#but i only like... started drawing today...

[colouredbyd]

The Boy Is Mine

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

Summary: you’re quiet by nature, content in the background—until someone pushes too far. When a girl flirts with Remus, something shifts. With one kiss and a quiet claim, you remind everyone exactly who he ( and Sirius) belong to.

Warnings: possessiveness, jealousy, strong language, suggestive content, heated kiss, and public displays of affection.

Word count: 3.4k

Authors note: i need both Remus and Sirius at the same damn time.

masterlist

You’ve never been the loudest in the room.

You don’t need to be. Not when Sirius is tossing his head back laughing beside you, all glittering chaos and charm, or when Remus leans in close, voice low and deliberate, like every word he says is meant only for you.

They fill the space so effortlessly—Sirius with his magnetic presence, Remus with his quiet gravity—and you find yourself fitting between them like a breath between heartbeats. Steady, constant and soft.

You like watching more than speaking. Not out of shyness exactly, but because you enjoy observing—feeling everything. It’s the way Remus’s thumb circles over your knee under the table without him even realizing. The way Sirius always saves you the last bite, even when he swears he won’t. You don’t need to be loud to be loved here.

They know you. They’ve always known you.

Sirius, who pulls you into the middle of the common room and spins you in dizzy circles until you’re breathless with laughter. Remus, who presses his nose into your hair when the world feels too sharp and mumbles poetry against your skin. 

Between the two of them, you’ve never had to shout to be heard. They listen in the silence. They love you in the quiet.

But sometimes, even the quiet hums with something fierce.

And today, it’s starting to burn.

The loud music thumps through the walls, pulsing in your veins, but all you can hear is Remus’s voice rising above the chatter of the party. He’s talking to a girl, one whose name doesn’t matter.

because you’re already irritated.

Sirius is speaking beside you—his voice low and animated, probably bantering with James about something as thrillingly idiotic as who cheated in the last round of Exploding Snap—but the words barely register. They fade into the background like the bass of the music humming through the party, the way laughter spills and drips from every corner of the Gryffindor common room like syrup.

You’re curled up beside him on the leather couch, soft and familiar, half draped across his lap like you belong there, because you do. His palm is warm against your skin, fingers lazy as they trace circles over your thigh, an unconscious kind of touch that says mine without needing the word.

But your attention isn’t on Sirius.

It’s fixed—razor sharp and unblinking—on the girl across the room.

She’s all lip gloss and bright laughter, the kind of girl who doesn’t walk into a room so much as glitter through it. Her blouse is buttoned just low enough to draw the eye, her skirt just short enough to be a statement. She leans in closer to Remus like she’s in a slow-motion daydream, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she giggles at something he said.

Except Remus isn’t laughing.

He’s smiling, but you know that smile. It’s the strained one. The tight-lipped, please-don’t-make-this-weird smile he gives when someone crosses the line and he’s too damn kind to push them away.

And she—well. She’s not backing off.

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. Not enough to shatter it, but enough to feel it, to ground yourself before the rising tide inside you gets too high. The jealousy doesn’t burn. No, it doesn’t scream or sputter like some childish tantrum. It’s quiet. Sharp. Ice in your veins, snow behind your ribs. It’s precise.

You watch her touch his arm, watch her eyes flutter and her voice pitch just so. You watch Remus stand there with all that quiet discomfort in his shoulders and all that unnecessary politeness keeping him rooted in place.

And something inside you shifts.

You’re not the loud one at these parties. You’re not the girl who shouts or struts or demands. You’re the one who stays curled up in the lap of a boy with stardust in his smile, sipping your drink while the chaos unfurls around you. You’re the calm in their storm, the softness they return to.

But not tonight.

Because tonight, someone is trying to touch what’s yours.

And whether Remus knows it yet or not, whether that girl ever figures out just how royally she’s miscalculated, one thing is already certain.

You are about to stop being the quiet one.

“Moony’s got his fan club going tonight, huh?” Sirius says, his tone casual, his fingers playing with a loose thread on the hem of your sleeve. “I swear, every time he talks to a girl, she looks like she’s ready to devour him.”

You hum, an absent sound, not really acknowledging him. Your gaze stays fixed on Remus and that damn girl, the way she’s tossing her hair back and laughing too loudly.

“You okay, dove?” His voice drops a little, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a slow, deliberate motion.

You want to lie. You want to say it’s fine, that you’re just tired or distracted, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you give a small shake of your head, the fluttering in your chest too strong to ignore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, a little too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

Sirius’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He knows you well enough to sense when you need space, but tonight, there’s something different. The energy in the room feels electric, like it’s just waiting for a spark.

Remus laughs again from across the room, and this time, the girl reaches up to touch his arm, her fingers trailing lightly along his sleeve. The sight, the sound, the way her body leans just a little too close to his, sends a pang of something sharp through you. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch her lean in, her lips too close to his ear as she whispers something.

Your fingers grip the edge of the couch, your nails digging into the fabric. You feel like you’re going to snap at any moment, and you’re so sick of it.

Sirius seems to notice the shift in the air. His hand halts on your back, and he turns his head toward Remus and the girl, then back to you. His expression softens, understanding settling in. He leans forward, his voice low as he speaks, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“Love, I think we’ve reached a new level here,” he says, voice laced with something almost teasing. “You’ve been staring at him for ages now.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep the fluttering in your chest under control. “I’m not staring,” you say, but even you can hear the edge in your voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? ‘Cause I think you’ve definitely been staring. You want me to go over there and break it up?”

“No,” you snap, a little too quickly, and then you freeze, realizing just how harsh you sound. You soften your tone, but the words still feel like they’re cutting you open. “I… I don’t know.”

Sirius doesn’t push you, but he watches you carefully, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You shift uncomfortably, your gaze returning to Remus and the girl. It’s like a magnet pulling you in, the way she laughs again, her hand resting on his shoulder now, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbone.

The thought makes you want to scream.

You watch the girl lean in closer, her breath light against his ear as she says something you can’t hear, but you can see it in the way her lashes flutter and her lips curl. It’s an obvious flirtation, the kind of thing that would make anyone else swoon, but you just feel your stomach twist in knots. Remus gives a tight, polite smile, the one he always does when he’s too kind to be rude, but you know that smile too well. It’s a mask, a shield, and you can see right through it. He’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t stop her.

The touch lingers. And Remus—sweet, gentle, infuriating Remus—doesn’t stop her.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t step back. He doesn’t even glance in your direction.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe he’s too soft-spoken for his own good. Maybe he thinks you don’t mind, that you’re tucked up on the couch beside Sirius, warm and safe and unbothered. Maybe he’s forgotten that while you may be quiet, you’re not blind.

But oh, you care.

You care enough that your drink is forgotten in your hand, the condensation sliding over your fingers like cold sweat. You care enough that your jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking with a quiet fury that pulses behind your ribs. There’s a pressure building in your chest, a weight that has nothing to do with insecurity and everything to do with possession.

You’ve always known what’s yours.

And Remus?

He is yours.

The room around you begins to blur, voices fading into background noise, like someone’s turned the volume down on the rest of the party. The flickering firelight, the chatter of students, the low buzz of magical music—all of it dulls. All you can see is the way she’s looking at him, lips parted in a practiced little smile, eyes batting as if she’s never had to work hard for attention in her life.

You hear her laugh—sharp and high and entirely insincere—and it cuts through you like a blade. Remus chuckles along with her, and it’s that sound, that soft little sound of his, that makes something in your spine snap straight. His eyes catch the light just right, that familiar glint of mischief and charm you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s teasing you softly beneath the covers, and it stings more than you’d like to admit.

And suddenly, you are no longer the quiet girl curled in the corner.

You are no longer the soft one who waits patiently for your boys to come home to you.

You are standing up, not with a shout or a dramatic flourish, but with a kind of cold certainty, like the sea deciding to rise. Sirius shifts beside you instinctively, his hand brushing your back as he senses the change in the air, his voice dipping with curiosity.

“Love?” he says quietly, brows raising. “Everything alright?”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

Because your eyes are still locked on the girl in the too-tight blouse and the too-pretty smile and the entirely wrong assumption that she has any right to touch your Remus like she belongs there.

She doesn’t.

And she’s about to learn exactly why.

