oscar slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine—and glanced over at his wife.

She was adjusting her sunglasses, brushing a stray hair back behind one ear. Always composed. Always a step ahead. But he knew her too well by now. Knew the tightness in her shoulders wasn’t nothing. Knew that sometimes, when it came to Bee, her silence meant she was talking herself out of fear.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Felicity glanced over. “Hmm?”

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“I mean it,” he added. “We had a deal. Bee wouldn’t get a kart until she turned five. You were… very firm about that.” His hands were still on the wheel, but his eyes were on her. Searching. “I don’t want you doing this just because I want it.”

Felicity exhaled, slow and steady, like she was trying to ground herself. She turned her face toward the passenger window for a moment, eyes catching on the empty car seat behind them. Bee’s seat. A few stray cracker crumbs on the cushion. One of her socks from earlier in the week tucked in the side.

Oscar could almost hear their daughter now, even though she wasn’t there—asking if she could bring Button the frog, singing off-key to “Cruel Summer,” asking for applesauce halfway through a long drive. Filling the car with life in a way neither of them had known how badly they needed until she arrived.

“I know we had a deal,” Felicity said at last. Her voice had softened. Not so clipped now. Less armor. “I said five because it felt safer. Because it gave me time to breathe.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and he saw it all there—every version of her he’d known. The girl who took care of him when he was 15 and failing chemistry. The woman who held his hand through the alpine drama, the partner who had walked through fire with him more than once and had the burn marks to prove it.

“But then I watched her this week,” she said, lips quirking into something wry and tender. “Dragging a mixing bowl around the living room like it was a steering wheel. Telling her stuffed animals to watch their lines through Sector 2. She’s been watching your old onboard footage on the tablet. Mimicking your radio calls. She knows what you do, Oz. And she wants to be part of it.”

He didn’t interrupt. He knew better. Knew she had to work her way through it in her own time.

“She’s not doing this because we told her to. She’s doing it because it’s in her bones,” Felicity said, voice thick with something too big to name. “She’s your daughter.”

God. That did something to him.

It always did, when she said that. His daughter. Their daughter.

That perfect little girl they had somehow created together.

“I’m not going to be the reason she’s scared of the thing she loves,” Felicity continued, a little quieter now. “I’ll be cautious. I’ll be annoying. I’ll probably make seventeen spreadsheets and do a full-scale risk matrix. But I’m not going to hold her back just because I’m afraid.”

There it was.

The thing that lingered in the silence between them sometimes, even when the laughter was loud. The ghost of what they’d lived through.

Through emergency surgeries, and red alarms and white lights, and their daughter with more wires than limbs.

It was the kind of fear that never fully left you. The kind that made you look at every joy with a second heartbeat of dread.

Oscar reached for her hand across the center console. Threaded their fingers together.

“You’re not holding her back,” he said, steady and low. “You’ve spent her whole life making sure she can move forward. You’re the reason she’s here.”

Felicity blinked a little too fast, her hand tightening in his. “God, you’re sappy, Tin Man.”

“You let me buy our daughter a kart with glitter stickers. You can’t talk.”

That got a real laugh. Soft, but genuine. The kind that made the tension in her jaw disappear for a moment. “She’s going to love it.”

#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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m0llygunn · 9 months ago

Text

a job well done (eddie munson x fem!reader one-shot)

summary: long-term admirer, recent tutor — you find out eddie's failing gym. in an ode to help him, your expertise expands beyond just textbooks — to your fortune, he teaches you something you've been dying to learn too

contents: 18+, smut!!!, porn with plot, lots of ball action <3, oral (m receiving, mentions of f receiving), pet names and praise (baby, good girl), somewhat-inexperienced!eddie, tutor!reader an: i made an $8k mistake irl so heres 8k words that i wrote to forget about it (just kidding (not abt the mistake, that's very real) i started writing this in july 2023 but recently rewrote most of it to make it into a big ol' one shot-ish thing) wc: 8.5k

“You’re failing gym?” you gasp, jaw dropping as your eyes scan over his report.

“No!” he replies, trying to steal the envelope and its contents from your hands. You turn your body just in time for him to grasp at nothing but air.

You started tutoring Eddie about a month into the semester. He’s been a willing participant for the most part and that’s why when he kept coming up with excuse after excuse for why he didn’t have his midterm report you knew something was up.

You took it upon yourself to do some investigating. Nothing invasive, just when you got to his place for a regular tutoring session, you decided to look through his bag while he was in the bathroom. On his bedroom floor, filing through the bags endless messy contents, you eventually came across the familiarly coloured yellow envelope and helped yourself to a peek at what he was keeping a secret from you.

Mere moments later, he was back. He immediately noticed what you had in your hands and crashed to the floor trying to get it away from you. Evidently, a failed attempt.

“You have a — oh god, not just a D, a D minus, Eddie.”

“That’s not failing,” he mumbles under his breath. You wave him off before dropping his report to the floor in front of you. He grabs it, crumples it into a ball, and petulantly tosses it to the other side of his room.

“You never even told me you were taking gym.”

“Cause how’re you supposed to help with gym?”

“The tests! There’s a whole health portion, I could’ve been helping you with that,” you say, getting worked up over it. Eddie’s been doing so well, this was truly blindsiding.

“Yeah… cause I really want help from you with the health portion,” he grumbles sarcastically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like it means,” he shrugs.

If you weren’t paying attention, you might think he was angry — maybe even being mean. Luckily, you’re always paying attention to Eddie Munson, and you see the way his face flushes to a bright, crimson red. His annoyance is actually just embarrassment — which is good — at least he has some level of remorse for his failing grade. You can work with that. You take a breath, exhaling it slowly, forcing yourself to calm down.

“Show me what you’re working on.”

“No,” he shakes his head, reaching into his bag, shuffling around some papers before tossing a heavy textbook your way. “Let’s just do math.”

“No, you have a B minus in math now, that doesn’t need help. You need help in gym.” you reply, tossing the textbook back at him.

“I don’t.”

“Eddie, you do.”

Sitting up to your knees, you reach into his bag once more, taking out his binder and dropping it to the floor in a pointed thump. He mumbles some kind of disagreement, spine going stiff with his hesitancy to let you go through his stuff some more, but he doesn’t make any attempts to physically stop you.

You flip through the disorganization that you’ve told him countless times to organize until you come across a diagram of a penis and a vagina. Bingo.

“Told you,” he mumbles, scoffing to himself.

“Told me what?”

“Why would you want to help me study that?”

“Uh— cause it’s part of your class and I don’t want you to fail,” you say matter of factly. “Believe it or not, Eddie, I like you, and your success translates to my happiness.”

Bright red continues to flourish across his skin, affecting the apples of his cheeks all the way down to his throat. He turns bashful, eyes locking down on the carpet.

Eddie’s shy — not often, but he is. You wouldn’t think so from the way he acts at school and in most public atmospheres, but get him in a room, one-on-one, and he’s all blushed cheeks and shy touches. It’s sweet and it’s one of your favourite things about him — but you don’t have time for sweet shyness right now. He’s failing gym for christ sake — gym.

“So, how do you want to do this?” you ask, slapping your hands to your thighs. Eddie startles, jolting before his wide eyes find yours.

“Do what?”

“Study this,” you motion to the diagram on the floor separating the two of you.