It never felt like you needed to compete for Remus’s attention. He had always been yours in that quiet, unspoken way—his careful gestures, the soft smiles he gave you when no one was looking, the way he always made sure you were okay, even when you didn’t ask. You had a bond, something deeper than words. But now, watching him allow her to invade that space, something inside you snaps.

She’s leaning into him like he’s already hers, one manicured hand lingering on his forearm, like she doesn’t see the slight pullback in his posture. Like she doesn’t notice the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sirius’s hand slips off your thigh, stunned. “Where’re you going?”

“To get what’s mine.” you say, and your voice is soft, sultry, but it slices through the noise like a blade.

James chokes on his drink. Lily turns, eyebrows lifting as she watches you stalk forward, hips swaying, jumper slouching off one bare shoulder. You hear someone mutter, “Bloody hell.” and you don’t even need to look to know Marlene is probably grinning like a wolf.

The girl is still touching Remus. Still laughing.

You don’t give her the chance to speak. You don’t give him a moment to explain, or to blink, or to pretend he doesn’t feel the air shift as you close the distance between you like a storm cloaked in silk.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of his jumper, curl tightly into the soft wool, and tug. Hard. Hard enough that he stumbles forward, just one step, just enough to crash into your gravity.

His eyes find yours, startled and wide, and for a heartbeat he forgets where he is. The party, the music, the girl whose perfume is still clinging to the air around him—all of it vanishes the moment your lips catch his.

It is not a kiss built from politeness or affection. It is not the kind of thing meant for privacy or delicacy.

This kiss is war.

It’s bruising and slow and devastating, like a spell whispered in the middle of a battlefield. Your hand tangles in his curls and tugs, just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. Your other hand slides down to his belt, fingers brushing over the buckle, teasing with the lightest hint of promise. You tilt your head to deepen it, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste him.

He groans, low and helpless, the sound caught between your mouths, and you smile against him, smug and sinful.

When you finally pull away, his lips are pink and glistening and parted like he’s about to say something but hasn’t figured out what language he speaks anymore. His hands are still hovering at your hips, and his chest is rising with uneven breath, eyes clouded with something that’s definitely not confusion.

You turn to the girl, and she looks like she’s just witnessed something religious and blasphemous at the same time. Her mouth is hanging open. Her expression is frozen in that awkward no-man’s-land between horror and disbelief.

“Oh,” you say sweetly, voice thick with honey and venom, “were you still talking? Only he seems a bit busy now.”

She blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it. You don’t give her time to think. You trail your fingers down the front of Remus’s chest, slowly, like you’re remembering the way his body feels under your hands and enjoying every second of it. You play with the collar of his shirt, letting your nails drag across the fabric, soft and sure.

Your eyes never leave hers.

“I mean,” you go on, voice quieter now, conversational in a way that is somehow even more intimidating, “I don’t blame you. Honestly. Look at him. He’s got that whole clever boy thing going on, right? The kind of boy who knows all the answers in class and still somehow makes you want to climb into his lap and ruin his concentration. And don’t even get me started on that body—tall and lean and unfair, and the scars…” you let your fingers trail over his chest again, nails teasing the fabric, “Body built like a sin under those clothes, too bad only me and Sirius get to see it though.” 

A grin spreads across your face, wide and wicked like a cheshire cat.

Remus lets out a sound that’s definitely not family friendly and buries his face in your neck for a second, either to breathe you in or to hide the fact that he might actually combust.

James lets out a strangled sound from across the room. “What the actual hell is going on?”

Lily is watching with wide, fascinated eyes, looking between you and the girl like she’s witnessing a lioness dismantle a bunny in slow motion. Marlene, from her spot near the fireplace, raises her drink in silent toast and mutters, “Finally.”

You lean in close to Remus, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear. “But here’s the thing,” you whisper, just loud enough for the girl to still hear. 

“He’s mine.”

Then you pull back and look her dead in the eye, your gaze soft but lethal.

“And I don’t share.”

The girl blinks once. Twice. Then turns with all the grace of someone trying not to run.

Remus just stares at you for a long moment, breathless, hands still planted on your waist like he’s afraid to let go in case the earth tilts and he floats away.

“What the hell just happened?” he asks, voice low, rough, and wrecked.

Sirius appears beside you like smoke, sliding his arm around your waist as he grins like you’ve hung the bloody stars for him.

The girl’s mouth parts, clearly searching for a clever retort, something sharp or self-righteous or maybe even pathetic to claw her dignity back from the floor where you left it. But the words never come. Her lips tremble like she’s buffering. You don’t give her the chance to reboot.

Instead, with calm that borders on cruelty, you turn back to Remus and brush your lips against the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss this time, but something quieter, more dangerous. A period at the end of a sentence she was never invited to read. 

You feel the way he freezes for just a moment, breath hitching as your fingers slide up to rest at the base of his throat, just enough pressure to remind him—and everyone watching—exactly who he belongs to.

The common room is stunned into silence. Even the portrait hole seems to creak softer, like the whole castle is holding its breath.

And then James, bless his nosy little soul, practically falls off the arm of the couch. He stares at you with something like religious awe, eyes as wide as Galleons, hand clutching his drink like a lifeline.

“That,” he says reverently, voice cracking with disbelief, “was the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. And I saw Sirius in a crop top once.”

Sirius doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s unaffected. He slumps back against the couch, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to keep his brain from melting. His grin is crooked and wild, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Merlin’s tits,” he says, almost reverent. “I think I’m in love. Again.”

Lily, sitting upright with her legs crossed like she’s hosting a panel discussion, blinks slowly. Her jaw is slightly ajar, her drink forgotten on the floor.

“Did she just… flirt and threaten simultaneously?” she asks, clearly reevaluating everything she thought she knew about you.

Marlene doesn’t even bother to hide her grin. She claps once, loud and delighted, and leans forward with sparkling eyes.

“Oh, I love her,” she announces with glee. “Someone give that girl a crown and a throne and maybe a leather corset. She just out-Slytherined the entire House.”

You don’t look away from Remus. He’s still breathless, a little dazed, his lips parted like he’s forgotten how to speak. His hands are at your waist now, gripping softly like he needs to touch you just to make sure you’re real.

You lean in, voice velvet-sweet, and say, “Now Remmy, were you going to let her keep touching you or should I start hexing?”

Sirius, meanwhile, is leaning back like a man thoroughly entertained, one arm draped across Remus’ shoulder with a love-sick gaze in his eyes.

Remus just blinks for a moment, his mouth parted, completely undone. Then a sound escapes him, surprised and delighted, something between a laugh and a groan, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him in the best way.

“I think I’m in love with you all over again,” he says, a little dazed.

And then Sirius leans over, as if conjured by the heat of the moment, slipping in behind you like gravity itself gave him no choice. His hands slide over your hips, warm and certain, like they’ve always belonged there. He leans in until his mouth brushes your neck, breath hot and voice lower than sin.

“That,” he murmurs, lips grazing your skin, “was art. You’ve officially ruined me. I’ll never recover.”

You shrug, casual as anything, but your pulse is thundering and your eyes are glowing and the adrenaline is still singing in your bones like an aria. “Good,” you say simply, and it lands like a spell.

The common room hasn’t even recovered. Conversations haven’t resumed. Heads are still tilted in your direction like they’re not quite sure what just happened, if they witnessed a declaration or a detonation. And maybe it was both. You were the quiet girl. The sweet one. The one with gentle touches and soft smiles who moved like a secret in a room full of noise.

But tonight? Tonight, they watched you stand like you were carved from something divine, watched you kiss Remus like he was yours and always had been, watched you claim your place not as an afterthought, but as a force of nature wrapped in wool and confidence.

And Remus? He’s still holding your waist like he might never let go. Sirius looks like he’d fight anyone who even breathes in your direction the wrong way.

Together, they look ready to tear the world apart if it means keeping you. And somehow, the quiet girl has become the storm they’d die for

[jeonstellate]

the ghost of legacy

a legacy joins the paddock for the season — and oscar is the only one not keen on befriending her.

๑彡 oscar piastri x fem!räikkönen!reader

๑彡 brief mentions of weight, sainz-leclerc divorce, & wound; depictions of insecurity, grid chaos, & confusion/denial

๑彡 paragraph format — 4.1K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

๑彡 direct sequel to the ghost of monza!

๑彡 all italian & spanish words in this are from google! yn is kimi räikkönen’s daughter, but there are no physical descriptions mentioned.

๑彡 remember how i mentioned that tgom might be my first & only f1 fic? well . . . i’ve been persuaded otherwise :D i have some regrets about this, so i’d appreciate it a lot if y’all can share some feedback <3

The dawn of a season carries fresh, untainted hope. It brings a clean slate in most things — and in everything that matters. It resets the clock back at zero, and draws a mint coat for the starting line. It opens a new book with blank pages, awaiting fresh ink to flow and fill it with something worth remembering.

As poetic as those sound, Oscar can’t care any less. A new season’s a new season, meaning — for the most part — another chance at winning either championships.

For the remaining part? It means coming back to Monza, A-K-A where he met [first name] for three years in a row.

The Italian Grand Prix is still a lifetime away, but there are already moments where he finds himself wondering if she’ll still drop by and ask about Fernando’s whereabouts this season as well. With three consecutive years under their belts, it kind of feels like a tradition by this point. It’ll be too much of a shame if they break it so close to the fifth anniversary.

Honestly, he’s a little tempted to ask the older driver about his niece, but he’s also a little scared of what the other might do if he shows interest. Fernando looks like he’ll slash his tires as a form of intimidation. He doesn’t seem to be above purposely making contact during a race to prove a point, either.

It’s not like he can cut the middle man altogether. He only got her first name. There are a lot of [first name]s in existence. An Instagram search won’t cut it, especially if her profile picture isn’t of herself. A browser search will be just as impossible, if not even more so.

Oscar lets out a sigh without realizing. Is it better, after all, to let the universe decide if they should continue their little tradition?

"It’s not that bad," he hears Lando say next to him. They’re currently in the general hospitality, with a tray of free food they were promised for attending the pre-season ‘grid bonding’ and meetings. As the hospitality doesn’t open until the season officially starts, it’s just everyone in the paddock — the drivers and the crews — occupying the floors.

He looks at his teammate for that, silently hoping he’ll get a clue on what he’s talking about, because he has absolutely no idea what conversation topic they’re currently on. He didn’t mean to zone out but, alas, it’s just so easy to.

He decides to take a shot in the dark, after a moment of not perceiving any clues. He assumes — based on nothing — that he’s talking about the food. "The presentation might be intentionally deceiving."

Lando isn’t impressed. "You just need to gaslight yourself and think it’s good, if that’s really the case."

"No need! It’s actually good!" Pierre interrupts from one of the full six-seater tables. "Try the soup!"

Oscar isn’t really sure if he trusts Pierre’s tastebuds but he thanks him, anyway.

He guides Lando to sit at the eight-seater table next to Pierre’s group, albeit intentionally at the further side so he doesn’t feel pressured to socialize in the beginning of his lunch. He sits on the second seat from the edge, diagonally from the laptop he’s assuming someone forgot to take with them. Lando sits directly across him.

They eat in silence. Normally, one of them initiates a conversation over food. Today, though, Oscar lets his teammate clear his tray without a word. The other had — wisely and questionably — foregone eating breakfast to make the promised buffet worth his while.

He munches on his lunch thoughtfully, uninterested in taking advantage of the free buffet to the fullest. He — as the rest of the grid — has to watch his weight this close to the first race of the season, anyway, to avoid the risk of jeopardizing the car’s speed. He’s not really a fan of intensifying his gym workouts to burn extra calories if he eats way past his normal fill, either.

He zones out while looking directly at the stickers on the laptop cover. He’s not completely foreign to such practice, since his own sisters have decorated their personal laptops with a collection of stickers. As such, he knows how the stickers and their placements essentially show a portion of the laptop owner’s personality and interests.

Deciphering the laptop owner’s interests proves to be a good ‘during lunch’ activity. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking since most of them are pretty straightforward. Some are definitely out of context. The rest are completely obscure to him, which he doesn’t think too deeply about.

Then there’s a selected few that Oscar feels he should know, like the W resembling a fire and the RKN, but is currently blanking on.

The third general hospitality floor, by some coincidence or another, houses all drivers — reserved or otherwise — for lunch. They aren’t the only people on it, as there as also crew members scattered around, but it’s a bit impressive that the entire grid chose to settle on the same floor. Perhaps it’s an (un)intentional consequence of the grid bonding they’re forced to participate in.

Oscar gains more tablemates halfway through his first plate when Ollie and Kimi sit on the edge closest to Pierre’s group. He gains a seatmate when Alex sits next to him and George appears next to Lando.

There’s some sort of harmony in the chaos of overlapping conversations. Even more so when the tables talk to each other without bothering to get up.

Oscar thinks the chaos already peaked when the British and French drivers started defending their respective cuisines from the other’s attacks. Unfortunately, he’s eventually proven wrong when someone makes a deal out of someone else’s entrance to the floor.

"—laptop on a table," he hears a voice say. He can’t see whoever it is, though, since they’re blocked from his view by another.

"Go grab it first then I’ll introduce you to our drivers." The person blocking his view — someone from Williams, judging from the team uniform — moves slightly, allowing him to finally catch a glimpse of the other.

He sees the same Williams polo shirt first. Then— the matrix must’ve glitched.

He doesn’t remember blinking nor zoning out, but the next second he comprehends has [first name] diagonal from him across the table.

It feels wrong — and he isn’t quite sure what ‘it’ is. It is the fact that they’re currently worlds away from Monza? Or the fact that she’s wearing nothing that can get her mistaken as a tifoso?

[First name] gives him a wordless nod of recognition before excusing herself to the rest of the table, her laptop tucked between her arm and side.

"Osc, do you know her?" Someone in front whispers to him. He can’t be bothered to identify which gridmate, though, much less give them a reply. After all, his attention has stuck to [first name] like a moth to a flame.

Oscar has no shame about blatantly listening in on a conversation he obviously isn’t a part of.

"Alex, Carlos, this is our engineering intern for this year," the Williams crew member introduces the three. "She’ll be shadowing your race engineers alternatively."

"I’m Alex Albon, car twenty-three." He watches Alex as the latter holds a hand out for a handshake. "Welcome to team Williams."

[First name] takes his hand, "A pleasure."

Carlos reacts late, so it’s almost as if he’s hesitant to introduce himself. "Carlos Sainz, car fifty-five." Unlike his teammate, he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He just nods his head once — which she then returns with the same energy. "I see I got custody of you in the divorce."

[First name] lets out a laugh that doesn’t even reach Oscar’s ears. "[First name] Räikkönen — a child of the Sainz-Leclerc divorce, apparently."

Räikkönen?

Kimi Räikkönen?

Oscar must admit, despite understanding that her father is a former Formula One driver since last year, this revelation is still surprising. It isn’t unexpected, as Kimi Räikkönen was one of his top suspects then, but shock is definitely still there.

Probably because he now has an irrefutable evidence that the ghost of Monza is actually an F1 champion’s daughter.

And because there’s also a small part of him that feels embarrassed for not realizing right away. After all, [first name] wears her father’s number proudly — and her favored RKN logo is close enough to his RKKNN. Quite literally, the answer has been right in front of him this entire time.

"Räikkönen? Like Kimi Räikkönen?" Alex echoes his thoughts unknowingly. "That’s so cool."

"Exactly like Kimi Räikkönen," she replies good naturally. "He’s the one who passed it onto me."

The younger Williams driver is handling the revelation better than he is, as far as he can tell. But maybe that’s because Alex didn’t spend a good year thinking she’s a ghost. "No way."

"Yeah, [first name]," Charles pipes up from his seat at Pierre’s table. "No way you broke the Ferrari alliance!"

[First name] looks over to the side to meet Charles’ eyes. "There is no such thing."

"There is so!"

She doesn’t give the Monégasque the satisfaction of responding. Instead, she just returns her attention to the Williams drivers. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Albon, Carlos."

She gives them a smile so genuine, the media would’ve scrambled to capture it — partly in disbelief that a Räikkönen could smile like so.

And, for a brief moment, Oscar could’ve sworn [first name]’s smile widens a little when their eyes meet.

(Un)fortunately, she’s gone before he can think too much about it.

The paddock stayed the same with [first name] Räikkönen around, more or less. ‘More’ because the fight for the title is still as cutthroat as the last with new rivalries, without necessarily interfering with the civility between them drivers. ‘Less’ because her presence has caused some drivers to gravitate towards her — unintentionally orbiting her every chance they get.