“I— I’m not… we’re not—“

His eye contact goes rogue again, diverting anywhere else — everywhere else that isn’t you. Shy, shy, shy. Too shy. More shy than normal. And you have an inkling that it has to do with the subject of the conversation at hand.

“Oh my god, Eddie. This is basic human anatomy. I think we’re grown up enough to handle a little penis and vagina,” you state, tacking on a laugh.

You get a hint of Eddie's true personality beyond his shyness — it emerges through a quirk of his lip, the corner of it tweaking upwards into the hint of a smirk.

“A little penis?” He parrots, his smirk fully emerging now. This boy.

“Cue cards? Should we do cue cards?”

He groans, body deflating. “You know I hate cue cards.”

“Okay, so let’s just go over the parts for now, then we can move on and do something else.”

You clear out a bigger area on the floor, making space for your study session. Eddie helps by kicking back stray articles of clothing and then picking out what looks like spilled weed from the carpet and collecting it in the palm of his hand. You’re a touch more productive, taping little pieces of paper over the diagram labels. When you’re done, you sit up admiring your work. Eddie stands, dropping his little handful of greenery onto his desk before sitting down on his bed.

“Do you want to do it up there or down here?” You ask.

The slight double entendre isn’t lost on you, you heard it before you even said it. Now knowing how shy Eddie is about this stuff, you couldn’t help but push your luck, and the blush that spreads across his cheeks makes it entirely worth it, especially while you deadpan and pretend you have no clue.

“I’ll come down there—“ He says and you watch him physically recoil as his words set in. You resist your laughter.

“Come, Eddie. Faster,” you tease, laughter starting to bubble up. A smile breaks through his embarrassment.

“Jesus Christ, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You like seeing me suffer?”

“Me? Teasing you on purpose? Never.”

With a shake of his head, he joins you on the floor, leaving a large gap between the two of you. “Can we not do this, I already know this stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Eddie Munson is well versed in human anatomy?”

“I’m — I’m not going to answer that,” he crosses his arms.

With a clap of your hands, you ignore his pouty demeanor. “Okay! Let’s just do this, the quicker you memorize everything the quicker we can not do this.”

With both of the diagrams set up, you give him the option of starting with the penis or vagina first. He chooses the easy answer, opting to go with the penis.

One by one you point out each part of the penis, asking him for the anatomically correct name. You quickly understand why he’s failing.

“Okay, and this one is…?”

“The head,” he states.

“I mean… sure,” you nod hesitantly — “but the little arrow is pointing there — the glans. This one?”

You continue going through the chart, teaching Eddie the proper names for everything. When you finally graduate to the diagram of the vagina, Eddie is physically squirming in his spot.

“Eddie, relax. Seriously. We’ve all seen a vagina before.”

“It’s so fucking hot in here, are you hot?” He groans, standing up and tripping his way to the window, slamming it open with a grunt.

He’s barely made his way back before you have a thought.

“You’ve seen a vagina before, right?”

He freezes — just for a moment, but you catch it. On his way to return to his spot on the floor he pauses, then continues moving as if you haven’t asked him a question. When he sits, you quirk a brow.

“Yeah!” He answers. His voice tunes so high, it begs to crack.

You nod skeptically. You wouldn’t say he’s lying per se, but something seems off. Something that you’re interested in getting to the bottom of.

“Let’s take a break, okay?” You offer.

“Yeah, a break’s, uh — good.” He exhales, letting out a breath of relief. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, fanning it in and out, getting some air flow on his skin. It’s very suspicious and you have to assume —

“So, you’ve never seen a vagina,” you say.

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “I have! I’m not a virgin.”

“You’re squirming like one.”

“I’m not!”

“There’s nothing wrong —”

“I’m not!” He says much louder, cutting you off.

You believe him, seeing the full depth of sincerity in his amusedly large, and overly serious eyes.

“Okay,” you nod.

“I’m not,” he insists once more, tone leaning towards stern.

“I believe you, Eddie.”

The two of you sit quietly in your respective spots. You could busy yourself with getting some more studying stuff ready, but somehow — even though there was some verbal finality — this conversation doesn’t seem over.

And with an inhale from Eddie, it’s not.

“I’ve just never been like…” he pauses, thinking, “I’ve just never been all up in there.” He makes a crude motion with his hands, both palms splayed out flat in your direction, moving outwards like he’s spreading something out.

“You’ve never eaten a girl out before?”

“What are we doing?” He says, dropping his head into his hands, scrubbing at his cheeks with both palms.

“You don’t have to answer. Seriously, if I’m really making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop. Swear.”

His chest inflates with a deep breath, then his head pops up. “I have but only for like a minute, in the dark, parked outside of the hideout after a gig,” he confesses. You raise your brows, surprised.

“You work quickly. A minute, that’s impressive.”

“No… Jesus, no,” he winces. “I fucking wish. We got interrupted and… yeah she never wanted to hang out after.”

“Oh,” you hum. “That sucks.” You tilt your head at him, frowning apologetically.

“Yeah. She, uh, I’m pretty sure she had a boyfriend but I didn’t know when we… yeah.” He concludes his confession with a shrug before sitting back to lean against the side of his bed.

“That really sucks. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, tacking on a laugh. It’s not a nervous laugh. It’s genuine and you take his lack of nervousness as permission to continue the conversation.

“So… Do you have a tactic?”

“Tactic?”

“Yeah. Like, most guys use the alphabet on the clit thing, which is awful by the way, don’t do that.”

“I think…” he raises his brows. “I think, maybe, just being overzealous is my thing. I don’t really know — I haven't done it enough to have a tactic.”

“Overzealous is good…” you nod, “as long as it’s strategic.”

Eddie meets your gaze. He’s intrigued — “Elaborate?” he asks.

“Like, sure if you want to go to town and eat the pussy, go for it, but the only place it really counts is the clit — of course everything else is nice too, but the clit is definitely where it matters,” you nod to yourself, punctuating your statement. “And—” you add on, raising your hand, bringing together two of your fingers to mime the curling motions of getting fingered. “I like when they use their fingers too. It's a lot better like that.”

Eddie goes silent. He looks like he’s thinking, maybe even committing your words to memory— but it’s an odd look he has on his face. One you’ve never seen before from him.

“Sorry, did I say too much?” You laugh, trying to diffuse. Eddie looks at you, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

“Why the fuck are you tutoring me in going down on a girl right now?” He laughs.

You smile, appreciating his amusement. Tilting your head boastfully, you accept his comment like a compliment. “Just a natural born teacher, I guess,” you tease.

He nods, humming agreeingly. He doesn’t say anything more but you’ve got a handful of curiosities burning through your back pocket, and when in rome…

“Are we done with this conversation,” you ask, “or can we keep going ‘cause I might have a few questions for you?”

“Hasn't this whole conversation already been an interrogation of my experiences?”

“But this might be your only opportunity to teach me something, Edward.” You jet out your lower lip, pouting it, rounding your eyes at him — trying your best to keep this going.

He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance.

“Are you about to ask me if I can move my dick without my hands, because the answer is yes but it’s not full control.”

“That’s not what I was gonna ask, but very cool.”

“Sorry. That’s usually what girls ask.”

That has been a curiosity but your questions… your questions are much more… sophisticated?

“So can I?” you ask.

“Can you?”

“Ask you questions?”