Fernando is a given. As are Charles and Carlos, based on their already-founded closeness in the hospitality. Alex follows soon after. Then Max.

That’s not an exhaustive list. If it had been, most of the grid would’ve been name-dropped, for sure. Maybe even have all— except one. Oscar.

Oscar doesn’t feel deserving of being [first name]’s friend, for a reason he can’t really put into words. [First name] is . . . [first name]. And he’s . . . just Oscar.

He doesn’t ignore her, of course, nor does he pretend she isn’t there when they cross paths. He just doesn’t go out of his way to be closer than acquaintances and gain her favor. He exchanges brief ‘hello’s with her whenever they meet going opposite ways. He returns her nods and waves of acknowledgment from across rooms, and has initiated them on occasion whenever he spots her first.

He doesn’t take detours to drop her off to her destination. He doesn’t sit with her whenever she’s alone, either. Because then, it’ll be a quiet kind of friendship — and he can’t be her friend.

He’s just her acquaintance, at best, and he’s content with that.

After all, [first name] has more than enough new friends. She doesn’t need him — his friendship, that is.

For her part, she seems to respect the invisible line he has drawn between them. Almost as if she can see it as well as he does.

But, perhaps, it isn’t actually as defined for her. For she has no qualms about crashing his pity party on a sidewalk.

"Are you lactose intolerant?" [First name] appears in front of him seemingly out of nowhere.

Oscar takes a second to process what just happened. Even then, he’s still not sure if he’s understanding correctly. ". . . No?"

She nods, almost approvingly, before handing him a paper bag. "Here."

"What’s—" He starts before she can commence her regular habit of disappearing.

[First name], who is already steps away from him, turns back to face him once more. "My dad says it makes everything feel better."

He lets her go after that, albeit her response just made him even more confused.

When he finally opens the paper bag, Oscar finds a spoon, a bottle of water, and a sealed half-pint of gelato in his favorite flavor.

Something in his chest stirs.

The general hospitality is set to house the entirety of the grid drivers for the nth time this season. Another drivers’ meeting is scheduled to start in thirty minutes, and — in true fashion — less than half have made their way up to the room.

By the time Oscar shows up with a pack of others he met on the way, majority of the rookies are already there. Punctuality has obviously not been drained — or, at the very least, influenced — out of their systems.

"George!" Kimi calls for his teammate’s attention as soon as he spots him amongst the crowd that’s barely entering. "Can we adopt [first name]?"

George’s confusion is evident in his stance. Behind him, Oscar needs to stifle an amused laugh. "What?"

"She sang the Italian national anthem for me!" In all honesty, he isn’t following the Italian rookie’s logic. Thankfully, he isn’t the one who needs to respond. "She can also speak Italian!"

He enjoys the view of the older Mercedes driver buffering for an answer from the seat he secured next to Carlos. Even more so when the younger one of the duo pulls out a pleading look with his "please."

He doesn’t know how he found the strength to, but George eventually replies with a non-answer. "You should probably ask Toto about that, Kimi."

"No! [First name]’s ours!" Alex disproves, protectively. "Get your own [first name]!"

"She was ours first!" Charles joins in. The Monégasque likes reminding people she’s a tifoso first, before anything else, during moments like these. He hasn’t quite moved on from the fact that she chose to intern at Williams rather than Ferrari. "Why do you think she knows the Italian national anthem by heart!"

Lewis lets him do all the talking, as Carlos does with Alex. Both seem to have — wisely — figured out [first name] will put a stop to it soon enough, with or without their varied inputs.

And, sure enough indeed, a high pitched sound comes from the speakers built around the room — which instinctively makes everyone cover their ears.

"Princesa!" Oscar can somewhat hear Fernando scold somewhere behind him. "Stop—"

Thankfully, the sound stops within three seconds — and before they actually have to plead for their hearing.

Ever the nonchalant, [first name] merely scans the crowd of betrayed and confused looks before nodding to herself, "Good." It is then that he realizes she used the feedback to silence the room, with the least energy wasted possible.

He knows there’s a chance that might’ve just sent the room into more chaos. After all, they might all be grown up, but they can also a bunch of children sometimes. It was a fair gamble and yet, somehow, she looks like she was completely certain.

He salutes her for that; for having confidence and conviction on par with that of a Formula One driver.

"You’re our race engineer intern, no?" Carlos inquires before expressing his thanks for the printed meeting agenda she handed him and Alex. "Why are you the one doing all of this?"

She shrugs, "Still an intern."

"Do we get one, too?" Esteban asks for the majority somewhere to his left. It’s a fair question, drivers’ meetings don’t usually have the agenda printed out. It’s usually kept hidden from them, to avoid getting them antsy or, worse, letting them organize their protests.

[First name] points to the Williams logo on her uniform. "I’m only required to make Carlos’ and Alex’s lives a little easier."

They find a stack of meeting agenda copies by the front of the room a minute after she disappears. A sticky note on top reads, don’t pass out if they start fighting.

(She becomes their instant favorite to set up meeting rooms. Unfortunately, the FIA has forbidden Williams to let her facilitate their next turn for the same reason.)

The drivers’ rooms are the most private areas in the paddock. It’s where drivers leave their belongings while they’re out and about. It’s where their visitors usually stay to keep out of the crew’s way until the race. It’s where they sneak in a snooze when they don’t get enough sleep from the night before.

However, despite that, the drivers’ rooms can’t be locked from the outside. The McLaren ones, at least, for the time being while their PIN code lock is being updated.

No one knows about the update except for him and Lando, but he still made sure to stash his belongings inside the lockers instead of leaving them lying around just in case. He has faith and trust in the crew, of course, as he has worked with the majority of them for years, but the garage is also an open space. Someone with malicious intent can easily slip in, unnoticed.

In hindsight, it makes the most sense for someone to slip in when either he or Lando wins a race since the garage will be mostly empty then. Thus, a small part of him isn’t surprised to discover that his driver’s room isn’t exactly the way he left it before leaving for the race he ultimately won.

Nothing is taken, thankfully, and the only thing out of place is the sealed half-pint of gelato on the table — which has a spoon tied on it by a familiar handcrafted OP81 bracelet.

[First name]’s.

There’s no meaning behind her very apparent attachment to it. At least, not in a way that is connected to him personally. For all he knows, she only refuses to stop wearing the bracelet — even at the behest of drivers close to her — because of the young fan that handed it to her.

"You don’t have to keep wearing it."

"I want to."

However, nevertheless, seeing the bracelet with his initials and number around her wrist always spark the same unvoiced feeling in his stomach — the one that grew from what stirred in his chest then.

And, somehow, knowing that she intentionally left her prized OP81 fan-made merch behind almost feels like a concession. Like she’s leaving him behind.

That’s an irrational jump in reasoning. After all, they’re not even friends. He knows that — but, apparently, the rest of his body doesn’t. He can easily blame his heightened emotions and illogicality on the adrenaline that hasn’t completely left his body, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

For a reason he is yet to understand, he’s wholeheartedly convinced [first name] isn’t just letting the bracelet go. She’s letting him go, too. And that thought, however illogically sound, doesn’t sit well in his stomach.

He can’t accept the bracelet with the plausible implication it carries. He can’t accept her concession. He doesn’t want to— He doesn’t want her to give up on him.

(He understands nothing. They’re not even friends.)

Thus, like a man with no time to lose and everything in line, Oscar takes off running before he can even comprehend where his feet are taking him.

"[First name]," he calls in relief when he sees her exit the Williams motorhome the same moment he arrives. His voice comes out a little breathless, a little winded from the impromptu run he did around the paddock post-race. He doesn’t care.

"Oscar," she turns with his name on her lips. Her shock is only evident in her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"To return your bracelet," he admits, "and to thank you for the congratulatory gift."

She makes a sound of acknowledgement as the shock filters out of her eyes. "You’re welcome. You can keep the bracelet."

Her words sting, like alcohol is poured over an open wound.

(Ridiculous. They’re not even friends.)

"I don’t want it." He says abruptly, instantly regretting the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. "I mean— the bracelet looks better on you."

"I don’t really like orange."

Oscar swallows down the instinct to correct. Protecting the McLaren papaya pride is the least of his worries at the moment. "It goes well with Williams blue—" there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. He finds it difficult to swallow— "and Ferrari red."

[First name]’s silence stretches. He begins to wonder if she’s back into being a mere hallucination; if he didn’t actually catch her on time and she’s bound to disappear in front of him any second.

He unconsciously holds his breath, anticipatory and unblinking. Praying, almost.

(They’re not friends.)

Then, finally, the silence breaks with her laugh sounding like scoff. She walks towards him with amusement dancing almost unnoticeably in her features. "Okay."

Oscar exhales in relief. He slots the bracelet back around her wrist with a silent promise even he is yet know.

(They’re not friends.)

The season calendar ultimately reaches the Italian Grand Prix, as it does every year.

Oscar, for someone who had been looking forward to it before the new season even started, has forgotten about it as soon as the new season actually began. In his defense, his plate filled at an alarming rate, especially with McLaren’s steel determination to become this year’s World Constructors’ Champion as well. It doesn’t help that he’s already seeing his only reason every weekend, either.

Well, ‘only reason’ might be a little too vague. [First name] is certainly part of that reason, but a big part of it is the tradition they unknowingly made. At least, that’s what he’d like to think, anyway.

Even if it no longer rings true, especially since . . . then.

They’re much closer since, having erased the invisible line between acquaintanceship and friendship. They still do everything they used to do, but now they aren’t limited to just those. They occasionally take detours now. And sit together, when they happen to take a break at the same hour. They hide together, too, when they crave the quietness of being away from everyone else.

Yet, despite the undeniable spike in their time spent together, their tradition at Monza has never been brought up. Not even in reminiscence.

As such, any thoughts about their tradition only lied dormant until the day of. More specifically, when Oscar finally finds himself sitting idle in the McLaren motorhome with a view identical to where he had seen her appear for the last two years.

It’s a bit too late to phone her to drop by just for the unspoken tradition’s sake. So, alas, all he can do now is will the universe to bring her to the McLaren motorhome for any reason it can think of.

Oscar lets himself wallow. He figures it’s better for him to do it now, since his brain refuses to let him think of anything else. He can’t risk jeopardizing his team like that, in case his compartmentalizing ability decides to fail him later.

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice pulls him back to reality. He focuses back to comprehend [first name] standing just outside of his personal bubble, clad in her Räikkönen tifoso gear. He almost forgot how she looks in them, having gotten used to seeing her in Williams colors for the past several months.

He spots the OP81 bracelet resting on her wrist. Its black and papaya theme compliments her red and white tifoso outfit.

A small smile forms at the corners of his mouth. "Waiting for you."

She tilts her head slightly in confusion, but doesn’t question him. "Sure."

He decides not to alleviate her confusion. He just starts walking towards the door, completely trusting she’ll follow him out. He gestures for her to exit first. "Fernando should be in the Aston Martin garage at this hour."

She obliges. "I know." Unlike the previous year where she actively fought to not walk next to him, she doesn’t even bat an eye when he claims one of her sides as they make their way to the Aston Martin area. "I’ve always known after our first meeting, actually."

Oscar can’t quite believe his ears. "Seriously?" [First name] affirms. He suddenly begins to question their exchanges during his first two years in McLaren, skimming through vague memories for clues. "Then why—"

"I needed an excuse," she shrugs nonchalantly. Acting as if she isn’t singlehandedly rewriting the way he views their little tradition. "I had quite the crush on you."

At the bluntness worthy of a Räikkönen, Oscar stops working altogether.

๑彡 it’s a little awkward to have an note at the end bc of my tumblr formatting, but it’s important to me that you guys know that yn definitely got banned on purpose. it’s meant to loosely parallel kimi in that grill the grid ep where he lost on purpose so he could leave, heh.

๑彡 also! 5/6th way to finishing this, i realized this prolly would’ve been better if i showed yn’s pov— but that was a lil too late, so osc’s pov had to do. yn’s pov would’ve had more angst in it, too, && idk if y’all dig that. lol. in all seriousness, i hope y’all enjoyed somehow <3

[l1tw1ck]

Compromised

Bottom!FTM Peter Parker x Top!Villain CEO!Masc Reader

🕸️ Word Count: 1,226 🕸️

AFAB Language Used | this *might* become a multi-chapter fic but this part won't be canon, i changed my mind after i started the second chapter and this wouldn't fit 😭 so just treat it as a oneshot

CW: Non-Con, Kidnapping, Drugging, Blood, Virginity Loss, Cunnilingus, Creampie

Peter looks up at you with blurry vision, his body bruised and bloody. He can barely move.

You rip off his mask. “Aren't you the one who works for Jameson? I always knew your pictures were too good.” You chuckle. “You are cute though.”

He's fading in and out of consciousness, he can barely comprehend your words.

“I’ll be taking you home with me.”

Peter slowly opens his eyes, still feeling dizzy and weak. He looks down and fear instantly hits him. He's completely naked and tied up. He looks around the room for anything to help him while trying to break his restraints with brute force.

The noise draws you inside.

“Yo- you-” He recognizes you. The CEO of a company that rivals Stark Industries and Oscorp.

“I have a plan for you, Parker.” You walk over to him. “I’ll let you live and I won't tell a soul about your identity. In return, you'll help me take down Stark Industries.”

“Kidnapping someone isn't really a great way to propose a partnership, you know.” He manages to keep up his persona, trying to calculate how he can get out of this.

“Well, appealing to you isn't a part of my plan. How you feel about this doesn't matter to me. You won't have a choice once my subordinate gets his hands on you.”

“Wh- what are you gonna do to me?”

You slowly untie him. “Just a little memory altering. I’d love to train you but there's not enough time…it’s too bad.” You brush his hair to the side. He tries to hit you but it's too difficult, he only grazes your cheek. You laugh at his attempt and grab his wrists. “Don't worry, I won't hurt you after today. You’ll be spoiled rotten. My special little spider.”

“No– no! Don't touch me!” He squirms around in your hold.

“I should've known a single dose wouldn't be effective enough.” You let go of him and turn to the supply cart next to him. He tries to shoot a web to stop you from whatever you’re trying to do, but only a weak spurt leaves his wrist. He then attempts to get on the ground and crawl. You ignore him and prepare his next injection. He feels humiliated as he continues to crawl towards the door. The fact that you're not even looking at him tells him that he doesn't have a chance. But he tries anyway.

He only ends up a couple inches away from where he started when you ‘catch’ him and turn him around. You use one hand to pin his arms above his head and use the other to inject a serum meant to sedate and arouse him. “Don't worry, Peter, you won't remember any of this. If that makes you feel better. I just wanna have some fun with you first.” You toss the empty syringe.

“Get- get away from me–” He tries everything he can to hurt you but his remaining strength is starting to dwindle as the serum runs through his body. You pry his legs apart and stick your head in between. You drag your tongue up his folds then lovingly suck on his dick. You bring your hands to his chest and circle his sensitive nipples. He subconsciously raises his hips and whimpers.

“No- no- no-” He shakes his head, crying. He doesn't want to lose his virginity like this, not here, not to you. “Uhn~” His toes curl. His spidey senses are going off, making it even harder to think. The drug is making the spider parts of him go haywire, it's not working properly. It's aggressively ringing all the alarm bells inside him. His webs weakly shoot out of his wrists like a deflating balloon. His head is pounding. His brain is yelling at him.

Defend yourself. Hurt them. Kill them. Call for help. Run. Give in. Give in.

Give in.

It feels so good. It feels so good.

I wanna come. I wanna come.

His hands stick to the ground, his legs spread further apart, his mouth hangs open to sing noisy, wordless praises to compliment your skill.

“Stop!” He cries out.

Don't stop. Don't stop!

Yes!

Peter gasps, his hips jerking upwards as he squirts on your face. His head presses against the floor. His body trembles. Then he calms down.

He raises his head and looks at you as you pull away from him. His eyes follow your hands as they unzip your pants. As they free your hard dick. As they direct it onto his wet pussy. Then he focuses on your cock. Your length. Your girth.

I want it.

“No-” His voice trembles. “Don't- don't put that- inside me!”

Shove it inside me. I need it. Fill me. Mold my body to fit you. Ruin me.

The head of your cock slowly breaches him. Peter’s webs shoot out like a can of silly string on its last legs. Weak little spurts continue to leave him. Both from his wrist and from his cunt. He feels weaker every time.

It hurts. It’s too big. It hurts.