He bites his lip, pointedly making you sweat it out. With a dramatic sigh, he gives in. “Go for it.”

You sit up straighter, very pleased with his answer.

“Balls,” you state. Eddie’s eyes widen immediately — you ignore the regret that flashes across his face. “Do you like them being touched? Every time I’ve done anything with them, the guy kind of, like, recoils and it feels like I did something wrong.”

“Jesus…” he clears his throat with an awkward laugh. “You’re really going for the big questions, huh?”

“The big questions?” You raise your eyebrows suggestively.

“No, Jesus I’m not implying my balls are — holy shit. My balls are normal sized, that’s not what I meant.” He continues to laugh through his embarrassment, cheeks heating right back up to that very cute, bright, red colour.

“I’m just teasing you, Eddie. I’m sure your balls are lovely and perfectly normal sized.”

He hums appreciatively but it gets stuck in his throat, coming out as a high pitched croak. He clears his voice, nodding as he raises a hand to the back of his neck, wringing it nervously.

“You don’t have to answer, but I would appreciate knowing,” you say, softly, sympathetic — leaning into apologetic. He nods again, and you can tell the gears are spinning in his head as he thinks over his answer.

“They’re just… sensitive,” he swallows. “But… I do like them being played with, or sucked, or licked… or whatever.”

His eyes focus on the far wall, not out of nervousness or shyness this time, but more like he’s giving his words some real thought. You appreciate it and wait patiently for him to continue.

“I guess I would have to say that it’s personal preference, so ask?” he continues unsurely, eyes still focusing elsewhere. “I mean, no guy is ever gonna be mad if you ask to put their balls in your mouth — or… whatever you want to do with them.” He looks at you with wide eyes as he suddenly gets nervous again. You wave him off, letting him silently know that ‘balls in your mouth’ is not an offense to you.

“Could you cum from someone playing with your balls?”

“Holy shit,” he gasps, laughing. His hand that was wringing his neck drops to his lap in a heavy thud. At the same time, he brings up both knees, hugging them halfways to his chest as he mulls over his answer. “Um? Maybe? But, I think a big part of it is a visual thing — like, it adds to the hotness when they’re into the balls?” He finishes, adding an unsure inflection to the end of his remark. You nod, narrowing your eyes into a squint as you absorb what he’s saying.

“So it doesn’t feel good?”

“It does,” he quickly corrects, “just anything on the head feels way better.”

“Okay… good to know.” You nod, moving on. “And dirty talk. You really like that? Like, when the girl’s going on and on about your ‘big cock in her tight little pussy’, is it not weird?”

“Jesus, you really aren’t holding back with these questions.” He smiles through the blotchy redness growing down his neck all the way to the collar of his shirt.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” you promise, dipping your face lower to catch Eddie’s gaze. He holds it for a second, before letting his eyes roam the room.

“Dirty talk is hot, obviously, but… it’s not when it’s rehearsed shit like that. It makes it feel like they’re performing — and maybe I’m just doing a piss poor job and they are performing — I don’t know, but I’d rather hear about what you actually like that I’m doing. Even if you’re telling me to go faster or harder or whatever. That’s fucking hot.”

“Alright, so be genuine. Cool,” you nod.

“You done with questions?” He meets your gaze with raised brows for a fraction of a brave second before quickly looking away.

The thing is, you’re not done.

“So, hypothetically, if someone you didn’t like played with only your balls, and it wasn’t hot— like nothing about it was hot, would you still cum?”

He doesn’t give you the same surprised initial shock as he did with all the other questions. This time he just lets out a long, evenly staggered breath through puffed out cheeks.

“I think…” He hugs his knees closer to his chest, rubbing both his palms along his shins quickly, filling the silence with the sounds of skin on denim.

You can see the edge of his words in his expression, like he wants to say something but is holding it back. Whatever it is, you wait patiently — you do sit up a little straighter though, eagerly leaning inwards, listening with baited breath to his quiet, pensive hum.

His lips twitch, mouth opening then closing. With a loud exhale, he lets go of his shins, letting his knees drop from their upright position, and with that, his resolve breaks.

“Fuck it” he curses — “Probably. Sometimes I think that the wind blowing the wrong way could make me cum. Like, I’m fighting for my fucking life to not get hard right now.”

He ends his speed-run confession with a pant, chest shallowly heaving with each breath. Excited wings beat inside your chest, dipping down to your belly as you absorb what he's just said to you.

“Really?” you ask, blinking wide eyes at him. His breathing evens out, and he meets your gaze.

“Yeah,” he shrugs shyly — cutely.

“You know I like you, right?”

His face falls. “What?” His brows press together, furrowing with confusion and you really don’t know how you could have been clearer about this whole ordeal.

“Eddie,” you smile. “I’ve told you like a million times that I like you — like earlier, I told you barely an hour ago before we got started.”

You said it quite plainly too; ‘Believe it or not, Eddie, I like you, and your success translates to my happiness.’

“Yeah, but I thought you meant as a… a person? Or a friend?”

You can’t help but laugh — not at him… well, a little bit at him, but this is just so ridiculous, how could he be so clueless.

“I love my friends but I don’t think I would fill all my free time teaching them math and all the anatomical correct names of the different parts of the penis.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, they’re good people but that’s not exactly my idea of fun,” you tease. “Of course I’m serious, Eddie. So if you wanted to make a move… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

At this point, after a confession as straightforward as that, you’d hope for movement — anything — even him getting closer to you, moving in for a kiss at the very least… but he stays sat in his opposite spot, his binder with the vagina diagram laid out flat, separating the both of you.

Maybe you read this wrong — backpedal.

“Did I just make this weird? Should I have not said that? I like tutoring you too, I don’t want you to think I’m expecting something from you just because I’ve been helping you.” You ramble apologetically, shrinking into yourself as you feel your whole body start to flush with icky embarrassment.

Eddie’s spine goes rigid as he sits up pin-straight, shaking his head emphatically.

“No! I like you too,” he interjects, leaning towards you, putting a hand on your knee. “Even before you started tutoring me.”

“You do?” You sigh a breath of relief. Meeting his eyes, you smile sweetly, ignoring the whiplash that still has your stomach pinched in a half knot.

His voice gets soft with his confession — “Why do you think I didn’t want to sit around looking at penises and vaginas with you?” he laughs quietly, “I was terrified of getting hard and scaring you away.”

The mention of him getting hard has your eyes flickering downwards for a split second. You can’t tell, but you tease him anyway — “And how’s that working out for you?”

“If you’re asking if I’m hard…” He trails off, smiling nervously, leaving you with a confirmed suspicion.

“Should I make a move?”

“Well, I’m not opposed.” He says it like it’s a joke — you know he’s being funny, breaking tension or whatever, but you don’t laugh. You perk up, tummy filling with fluttery feelings because that’s permission.

Permission to crawl the short distance between the two of you.

Permission to help yourself to his lap — pulling your skirt up high enough to straddle his upper thighs.

Permission to let your hands feel from his shoulders, down to his pecks.

Permission to be this close to him — close enough that you can see every shy detail, every cute freckle, every nervous flutter of his lashes.

Best of all — it’s permission for an intimacy you’ve been waiting for — longing for.

You sink yourself against him and — “Oh,” you gasp, “you weren’t kidding.”

Through the thin cotton of your underwear, you feel the hard curve behind the zip of his jeans. It has you biting your lip, holding back your grin.