“It's interesting to see how your body reacts to the drug.” You wipe the tears from his eyes. “It's too bad I won't be using it again…Although I am interested in what’ll happen once my subordinate alters your memories…maybe I’ll tell them to make you an obedient slut for me.”

Own me.

“Ple- please-” He gasps. He's not entirely sure what he's begging for. His brain is sending conflicting messages.

You lean into his ear. “Admit it, Spidey, you love how big I am and how well I fill your tight fucking pussy.”

I love it.

“I hate– ugh-” He hisses.

I'm so full.

“I’ll kill you..” He clenches his fists.

“Oh, but I thought Spider-Man didn't kill?”

“..ma- make an exception-” He loses his ability to grip, his fists come undone as you bottom out.

“Really? I’m honored, sweetheart.” You slowly pull out, stopping before you fully leave him. “You're bleeding. Guess I was too rough.” You lick your lips at the red coating on your cock.

“You're disg—uh~!” You suddenly thrust inside him and knock the wind out of him, a longer string of web leaving his body. His whimpering and gasping quickly turns into whines and moans as you fuck him. His eyes roll to the back of his head. The bandage and wound on his cheek loosens and opens up, causing blood to run down his face. His brain starts to feel like scrambled eggs.

“Doesn't it feel good, baby?”

He responds with a jumbled mess of words that are impossible to decipher. You already took a bunch of pictures of him earlier but you find yourself wishing you still had that camera with you. In this state, he's more beautiful than any of the artwork in the Metropolitan. You grab his sides, triggering the pain in his sore, bruised body. He makes a loud and erotic noise in response.

He writhes around, sobbing and trying to squirm out of your hold. He manages to say “Please–!”.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Your thrusts stop as you come inside him. You let go of him and brush the hair out of his face, then wipe his blood.

His body twitches, like a spider that's been stepped on.

[starmocha]

Whale You Love Me Forever? [Rafayel + Son ★ 884 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Rafayel has a whale of a time with his son on the beach. A/N: Hi, before you proceed, do you all have dental insurance? (•᷄- •᷅ ;) Tag list: @lavlynyan @alfredosaws @solifloris @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @natimiles @yourlocalcatscammer @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @qyuin @asiaticapple @rainbowsnowflake 【 request to be added 】

It was late in the afternoon, and evening was fast approaching. Rafayel walked with his three-year-old son down to the beach behind Mo Art Studio. The toddler skipped on ahead, already excited for the daily evening walk he took with his parents.

Rafayel stared down at his phone, frowning when he saw the message you had sent him not too long ago, saying you were still stuck in traffic. He responded saying to not worry and take your time coming home safely, though to be quite honest, inside, he was a little upset. He wasn’t upset at you, but he was disappointed and annoyed with the situation.

It couldn’t be helped. Instead, he sent a follow-up message, saying he had just ordered dinner.

“Daddy?”

He looked up when his son called to him. The little boy was crouched near the shore completely barefoot, his little toes and ankles already covered in little grains of wet sand. Rafayel also noticed the wet grains on his son’s index finger, seeing he had been drawing in the sand while Rafayel was lost in thoughts.

“What is it, my little fishie?” he asked, his tone purposefully cheerful as he approached the toddler, crouching down so he was at eye-level with the boy.

He noticed in the sand little drawings of hearts, fishes, and three stick figures.

“Daddy, whale you love me forever?”

Rafayel paused, almost laughing at the sudden question and the way the three-year-old had said it. He leaned down and kissed the top of his son’s head. “Unsharkingly, I whale,” he responded. “Whale you love Daddy forever, too?”

“I whale!” the boy cried out brightly with determination in his eyes.

“Then that’s a promise,” Rafayel said, emphasizing with a follow-up: “A Lemurian promise.”

“A Lemu promise?” the boy questioned back with confusion etched on his little face.

“It’s a very important promise,” Rafayel explained. “A very special promise.”

The boy grinned. “Okay, Daddy!”

The boy grabbed his father’s wrist and pulled him closer to the sand. “Daddy, Daddy, whale you draw me a jellyfish?”

Rafayel huffed in amusement. “Okay,” he said, “But only if you draw with me.”

“But I don’t know how…”

“Watch Daddy and copy him,” Rafayel said patiently, making the first few strokes with his finger. He drew out simple lines and shapes in the sand, easy enough that a toddler could follow and imitate. His smile seemed to brighten as he observed his son’s excited features, relishing in how the little boy grew more confident and started drawing more jellyfishes in the sand.

“Looks like you have a whole army of jellyfishes now,” Rafayel remarked.

“Yeah!” The boy answered, grinning. “I don’t want them to be lonely.”

Rafayel chuckled and nodded in understanding.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah? What is it, my little fishie?”

“Whale Mommy come home soon?”

Rafayel laughed again and reached out to pinch his son’s cheeks with both hands. “What is it with you and all of these ‘whale’ questions today, you silly little fishie?”

The boy giggled and tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Daddy, no pinching!”

“Alright, alright, fineeee,” he responded good-naturedly, letting go of the toddler’s cheeks. “Mommy’s still stuck in traffic. She’ll be home in a bit.”

“Aww…”

Suddenly, Rafayel heard a small rumbling noise and saw his son’s cheeks turned pink. He laughed and leaned down to kiss the toddler on top of his head, adding in amusement, “And dinner is also on the way, too, my little hungry fishie.”

The boy covered his rosy cheeks and giggled.

“Do you think your dinner will arrive home first or Mommy will come home first?”

The boy pondered his father’s sudden question. He hummed softly and then yelled out excitedly, “Mommy! Mommy whale come home first!”

“Yeah?” Rafayel smirked with delight at the toddler’s enthusiasm. “How about a bet, my little fishie?”

His son tilted his head to the side in confusion, waiting for his father to explain.

“If Mommy comes home first, then you have to give Daddy ten kisses, and if it’s not Mommy, then you have to give Daddy twenty kisses.”

The boy pondered again, seemingly still registering his father’s explanation. In seconds, he smiled and responded brightly, “Okay, Daddy!”

The little boy stood up and grabbed his father’s hand, pulling him to his feet. Rafayel stumbled forward in surprise, chuckling, “Alright, alright, I’m up.”

The boy ran ahead along the shore, startling the seagulls that were resting on the beach. Occasionally, the toddler would stop to pick up a seashell he would show his father. On the horizon, the sun began to set. The sky darkened to a deep purple, the last streaks of orange slowly disappearing as stars appeared from their hiding places.

Distantly, Rafayel heard a vehicle approaching the studio.

The boy also paused, his head turning in the direction of the noise. He blinked in confusion when his father reached down and picked him up, holding him steady with one arm.

“Do you think that’s Mommy or our dinner?”

“Mommy!” The boy answered without any hesitation.

“Alright, let’s go see,” Rafayel said, quickening his pace.

“Daddy, whale Mommy also love me forever, too?”

Rafayel paused and pressed a long kiss to his son’s cheek, smiling when the boy giggled, “I think we whale both love you forever, my silly little freeloader fishie.”

[charliegyrth]

The Lottery Winner - 1 of 2

My Amazing New Job

Hi, everyone! Charlie here. I wrote this story based on a suggestion from one of my readers. Anonymous, wherever you are, I hope you like this story!

***

I didn’t expect the job interview to be by the side of a pool.

I’d catered plenty of events for eccentric rich people, and every single one of them had been a mixture of professional and condescending. Usually, they’d meet me in their drawing room (or “foyer” or whatever) and tell me a long list of what they do and don’t want. They depended on my services, so they treated me with respect (more or less), but at no point did any of them want me to feel comfortable in their fancy mansions.

So when Grant himself (not his butler) greeted me at the front door and gave me a tour of the place, I was a bit surprised. He took me into his courtyard and had me sit across from him in the shade of an umbrella. He even had lemonade waiting for me.

“The weather’s really nice today, huh?” he asked, smiling.

He was quite a handsome man. Tan. Muscular. Black hair and very dark eyes. He wore a loose gray shirt and torn blue jeans. He looked very blue-collar, and very out-of-place surrounded by all this opulence.

“Yeah,” I said. “Nice and breezy.”

That wasn’t a joke, but he laughed anyway. “I look around sometimes, and I still can’t believe that I live here.” Then he glanced away. “Sorry. I probably sound like an entitled snob, huh?”