His eyes coast your features, narrowing in on the tweaked up corners of your lips. He ghosts a quiet ‘yeah’, dipping his face downwards, hiding his own coy smile.

You just won’t have that — you bring your hands to his cheeks, tilting his chin upwards, encouraging him to look at you. He lets you guide him, lets you wash your gaze over his features — lets you rake your eyes over every detail, even when his skin grows pink and you know he wants you to be looking anywhere else.

But you can’t help it. The rosy tint to his cheeks looks too warm, too inviting. His lips are just too pink, too bitten. And most of all, his eyes have become too deep, too capturing, especially when the usual gold in his brown has resolved to being just the thinnest ring, glinting and shimmering around absorbing black orbs.

“Your eyes are really dark right now,” you observe aloud.

“Yeah?” He asks and you nod your head. You watch him as he lets his own gaze search your face. He swallows, coming to his own conclusion. “You just looked amused.”

You smile. You are amused but — “I’m not just amused.”

“No?”

“I’m also really turned on.” You feel it in your belly, multitudes of warm winged flutters, sitting low, radiating heat throughout your whole body. You lean in closer, watching intently as his brows rise, moving to hide beneath his bangs as he processes your second confession of the evening.

“You are?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Want to know what I’m thinking about?”

He swallows thickly, and that golden ring in his eyes gets the faintest bit thinner.

“I do.”

You sit more comfortably, bringing your hands back to his chest and letting your bum press fully to his thighs. He lets out a near silent groan as your front sinks to his and when you adjust your hips, his hands dart to your sides, holding you tightly.

“First,” you smile, batting your lashes at him. “I’m thinking about kissing you.” A soft swoon washes over Eddie's face, eyes turning soft for you. His eyes blink down to your lips, but you have more to say. “I’m also thinking about your balls in my mouth.”

The softness steps back, shock taking over. “Jesus christ,” he curses yet again, drawing out each syllable in a low groan.

“And since I’ve been sitting here, I can’t help but think about how your cock would feel inside of me.”

“Fuck.” He meets your gaze, eyes rounding, jaw going slack. His chest begins to rise more rapidly, his breathing growing heavier.

The feeling of him between your legs is undeniable now — he’s hard, very hard, uncomfortably hard. You let your hands slide up his chest, to his shoulders, letting your fingertips graze along the warm skin of his neck. He blinks heavily, eyelids growing weighted, swarming with evident lust. It makes you excited, makes you want more.

You lower your voice to a breathy whisper, leaning in closer, letting your lips graze the shell of his ear. “How’s the dirty talk, Eddie? Am I doing good?” You purr. His fingers pinch into the flesh at your sides as you shift once again, rolling your hips just enough to feel that hint of pleasure between your thighs.

Eddie stifles his moan. “S– so good. You’re doing so g-good,” he stutters. His breath hitches as you press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, and then another, moving downwards to his neck.

“What are you thinking about?” You pull away, looking at him through your lashes. You barely have a second to react before his hands are on your jaw, tugging you into him.

It catches you off guard at first as his lips mash to yours. It’s entirely overzealous, bidding his earlier statement true by multiple definitions. It’s not terrible, but it is desperate.

Flattening a heeding palm to his chest, you pull away just the slightest bit, letting your lips faintly graze his.

“Slowly, Eddie.” you whisper.

His interrupted desperation manifests as a quiet huff against your lips. Regardless of how hard he is beneath you, and how badly he wants to mash his mouth to yours, he nods, noses bumping together as he does.

This time you lean in. You guide the kiss, moving slowly, tenderly, and he follows your lead, moving gently, catching on quickly. Your upper lip presses between both of his and it's so delicate, so earnest, that it makes your heart thrum. It's exactly what you needed, and you reward Eddie with a quiet hum, letting your hands wrap behind his neck, pressing your chests together.

His breath fans over your skin as he hums back, letting his hands glide to your lower back, hugging you closer. His lips massage yours, slowly, and he takes his time, letting you melt into him entirely.

When you feel the pressure of his tongue licking across your lower lip your anticipation really sets in. You open your mouth, rolling your hips upwards as you move in closer to him. With a huffed, eager grunt, and with fingers kneading bruises into your skin, he licks into your mouth completely contradictory to it all, still giving you softness in the kiss. You’re elated by it all, swept up, enraptured by him being so sweet to you.

You sigh breathily as you have to pull away.

“That was really good,” you fawn, dropping your head to rest against his shoulder. You let out another sigh, smiling contently to yourself. You’ve been wanting to do that for a long time — really too long, if you’re being honest.

Eddie hums an agreement. You intend to go further than just a kiss, but you give yourself a moment to bask in it all. Just a moment, that’s all you need.

And in the next moment, with your wits gathered, you wiggle your hips. Eddie’s palms press tightly against your back and he lets out a sharp gasp that melds into a whimper. You giggle a quiet apology.

“Too much for you?” you tease.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head, his warm cheek pressing to yours. “M’just really hard right now.”

He is — you can feel it, and you can feel the mess growing between your own thighs.

A simple solution; you hint at rolling your hips another time. It’s hardly any friction, just testing the waters. You’re surprised when Eddie pulls you inwards, guiding your hips, encouraging you to move. He lets out a low groan as the squish of your thighs pass over his length, one that you hardly register over your own gasp as you get your first real hint of pleasure.

With his help, you build a slow rhythm, grinding to the curve in his denim, one that has your eyes fluttering shut and Eddie tensing, letting out meak whimpers and low moans. It's nice, it really is, but as nice as it feels for you, you weave a hand between the two of you, suggestively placing it on the buckle of his belt.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Yes,” his voice comes out as a heaved breath. Very eager to continue.

“After you cum, how long does it take for you to get hard again?”

“Sh-shit — it depends. Sometimes —” he swallows thickly and you hear the gulp in his throat — “sometimes it’s barely a few minutes.”

“I want to try out what you taught me, but I want you to fuck me too.”

“We can — yeah we can do that.” His voice wavers as he bites back his excitement, trying to play it cool. Despite that, you feel the overzealousness in his pants, twitching with enthusiasm.

You press a chaste kiss to his lips before scooting back on his legs, weaving your hands between the two of you to pop open his belt. Just as you unweave the leather and toss the heavy buckle to the side, holding the button under your thumb, Eddie’s hand meets your waist — not stopping you, just getting your attention.

“Can I…” he starts. You look up at him, pausing your movement. He continues, “can I try what you told me too?” His eyes barely meet yours, growing bashful all over again.

“Of course you can,” you say sincerely. You finish unbuttoning his pants, tugging the zipper down while leaning in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t gotta be shy, Eddie. I like you already, a lot.”

He nods, but you can still see a hint of cautiousness in his expression.

“I’m serious, Eddie. I want you to be comfortable with me. Anything you need, anything you want, you can tell me.”

He nods. His mouth mulls for a moment, but he nods a second time, assumedly coming to a conclusion. “Can we move up to the bed?” he asks.

“I’d like that,” you smile and he smiles back.

Just as you lift your leg to get off him, you let out a surprised yelp as he does the bravest thing he’s done yet, both hands grabbing firmly at your bottom, tugging you into him and up as he pushes himself off the floor. He moves the both of you up to the edge of the bed with one strong flex of his legs and your stomach swirls with the rush of it all.

From there, it's a giggling tussle of limbs, him pulling you up the bed, you pulling his pants off. Eventually, you both settle, him pantless, sitting with his back to the wall where his headboard should be, and you, by his side, knees pressing to his thigh. Your fingers wiggle with excitement as you take the thin cotton of his boxers, lacing them just under the waistband.

You shimmy in your spot, shaking your hips, letting out a happy hum as you begin to pull them down. Your belly fills with good nerves, butterflies, and your mouth salivates. When you get them down as far as you can without his help, he silently chimes in, lifting his hips, hooking his own thumbs into the material. With a quiet humph, the fabric passes his length, freeing it to bob against his shirt-covered belly.

Tempestuously red. Furiously flushed. Severely erect. Poor Eddie. Happy you. His tip is blushed to a deep crimson, glistening with the pearlescent sheen of precum. It has your body flushing hot everywhere — from your cheeks all the way south to where you grind yourself down onto the backs of your heels just to feel a pinch of salvation.

Somewhere between where your ogling started and where you had to physically swallow the gathering saliva in your mouth, his boxers got discarded entirely, your own shirt disappearing along with them — because it is just so hot all of a sudden.

If you weren’t completely blinded by your impeding tunnel vision, you would have seen the way Eddie gawked at your newly revealed skin, absorbing every inch, taking in every feature to your body. You would have seen the way his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and the fresh cherry red blush spread to his cheeks. You would have seen the way he had to forcefully peel his eyes away from your chest when he felt your fingers press into his bare thighs as you situated yourself between his legs. But you didn’t have a chance to notice all of those details, not when you felt the thrilling thrum of anticipation bubbling up in your bloodstream.

“You ready, Eddie?” You ask, grinning at him. He blinks slowly at you, no answer, making your smile falter.

“You look pretty,” he blurts out, much to your delight. “Really pretty. All the time — not just now because you're about to — you’re just beautiful, s’what I want to say.”

“Thank you,” you say, pleasantly surprised. Eddie on the other hand, cringes at his own rambling, face scrunching in defeat. You like him even more for it — “I think you’re beautiful too, Eddie,” you smile. “And not just because I have your pretty cock in front of me.”

Eddie huffs a soft laugh and you gleam, pleased with yourself.

With actual consent, you take him in your hand. Gentle at first, easing him into your touch. Just barely grazing your thumb over the tip, you smear the slick precum around, before sinking your fist to his base. He lets out a tensed moan, exhaling — exhilarating. That quiet, throaty noise has you lighting up, already feening for more.

Leaning down further, arching your back, you gather your saliva in your mouth before letting it spill out in a single string over the tip of his needy head, falling down just to be caught by the upwards rise of your fist. This time he sucks in a sharp breath and you live for it.

Closing the distance between your mouth and his cock, you lick the tip gently, pressing your tongue to the river of precum that sits in the curves of his slit, relishing in the saltiness that makes your mouth water effortlessly. You hum, feeling the pulse between your legs grow deeper, more intense. You push your hips back, angling them, searching for any sort of relief.

While it doesn’t satiate the need between your thighs, Eddie notices your squirm, and brings a splayed palm to your side, letting it curve to your skin. It settles in, warming you, encouraging you to distract yourself in such a beautiful way by taking him into your mouth.

You let your tongue swirl. Flick. Caress. Your lips graze before closing, and you suck. Cheeks hardly hollowing, the noise he lets out makes you want to keep being gentle — draw this out, make this last.

But like a devil on your shoulder, you want to skip forward. You want his balls in your mouth, that’s the guise of this whole encounter, isn’t it? To practice what he’s taught you.

Jumping right to the chase, abandoning his desperately swollen cock, doesn’t strike you as the way to go about this, so you continue to be gentle. Pulling off the tip, kissing him up and down his length. Pressing your lips where needed and drawing circles and lovey hearts across his skin with the pointed angle of your tongue.

It's not fruitless. Every noise, every groan, every heavy breath, pleading whimper, fills you up. It fills you up until it has you leaning your body into his hand on your rib cage, needing to feel him wherever you can, while taking him fully into your mouth. Swallowing him down, deeply hollowing your cheeks, gliding your lips and flattening your tongue until your nose presses to the wispy patch of coarse hair at his base.

“Fuck— fuck.” Eddie groans through a strangled breath.

His hand leaves your ribs and you whimper at the loss, only to be reunited with the physical contact as he takes hold of your head with both of his hands, pulling you up. You whine, chest collapsing with defeat. You pout as soon as his cock leaves your mouth. Looking up at him, he looks worked up and frayed — all a shivered mess — but eyes sincerely apologetic as he catches your disappointment.

“Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.” He pants heavily, catching his breath while you catch your own. Your pout lessens, and instead, your pride sets in. You did that to him.

Wiping your gathered tears, you place a tentative hand on his length, watching him for any protests. His head knocks back into the hard wall, but he never loses sight of you, now looking down the angular slope of his nose, watching with amorous, lusting eyes.

You dip down, reapproach, but this time you give into your own desire, indulging yourself.

Lifting his cock, you nose down his length. His eyes turn wide, but still, no protests.

“Can I put your balls in my mouth?” You ask, doing just as he told you to do, embellishing your simple sentence with pleading, fluttery lashes and persuasive, pinched together brows.

His lips press into a purse as he swallows, and then they part with approval. “Yes,” he says. You watch as his tongue swipes along his plump bottom lip, and you can’t help but smile up at him.

Appreciation sits on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it, you show it. Bowing your face low, you lick up the centre of his sack, flattening your slow moving tongue with an oath of sincerity — this makes you burn. For a moment, you believe that you’d be content if this was for you and you only, but then you meet his gaze, and you see the way he burns too.

His eyes devour you — your hand wrapped around his cock, thumb barely touching index, your chin settled deep between his thighs. You burn identically and it makes the swirl of butterflies in your stomach rise high, beating heavily in your chest. You get lost for a moment, but a thumb on your cheek, sweetly swiping softly against your skin, brings you right back.

“Pretty girl,” he hums.

You tilt your head, nuzzling into his grip, humming a tender thank you. His thumb swipes again, just under your eye before settling behind your ear, sitting there with no intention but to be tethered to you.

It’s sweet, and you return the gesture, pressing two kisses, one to each side. You shift your focus, returning back to the moment.

Head still partially in the clouds, you do something daring without thinking, and you suck one of his balls into your mouth. Eddie lunges forward, bending at the waist, nearly folding in half as his stomach tenses harshly. He whimpers, and you pull back immediately.

“Sorry!” You shift, looking at his contorted expression. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

He quickly relaxes himself, patting your cheek as he settles, unclenching his thighs that had tightened at your sides.

“No — no.” He shakes his head, catching his breath “Do it again.” He gently guides you back down. “I was just distracted, caught me off guard,” he explains.

Distracted like you were. You understand, and you let him guide your face back down.

This time you’re careful. With his eyes on you, you start again, licking, feeling the silky skin with your tongue as you gauge his reaction, peering up at him through your lashes. He nods, and you carefully take him into your mouth, letting your tongue roll cautiously along the velvet skin.

You’re careful not to do too much, but you grow more confident when you see the way his mouth falls open with his own appreciation.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “Just like that. Good girl,” he praises, groaning as you suckle delicately. His cock jumps in your loose fist, reminding you just how long it's been since you’ve paid it any attention. Tightening your grip, you run your fist up, then down languidly, multitasking in a way that has Eddie gaping, jaw slack, mouth parted wide, eyes owlish and filled to the brim with heated astonishment.