“Not at all.” In fact, he was the first rich guy I’d met who didn’t sound like a snob. Most people with enough money to afford a place like this take everything for granted. They surround themselves with beauty and then refuse to appreciate it. Not Grant.

“Good,” he said, laughing again. “This is all so new to me. I won the lottery a few months back and I moved here three weeks ago. I’m still adjusting.”

“Wow.” I always thought the lottery was a scam. I barely knew this guy, but I could tell that he was genuine, that for once, all that money went to the right person.

He clapped his hands together. “Tell me about yourself, Bradley!”

I assumed he was asking about my professional experience. Despite how friendly he was acting, this was still a job interview. “Well, I went to Le Gran Culinary School. I was sous chef for three years at Langley’s in Vegas. And for the last three years, I’ve been head chef at—”

“Marcone’s,” he finished for me.

“Yeah.”

“That’s why I know you’ll be perfect. I’ve eaten there like ten times since I got rich, and my God, the food is incredible!”

“Thank you.”

“I actually saw you a couple times, too. Talking to your workers or whatever. You always seemed so… nice. Not, you know, Gordon-Ramsay-ing at people.”

“Thank you,” I said again. I trained under some real monsters, so I always tried to treat my crew with respect. They worked better that way.

“So?” Grant said. “Will you take the job?”

“Um, aren’t you gonna ask me more questions?”

“No,” he said very casually. “Don’t need to. And I really, really need a cook. I work in construction. Well, worked, I guess. I have this big fancy kitchen now and the only food I can make is cold cereal.”

I took a long sip of his lemonade, forcing myself not to flinch at the tartness. It was terrible.

This was the single easiest job interview of my life. No hard questions. No questions at all, really. Just a friendly, extremely handsome guy who liked my cooking and wanted me as his live-in chef. I knew that I should take some time to think about it, but I just had this feeling that I was meant to be here.

“I’d love to work for you, Grant.”

***

Grant stepped out of the pool, pushing back his dripping hair. It took all my strength not to stare like a cartoon character. When I started working here a week ago, I had no idea that my employer was so freaking hot. I knew he was handsome, obviously. His dark eyes and sharp jaw gave his face definite movie-star vibes. But seeing him shirtless, seeing how a decade of construction work had hardened his body… I mean, Jesus. The guy looked like he could be on the cover of a romance novel.

I also didn’t realize just how often he’d go around shirtless. He spent huge stretches of the day longing in the pool, and often, he’d get out of the water and just remain shirtless.

It was so difficult to act professional around him, to look him in the eyes when all I wanted to do was stare at his developed, dark-haired chest. He wasn’t gay, of course, so the unobtainability helped, for sure. He always treated me like a friend instead of an employee, though, and there were times when his friendliness verged on flirting.

All in my head, though.

He walked from the pool to the table, still dripping wet. I had just set out his lunch, two submarine sandwiches and a salad. He had a huge appetite (and always finished his meals), so it was genuinely amazing that he had maintained his godlike physique.

I waited at the table, just in case he needed anything else. (Sometimes he asked for a bowl of ice cream to go with his lunch.) He smiled gratefully at the food. “Looks amazing as always.”

“Thank you, Grant.” (He told me multiple times not to call him sir.) “Would you like anything else?”

“Actually, yeah. But you can say no if you want.”

I wouldn’t say no if he asked for a kidney. He paid me a fortune and I got to live in this mansion. “Anything you want.”

“Can you eat with me? I’d like the company.”

I felt my cheeks blush. “Absolutely. Just give me a second.”

I ran back inside and grabbed my own sandwich. Whenever I cooked for Grant, I always made an extra (smaller) portion for myself. I wasn’t much of an eater.

He was already chowing down on his first sandwich when I came back and sat across from him. Even when he was scarfing down food, he looked handsome. I liked watching him enjoy my work. I really did.

“How are you liking it here so far?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

“Love it. Really.”

“Great,” he said. “You know, you remind me a lot of my ex Jennifer. Great cook. Happy all the time.”

That comment gave me some mixed feelings. I was glad that he liked my personality, that he thought I was “happy all the time” even though he was the one constantly laughing and smiling. And I guess I liked that I reminded him of his ex. I didn’t like that he was comparing me to a woman, though.

“Thanks.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “I offended you.”

I shrugged.

“Sorry, B.” (He’d started calling me B instead of Bradley. I was on the fence about that.) “I’m not used to, you know…”

“Talking with gay people?” I asked.

He flinched. “Having employees.” Then he looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. “You’re gay?”

I laughed. I thought he was joking. Everyone who met me knew I was gay. My kindergarten teacher knew it. Then I realized he was dead serious. “Yeah. I am.”

“Oh,” he said. It was the most neutral-sounding “oh” you could imagine. I couldn’t tell if he was totally fine with it or if he was freaked out and wanted to fire me.

We sat in silence for a while. Grant kept eating, still with an awkward expression, still staring at me. I just sat there.

Finally, he asked, “So are you dating anyone right now? Sorry if I’m not supposed to ask.”

“No,” I said. “Freshly single.” That was one of the reasons I quit working at Marcone’s. My ex was one of the owners.

“Oh,” he said again. That “oh” had a lot of meaning. Was he interested? Did this straight, rich former construction worker like me? It sure sounded like it.

Then he added, “If you want to get back out there, go on dates and stuff, just let me know. I don’t wanna hold you back.”

My heart sank. Nope, he didn’t like me. He was just being a good boss.

“Thanks,” I said. I really should reenter the dating scene. It had been too long.

We started talking about other things (thankfully). He told me about his favorite action movies (which removed all doubt that he was gay). Pleasant conversation, though. I really enjoyed eating with him.

Pretty soon, he finished his meal and I pushed the remains of my sandwich to the side. (I told you I wasn’t a big eater.)

He looked at my plate with a hint of disappointment. “You don’t like your own food?”

“No, I just don’t eat a lot.”

“Then, um, can I have it?”

I’d left two thirds of my sandwich, but my bite marks were on it.

“I can make you another one if you’re still hungry?”

“I’m not. I just don’t like food going to waste.”

I pushed the plate toward him. He smiled and kept eating.

***

We ate every meal together after that. He always ate my leftovers. He always complimented me, too. I knew I was a great cook, but there were very few compliments in the restaurant industry. In movies, you see people sending their "compliments to the chef," but in reality, that never happens. It felt great to be so appreciated.

It also felt great to get to know Grant. We got into deep conversations. He told me everything about himself, from his struggles as a kid in foster care, to his difficult high school experience, to his long days working construction. He never complained. If I had lived through a fraction of the difficulties that he had, I wouldn’t stop complaining. Not Grant. He took life as it came and was grateful for everything he had.

We didn’t just confine our conversations to the dinner table, though. We hung out throughout the day. Some nights, we’d watch movies together. We went shopping a couple times. I even introduced him to my family. Outside of actual romance, it felt like we were a couple.

I think that’s why I felt confident enough to tell him that he was gaining weight. I first noticed it a month into the job, when I saw his shirtless stomach bunch into rolls during one of our lunches. At the time, I assumed it was just a temporary softening, but two weeks later, those rolls had only gotten more obvious. That’s when I said, “Grant, I think you’re gaining weight. If you want me to adjust our menu, I totally can.”

He looked down at his stomach and poked his new flab with his fingers. He seemed surprised but not concerned. “I guess I am. And no, don’t change the menu at all. It’s too good.”

And that was that. I’d brought it to his attention, and since he didn’t seem to care, I decided not to mention it again. He was choosing my food over his own appearance, and I was fine with that. He still looked quite handsome.

His added pudge didn’t change his habits at all. He still walked around shirtless all the time. He still finished all his food and most of mine. He still acted confident in his own skin. I missed his six-pack, but that confidence more than made up for it.

One day, three months after I moved in, he surprised me in the kitchen. His belly was rounder than it ever had been, and his nipples were starting to look puffy. I was surprised to see him. He never interrupted me when I was cooking.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. I just wanted to see you. And if it’s not too much of a distraction, I kinda wanted to see you at work. Maybe I could learn some tricks.”

Even though I loved seeing him with his shirt off, I told him to put something on so that his thick chest and belly hair didn’t end up in our food.

He laughed at my request but did as I said. As he bounded out of the room, I noticed that his ass was jiggling under his shorts. That was a new development.