With your mouth, you switch to his other side, doing the same, rolling your tongue exploringly, seeing what has his stomach tensing and noises pulling from his lungs.

As you let your thumb run over his leaking head, he lets out a throaty groan. His thighs tense around you once more, but instead of backing away, you lean into it, embracing the new-found way to make him squirm.

His breathing quickly becomes rapid as you take more of him into your mouth, sucking more confidently, and pulling away every now and again to press deserved kisses. Your fist moves quicker, focusing on the tip — purposeful, as you remember what he taught you.

You suck, and glide your hand in smooth strokes, over and over, showing him just how much you like him. If he didn’t believe you before, he has to now.

With a strong, devoted rhythm built, the skin against your tongue eventually begins to pull taut. He throbs in your hand. You know before he says anything, even before his hand can flex its grip on your cheek. You pull away, letting him fall from your mouth with a quiet pop. He lets out a worn sigh of relief as you sever the threads of spit from your mouth to his balls and shift, moving back to his wired-up cock, twitching at just the sensation of your breath on his over-flushed tip.

Rearranging yourself, you sink your fist, moving it low to his base, and then you adjust, moving your hand to cradle his balls in your palm. His stomach flexes and he lets out a pitiful whimper — he's so close, even while you're barely touching him.

“Please,” he rasps through a strained breath.

You have nothing but appreciation for the man in front of you, reduced to pleading. You want nothing more than to satisfy him.

Gentle, a thing of the past. You take his cock in your mouth deeply. Swallowing his thickness down, taking him as far as he fits, pressing him to the very back of your throat. Your eyes water, and you breathe heavily through your nose, never once forgetting to massage him in your hand.

His chest heaves, and his fingers weave their way into the hairs at the base of your neck, tugging — communicating. His helpless moans draw out, getting longer and deeper, drawing out each and every flutter in your belly, adding to your fire.

You can’t believe you’ve been sitting around, tutoring him, teaching him math when you could have been doing this. This is much better — much, much more fulfilling.

You rise and fall, bobbing quickly, and he encourages you, helping you find the pace that brings him to his edge. He swells in your mouth, and draws upwards in your hand. You hum, encouraging him to let go.

“I’m gonna —” he tries to speak, but a rogue whine cuts him off. He sucks in a sharp breath — “I’m cumming, I’m —” Panic invades his voice as his grip in your hair turns harsh, pulling, stinging your scalp. You hum again, and then you feel the spill.

The warmth of his cum invades the back of your throat, loading your senses with the distinctly musky taste and a bitter-flavoured swell of sweetness in your chest. Pleased, you swallow it down, and ask for more with the purse of your lips on his overworked tip. His hips buck up into you as you happily swallow everything you can, lapping it up with your appeasing tongue.

His body relaxes until you don’t stop. Then he’s flexing again, sucking in harsh, gasp-like breaths, using his hands in your hair to guide you away from his over-sensitive cock.

Both his palms cup your cheeks and you rise, straightening out your spine, walking your knees up the mattress to be closer to him. His hand falls to your knee, encouraging a bend, welcoming you back into his lap. You happily take a careful seat on his thighs.

“Holy fucking shit,” Eddie gushes unapologetically.

His body slouches into the mattress, but he continues to beakon you forward. You follow his weak, weary pull and he guides you to his lips, attaching his mouth to yours in a lazy kiss. His beholden tongue greets yours, unaffected by the lingering flavour of his seed that coats your lips and mixes with your spit. He devours it gratefully.

“That was —” he starts, pulling away just to peck your lips again — “So, so— I don’t even have words.” His hand slides loosely across the expanse of your bare waist as he presses a frenzy of chaste kisses to your lips, making you giggle.

“I did good? I thought I hurt you for a minute.”

“No— shit, you did so good, baby.” Eddie hums, fondly pressing his cheek to yours as he hugs you closer.

You feel his praises blaze at something inside of you, thrumming through your bloodstream, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t highlight your own neediness, the one left abandoned between your thighs.

Despite the restlessness that grows in your twitching hips, you try to relax, focusing on the sentimental feeling of the rise and fall of his chest, letting your body slink into his, fitting seamlessly against him until his breathing returns to a steady rate. You patiently wait for him to make the next move — especially after him letting you lead most of this evening.

Just as you’ve let your eyes flutter shut, resting them for a peaceful moment, a kiss to your shoulder has your excitement kicking up in your lower belly, waking up those warm, winged creatures once again. He presses another kiss, and then another, following the slope of your shoulder. Down the curve, to your collarbone, high on your chest, kiss after kiss until his lips meet the plumpness of your breast that spills over the cups of your bra.

The swell of your breast, across, to the centre, his lips find your sternum, and you keen into it, unafraid of coming off as desperate.

It’s barely anything, just innocent pecks, but it has you impatient, tilting your head back, curving your body to offer up more skin to him. He hums a warm tone, affectionately following the path of your sternum, nosing his way down your cleavage, sighing a deep, warm breath against your skin, adding a few extra heated degrees to your body temperature — you thank him with a breathy moan.

His hands move to your sides, tickling along your flesh, leaving goosebumped skin in their path as he traces along the band of your bra, fingertips gliding until they meet the clasp.

“Please,” you whisper, biting your lip as he finger paints small swirls along your spine. You push yourself closer, needing more.

And he gives you more. The band tightens around your ribs as he finds the edge, and you hold your breath.

One clip comes undone easily, granting you a hint of relief. Two follows, leaving just the third hook stuck standing between you and the promise of pleasure.

Then he stops — worse actually — he doesn’t just stop, he completely abandons the clasp on your bra as his head pops up, nearly clipping the edge of your jaw. He pulls you flush to his chest, tucking your head to his shoulder.

It surprises you, making your heart pound for an entirely different reason.

“What—” you begin, but his heedful palm spreads across the plain of your upper back, halting your question, making you pause. Unsure and curious, you turn your face, pushing against his grip on you, trying to see what’s wrong.

His face is contorted into a flat, focused look as his eyes fixate on the closed door of his room. You’re totally confused by what has pulled his attention, but then you hear a clatter from the living room of his trailer. You turn to look at Eddie.

His eyes pinch shut with disappointment. “No,” he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder in defeat.

“Is that —”

“My fucking uncle,” he mumbles into your skin.

“Oh,” you say quietly, trying to fight the unresolved neediness of your body from turning you into a slouching ball of disappointment.

“He's not supposed to be home yet,” he groans, and it comes out huffed, like he's annoyed, but you know it's not directed at you. Part of you is relieved to hear that upset edge in his voice, because you know how easy it would be for most boys to shrug it off when they already got what they needed.

His palm swipes across your back, rubbing it in a soothing way before he pulls away, finding your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

You shrug, it's not like this is his fault. “It’s okay,” you promise.

“It’s not.”

You smile. “It is,” you say, delighted by his sincerity. “This just means we’ll have to pick up where we left off another day.”

“But you didn’t get to cum.”

True but — “I still had fun.”

He dips his face, chin bowing downward, bitten lips jetting out with his generous empathy. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and you giggle at his niceness. He might be more upset than you are, and you love it.

“Eddie, you know me,” you grin. “You said I did a good job, and there’s nothing better than the satisfaction of a job well done,” you beam, and you’re very pleased when you get a good chuckle from Eddie.

“Next time?” He proposes with a raised brow.

“Next time,” you agree.

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merci buckets hope you liked if you did make sure to hit! that subscribe button and leave a like down below (aka comment and reblog <33333)

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#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x fem!reader

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gwydionmisha · 7 months ago

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It's an ethics AND a safety issue. Trump is planning to stop crash/safety reporting Musk's cars.

A more graphic explanation of why we need to monitor this. (Shows crashed cars, but not the bodies). It's from that time Tesla did deadly beta testing that killed and injured a bunch of people.

Some of these are mostly focused on the national security implications of Musk, SpaceX, and Starlink, but the conflict of interest over things like Self driving cars matter too. It's a fundamental problem that Trump is basically letting Elon Musk make so many decisions for his own benefit.

#Elizabeth Warren #Donald Trump #Elon Musk #Ethics #conflicts of interest #Security Clearance #Tesla #Autopilot #safety #billionaires #1%#Space X #Starlink #National Security

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nineteenninety-six · 2 months ago

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hello!! a request for a dr robby with reader my apologies if this is gibberish i have a hard time getting thoughts to words

reader is a social worker in the ED sunshine personified, always trying to cheer up everyone in the department making sure everyone is doing well, especially robby.

she gets called to help out with an agitated patient in the ed by robby. she goes to work with the patient and gets assaulted by the patient like bad, and robby finds her.

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

AN: I wrote half of this before rereading the request and realised I strayed a bit but oh well.

Warnings: domestic violence, st@bbing, abuse, assualt. this one does have some heavy themes as a general warning.

You hummed as you rocked on your feet in the elevator as it took you down to the emergency department. You were a social worker at the hospital and you usually alternated with Kiara on who spent the shift in the ED and today was her day but she was currently occupied so you were called down to help on a case that just came through the ambulance bay doors, a suspected domestic violence case.

The elevator doors opened up and you wasted no time in stepping into the hustle and bustle of the emergency room, seeking out the day shift attending, Dr Robby.

You saddled up to the nurse’s station and smile at Dana in greeting, "Hey Dana, now's things going?"

“I’ll tell you what, those banana and chocolate muffins you make would definitely make the day better.” Dana hums as she wriggles her eyebrows as she hints at you.

You laugh at her words. You were an avid baker in your free time and so the staff of the hospital were both the recipients and test subjects of your baked goods. "That bad of a day huh? I’ll pick up some bananas tonight so give me a couple of days there be a full tray in the staffroom.”

"Don't get me started hon and make it two trays." Dana sighs, "You here for that DV case? I'll page Robby that you're down here."

"Thanks Dana" You nod and look around the pit as you waited for Robby. You didn't exactly know what you were looking for as everyday was different yet also the same at the pit. Same shit, different day.

You hear Robby call out your name as he approached the nurse’s station and you turn to face him with a smile, "Hey Robby."

A bright smile spreads across Robby's face as he comes to a stop by your side and you can't help the bright smile you return back.

"So, what’s the case you wanted my help with?"

Robby pulls you to the side, to an alcove where you can speak privately where there will be no overhearing ears.

"EMTs brought her in about thirty minutes ago. Woman in her twenties, boyfriend called it in, says he came home and found her unconscious on the floor. She has multiple bruises, both new and old, multiple fractures, new and old again. Trauma to the face and head including a skull fracture and broken cheekbone. Also, a couple of rib fractures."

You stare speechless at Robby as he rattles off the poor woman’s injuries, "... Holy shit."

Robby nods in agreement at your words, rubbing his hands across his face in exhaustion.

"Those sound like car crash injuries" You murmur, "And you said the boyfriend called it in? Was it like a house invasion... but you called me down so..."

"Police called, there was no evidence of an attempt to break in, no robbery took place."

"Shit..." You swear again, "So he assaults her, probably worse than he's ever done before, realises it and calls the ambulance and makes a story to avoid suspicion."

"Most probably" Robby nods, "You want me to come in with you?"

"Despite how much I'd appreciate that, I know you have your hands full with both patients and reports."

"I don't want you going in there alone though" Robbie worries.

"I'II bring Mateo or Donnie, I won't be alone and get a security guard to stand guard nearby but not at the door, I don't want to scare either of them."

Robby nods, "Sounds good."

You flash him a smile as you reach forward and squeeze his hand. "I'll keep you updated, okay?"

"Okay." Robby returns your smile, albeit with a shy smaller one. "I'll see you later."

Robby returns back to the nurse’s station, next to Dana as they watch as you head towards the patient’s room,

“Are you ever going to ask her out?” Dana asks.

Robby’s eyes flicker to Dana who was already looking at him, “She’s too good for me.”

Dana rolls her eyes at the man, “She’s very good, yes. Sweet and lovely and kind…which is why I think you two are good for each other. Trust me, ask her out.”

Robby hums as he clicks on a tablet and steps away, “I’ll think about it.”

You knock on the door, stepping in after a second with Donnie right behind you. The woman lays in bed, full of drugs that are currently keeping her calm and pain-free but she's currently conscious and the man sat next to her looked irritated and angry as he sat with crossed arms and frown on his face, the boyfriend if you had to guess.

"Finally," The man huffs, throwing his hands up in frustration as he stood up, "We've been waiting for ages. I don't know why we're still here. we need to go home."

"Miss Timmins' injuries are severe and require more testing and treatment. I'm afraid she's not going anywhere anytime soon." Donnie tells the boyfriend as he checks her vitals.

"You're just a damn nurse, you don't-know anything!" The boyfriend snaps before he turns to you, "Are you a doctor? Can you discharge us."

"I'm not a doctor. I'm a social worker." You correct.

"We don't need a damn social worker!" The boyfriend snaps becoming more incensed, "We just need a doctor."

"Well, I was called because I heard you were involved in a terrifying incident and my role is to help you in situations like this." You turn your focus on the woman and step closer to the bed and introduce yourself, "You're Claire, right?"

The woman nods and you give her a comforting smile, "It's nice to meet you, Claire. I can get you in contact with support groups and therapists who have experience with working with people who have gone what you have experienced."

"What do you mean?" The boyfriend barks out.

You turn to look at him before you share a look with Donnie. "Claire was involved in a house invasion and that is a terrifying thing to experience, don't you think?"

The man gives a reluctant nod and you share another look with Donnie before you speak again.

"Maybe it's best if I speak to Claire alone. Perhaps she'll feet more comfortable if it’s just the two of us."

The man looks to argue with you, getting red in the face as he stands up but Donnie moves to stand in front of you and the man immediately backs down but he doesn't leave without a glare and a curse muttered underneath his breath. Thankfully Donnie follows him out of the room leaving you alone with Claire.

"Claire, I'm going to be honest with you right now. I've heard what your boyfriend told the 911 operatives and then I heard what the police said when they arrived at your house and honestly, the stories don't match up and I think you're the only person who can tell me the full story."

Claire looked at you with wide watery eyes, and lips that began to tremble,"... I..."

"You don't have to tell me anything; all you have to do is tell me that you need help and I can help you get into contact with those who can actually help!”

"... what will they do?"