When he came back in, he was wearing an old gray shirt that I’d seen him in plenty of times before. Now, it barely contained his belly. A sliver of skin was exposed at the bottom. He noticed my eyes dart down there.

“I know,” he muttered. “I think we need to go shopping again.”

That sentence struck me for two reasons:

One, he still wasn’t upset at his weight gain, and he expected it to continue.

And two, he said “we.” It definitely sounded like something a boyfriend would say. Whether or not he saw me in a romantic light, we’d settling into the rhythms of a couple.

I pushed that thought out of my brain and started showing him around the kitchen. I was making beef stroganoff and had all the ingredients laid out and ready to go.

He listened attentively, asking enough questions to tell me that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. (He literally got the “stove” and “oven” mixed up.) As a professional cook, I should’ve been annoyed, but I thought it was cute.

Everything about him was cute. His excitement. His eagerness to learn. Even the way his little belly bobbed around as he rushed across the kitchen trying to “help.”

When it was time to mix the cream sauce on the stove (not the oven), I had him do the stirring for me. I grabbed his waist and positioned him in front of the pan, then reached around him and guided his hand so he’d stir at the right speed. I didn’t realize how intimate this was until he looked at me over his shoulder. He had a strange look in his eyes. A hungry look. “You’re a good cook, B.”

“And you’re a fast learner,” I said. Perhaps that was an exaggeration. But whatever. It made him smile. He was still looking at me, so I added, “Eyes on the sauce, please.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

I gave him some space. I didn’t want to take things too far.

With my instructions, he finished the rest of the meal himself. I was so proud of him.

Read Part 2 here. Check out my list of stories here and my ebooks here.

[practicalsuccubus]

Incorrect Quotes part 10!

(As a reminder, feel free to draw these! Just tag me so I can see them! Im also writing an extreme angst piece and feel bad so Im hiding it with humor) Chase: Just left the doctor's office. I'm up to 198 lbs. I'm going to eat 2 lbs of nachos so I can be 1% Nacho. Nox: Chase. Stop. This is a relationship. We make reasonable and intelligent decisions together. I need you 100% committed to be mine. Chase: 99% yours. Nox: What? Chase: 1% Nacho man - Nox, complaining to Violet: So you can say "Have a nice day" and that’s considered polite. Nox: But when I say "Enjoy the next twenty-four hours" apparently i'm being "extremely threatening, Buddy". - Chase, answering phone: "M'yello?" Deacon: "What. Did you do?" Chase: "Okay… but you can't get mad." Deacon: "WHAT. Did you do." Chase: "Okay, first… I was minding my own business-" Deacon: "BULLSHIT!" Chase: "I waaaas!" - Deacon: Why do you mess with Buddy so much? He's threatened to kill you at least twice today. Chase: Because at this point it's a game, and if he gives in then I win. And he knows it. - Chase: So if you have ten chocolates, and someone takes away half of them, what will they have? Nox: A broken hand. Chase: … n-no. - Chase: Don’t go picking a fight with me. I could make your life difficult! Nox, sarcastically: Wow. I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life. - -in a book- Nox: Sorry I was late, I was doing something important.

rapid, approaching footsteps. door slams open.

Chase, disheveled: HE PUSHED ME DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS! - -a book goes off-script- Nox: Bing bong, hey what's up, you're doin' a bad job. Chase: I KNOW I'm doing a bad job! - Nox: I think I'm gonna start gaslighting you. Chase: You're gonna start gaslighting me? Nox: That's not what I said. - Chase: Sometimes Deacon says, “Chase, what do you think you’re doing?” But that just means stop. He doesn’t actually want to know my thought process. - Prunella: Don't worry. chase likes your butt and fancy hair. I know. I read his diary. Nox, touching his hair: He thinks it's fancy? - Nox: Wife? Why am I the wife? Chase: Because you're attentive, sweet, and look good in white~ Nox, blushing and turning away: Y-You can't just say stuff like that, Chase -

And finally, since this is #10, Deacon and Chase present "I'm at Soup"~! Chase: Hello? Hey, What's up?

Deacon: I need your help, can you come here?

Chase:….I can't, I'm buying clothes.

Deacon: …Alright, well, hurry up and come over here.

Chase: ….I can't find 'em

Deacon: What do you mean you can't find 'em?!

Chase: I can't find them, there's only soup.

Deacon: ….What do you mean 'There's only soup'?!

Chase: It means there's only soup!

Deacon: WELL THEN GET OUT OF THE SOUP AISLE!

Chase: Alright! You don't have to shout at me ;_;

...

Chase: There's more soup!

Deacon: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S MORE SOUP?!

Chase: There's just more soup!

Deacon: Go into the next aisle!

Chase: There's still soup!

Deacon: WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT NOW?!

Chase: I'M AT SOUP!

Deacon: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE 'AT SOUP'?!

Chase: I MEAN I'M AT SOUP!

Deacon: WHAT STORE ARE YOU IN?!

Chase: I'M AT THE SOUP STORE!

Deacon: WHY ARE YOU BUYING CLOTHES AT THE SOUP STORE?!

Chase: FUCK YOU!

(plz give me more incorrect quote Memes like I'm at Soup I wanna do one that's StarGoth)

[ak0bt]

Just a small rant that migt not make any sense other than "Talia bad" shut up it isn't no matter how you see it, also no drawings today but I'm gonna attempt Selina or Superman (that bastard is so hard to draw) but I HATE Talia Al Ghul as a character, not even as a joke.

Yes, I'm a BatCat fan, I used to be a Brutalia fan, but not anymore, I'd ship Bruce and Diana before ever shipping him with Talia because:

I never understood the need the push the relationship, there's no positives, only negatives. They're literally nothing alike, Bruce and Selina however... well... Read all of the Earth-2 run.

I feel like whenever they are in a relationship it's often forced and when in a relationship they always argue. Their "love" feels manufactured, I dunno about you but I can't see it!

Not to mention Talia is well... THE DAUGHTER OF A LITERAL CULT (League of Assasains are a cult I just can't prove it...) still I have a hard time Bruce would court with Talia. Also why Bruce immediately trust Bruce? He always second guesses and yet when Talia arrives he trusts her. Bruce should always second guess, it's what he does! Also how does Bruce know if Talia's intentions are pure and it's not Ra's spitting words in Talia's head?

Don't get me started on Damian, I have a hatred towards him so deep it's deeper than the ocean. Like I enjoy when Bruce and Talia do argue as long as it develops Damian's character but it doesn't help Damian is a child of grape, that isn't... that's not a good thing ._.

Look in short: I do not like Talia and Bruce because she has 0 redeeming qualities. Compare to Catwoman, who is a criminal who doesn't necessarily cause harm to innocents unless it's revenge I.E Black Mask. She doesn't hurt people without reason. She isn't an awful character. She has good and redeeming qualities, and her love for Bruce?! None of that is on Talia, I love Selina because of who she is, she uses her confidence and when that suit goes on she dials her personality and tries to cover anything that she considered a weakness. Talia, however, is just bad, bad guy bad things for her view of greater good. What Bruce sees in Talia is beyond me.

And you know what I say? Come closer, and I shall say it! So wanna know what it is? It's bad writing. She never feels like a character and more like a pawn. She is ALWAYS Bruce's lover and never her own character. She's always the plus-one. Compared to other ships, all the women have a character. Talia? The only good time I shipped it was with Arkham City. Everything else? Nope. Still, I do see it as just bad writing.

So that's that. Don't come after my throat it's an opinion. If you can't handle other opinions, that's your problem.

[surskip]

yeeesss... i thought my animation was bad but i ate vegetables and had a shower and came back and it is solidly Okay. good enough for meeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[hashtagarting]

Oh, stardust . . .

[xxplastic-cubexx]

you open my Super Important Documents and its just pictures of charles xavier

[puppppppppy]

Alex and my farmer Cosmo (he/him)

[orengejoshi]

very original Christmas gift! I'm sure he totally didn't expect that, Flug!

[cainof2na]

recently got a new drawing tablet 4 my laptop.. Check out my bluudud i Really like this drawing :)

[nothingbizzare]

Three tipes of people on valentine's day

[trashmammal-7]

I spent an hour and a half failing at drawing Garak so I deleted the file out of spite and spent five minutes drawing this Odo instead.

[ra-vio]

this blog is 11 years old now 🎉

I drew the siblings ever to celebrate as usual