"Well, if you want, they'll help you with filing a police report and if your house is not a safe space, then they can get you into a shelter and there they'll help you move states if you so wish, and they can also help with you getting a job."

"What about a restraining order?"

"They can help you with that." You nod "But may I suggest something?”

Claire nods and you continue speaking, “Tell the police what happened. They already know what happened earlier, they talked to your neighbours, they watched the security footage and been to your place, they already know his story doesn’t make sense. They’re already suspicious and your statement would be the nail in the coffin-"

"What the hell are you talking to her about?!"

The words cause you to jump in fright, spinning on your heels to face the angry man in the door. You hadn't realised he had returned and now you were trapped in a room with him and it was obvious he had been there a while and had overheard what you had been saying.

"Answer me." The man’s voice is quiet but deadly and you feel your heart begin to race as he closes the door behind him.

"Please move away from the door" You tell him, keeping your voice calm as to not to escalate the situation.

"What lies have you been feeding her?" The man steps closer to you and you shuffle backwards until your butt hits the bed Claire is in.

You’re too far away to press the staff assist button so your only hope was to talk the angry man down.

“I haven’t told her any lies” You tell him, “We were just talking about what happened earlier.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The man continues walking forward, his hand digging into his pocket and pulling out a folding knife.

Your heart drops to your stomach and you struggle to swallow amongst the urge to throw up.

“P-please put that down sir” Your voice is low as you plead, “Please…”

Claire gasps and sobs behind you before erupting in a scream when her boyfriend launches himself at you. You try to run for the assist button but before you can you’re pulled back by your collar and thrown to the floor, your head bouncing off of the floor.

You hear Claire scream and you blink through the ache that was creeping through you right now and stumble to your feet, “Claire, press the assist button! Now!”

Claire is frozen in her spot as she watches her boyfriend advance on you and you barely have time to blink before he’s grabbing you. One hand on your shoulder to keep you from moving and the other firmly clasped around the folding knife which he swiftly stabs you with.

You gasp at the searing pain it leaves and it glides through you and you can only stare at the man wide eyed in shock. Claire has curled up into a ball and turned away from you and amidst the pain and shock you realise that you will die soon if you don’t do something and so you scream at the top of your lungs knowing that people out there will definitely hear and come running.

“Shut the fuck up!” The man yells and stabs you again before he attempts to flee out of the room, letting you drop to the ground unable to support yourself anymore.

He doesn’t get far as he runs straight into Ahmed’s arms as he runs through the door and Ahmed is quick to push him to the side and restrain him as someone runs to call the police while Robby, Collins, Langdon, Dana and Princess run into the room.

Robby curses as he spots you when he runs into the room, muttering your name as he did so, “Oh shit-fuck,”

You whimper as he kneels next you and places his hand on top of yours where they lay on your wounds at a poor attempt of stifling the bleeding. You lay in a puddle of your own blood as it pooled around you, your hands drenched in the blood and when Robby’s hand rested on top of yours you left a bloody hand print on his wrist that you held on to in panic.

You stare wide eyed up at Robby, trying to focus through the fear but your body was engulfed in excruciating pain. Every inch of your body ached as you lay there on the emergency department floor, bleeding profusely from a stab wound. The sheer intensity of the situation made your head spin, yet you remained aware of your surroundings.

You heard Princess frantically paging for surgery, and the hurried movements of Dana as they passed whatever Robby had requested.

All you could see however, was Robby hovering above you, his hands moving with expert precision as he stabilised you with Langdon’s help, trying to slow down your bleeding enough for surgery to take over and stitch you up.

Your hands twitched desperately as you reached out for someone’s hand, yearning for physical comfort in this moment of fear. Panic was starting to set in, but when warmth enveloped your hand, you were jolted back to reality. Your eyes fluttered up and met Heather’s warm gaze, and suddenly, all the emotions that had been trapped behind the shock that had taken over after the stabbing were released. You began to sob uncontrollably, tears streaming down your cheeks as you clutched Heather’s hand tightly.

“You’re okay, you’re okay…” Heather soothed you, her fingers gently brushing the tears off your cheeks, “Robby and Frank are nearly done and you can go to up to surgery.”

Heather squeezes your hand and you hold on tight. She was currently your anchor and you didn’t want her to leave because if she did then your focus would shift to the miracle work that Robby and Langdon were performing on you.

Soon a stretcher is pushed into the room and Robby is hovering over you once again, he reaches as if he’s going to cup your cheeks before he remembers that wearing blood-soaked gloves.

“Hey, you’re going off to surgery now. They’re gonna stitch you up real good.” Robby assures you, wincing at your cry when you’re lifted onto the stretcher, “I know the surgeons are assholes but they’re the best in the city, if not the state. You’ll be good hands.”

All you can do it nod before you’re pulled away to the elevators, your hand slipping from Heathers as she falls out of view along with Robby.

You wake to the usual sterile stench that coated the hospital, your eyes slowly blinking open as you stare up at the white ceiling and for a moment you think you’re back on the floor of the emergency department bleeding out but then the steady beeping of the monitor beside you brings you back to reality.

You instinctually shift but your body immediately protests and you still your movement with a pained whimper.

“Hey, hey” A voice calls out to you, the person resting their hand on yours, “Don’t move too much otherwise you open your wounds.”

“Robby?” You croak out as you turn to face, “W-what happened?”

Robby tugs his seat closer and takes both your hands into his, “Do you remember what happened downstairs?”

You think for a moment, trying to find the memories through the fog in your brain before you nod, “Yea…How'd he get the knife in?"

"He came with the ambulance, so no security metal detector and no scanner." Robby explains with a huff.

“Frank and I got you stable and we got you into surgery where they patched you up,” Robby tells you as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, “You’ll stay here for a day or two then you go home. Strictly bedrest no funny business.”

Your lips quirk as you look at Robby, “Is that a demand Dr Robby?”

“Yeah, doctors orders” He nods before his expression settles into something more serious, “…I should have gone in there with you.”

You tangle your hand with Robby’s so your fingers were interlinked, “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It’s the past now, stop focussing on it.”

“You could have died!” Robby stresses.

“But I didn’t!” You remind him, “You saved me.”

You see him open his mouth, no doubt to argue with you some more and you quickly interrupt him, “Robby, please. You did nothing wrong and you saved me, that’s all there is to this conversation and if you dare bring it up again then I’m kicking you out.”

There’s a pause, a moment of silent before Robby nods and laughs, “…Okay.”

“I do need a favour though”

Robby perks up at that, “Sure anything.”

“You wouldn’t mind picking me up some bananas, would you? I promised Dana some of my chocolate and banana muffins.”

Robby stares at you speechless before he nods with a laugh, “Depends, will there be any for me?”

“Well, I was planning on making you those white chocolate and raspberry muffins you like so much.”

“Just for me?” Robby looks excited.

You smile and nod, “Just for you, as a thank you. Not just for saving me but also for getting all the ingredients.”

“Considering the muffins are repayment, you’re very much welcome.” Robby gives your hands a squeeze before he stands, “Now get some rest, everyone wants to come see you when their shift is done.”

“Sir yes sir!” You nod as you ease back onto the bed, trying your hardest not to pull at your stitches, “I’ll see you later?”

Robby gives you one last nod before he leaves your room.

#dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #michael robinavich x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt imagine #dr robby #dr robinavitch #michael robinavitch #robby x reader

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