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chameleonsallinvermillion · 3 months ago

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Albert And The Water-Horse

It was a bright grey day, like a dove’s wing, and the surface of the sea was like glass. On a morning such as this, it was easy to forget the treacherous currents just out past the rocks or the out-of-town visitors who had drowned. Locals these days knew where and when to avoid the waters but there was always an outsider who failed to listen.

Albert had no intention of staying long. His obligations in town were sure to be brief and he was already looking forward to returning home. The farm was busy in early spring and his siblings needed him. Besides, the sea held little allure for a man of his nature. His heart belonged to the horses he rode and the green fields that raised him.

Even he could not deny the beauty of the day, however, as he strolled along the cliff path. He sang in a pleasant tenor, honed by many years of church hymns, enjoying thoroughly the experience of nobody interrupting him. The friend he was staying with was, he would grudgingly admit, dear to him but he had a teething baby and Albert’s patience only went so far.

Albert saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he found his song dying in his mouth. He stared down at a white horse trotting brightly along the stony beach below him. Albert was no mean judge of horseflesh and even from this distance he could see that this was a magnificent creature. It clearly belonged to someone – a silver chain gleamed around its neck - but it was unattended. As he looked, it tossed its head and sent a strand of seaweed falling from its mane.

Albert looked around for a way down to the beach but there was none. No steps carved in the cliff, no ladder, not even a suitably rocky outcrop where he might scramble hand over hand. He could only stare helplessly at the finest horse he had ever beheld as its nostrils flared and, all at once, it bolted from him. It ran with extraordinary grace. Albert wished he knew whose horse it was and where they planned to race it. You could not have a horse like that and not plan to race it. It would be spitting on a divine gift.

White as an egret’s wing, the horse was a flash of light in the distance before Albert truly had time to think. It was gone, and he stood in silence, wondering who dared let something so beautiful roam so freely.

That night, Albert escaped the raucous little home where he was staying to walk alone on the beach. He told himself that it was merely to get some peace and quiet whilst the baby was settled down but deep inside there was the wild hope that he might spy that horse again. Perhaps it would still be running loose. Perhaps the owner would ride it down by the water.

Instead, as he picked his way over break-ankle ground, he heard music. It was sweet and haunting, a lament that curled out into the sky and seemed to make the stars flicker in sympathy. Almost without meaning to, Albert followed it.

Round a bend in the beach, he saw her: a girl upon the rocks. She was dressed all in white, with silver slippers on her feet and a silver chain around her neck. Her glossy hair was ivory and her skin like marble, her eyes green and cold as malachite. She played the violin with her eyes half-closed. The music seemed to stir the clouds above her and set the little many-legged creatures skittering in the rockpools at her feet. Albert stood, transfixed.

If she had noticed him while playing, she gave no sign but when she at last stopped and lowered her violin, her face showed no surprise to see him standing there.

“I heard you,” she said, and her voice had a sting to it. “On the cliffs this morning. I heard you singing.”

Albert did not ask how she knew it was him. He did not ask why she cared. He did not ask if she was a horse, because despite not being an expert on social etiquette he was certain that asking pretty girls if they were secretly horses was considered a faux pas. Instead, he removed his cap and nodded awkwardly.

“Sing for me,” she commanded.

“If it pleases you.” Albert would do a lot for a pretty face, human or equine. “What shall I sing?”

“Anything.” She dimpled when she smiled. “Everything.”

He sang every song he knew – the church hymns, the old folk songs, the playground ditties, the tunes that crackled from the radio his sister loved so much. All the while, he could not look away from those green eyes. They held him transfixed, drawing richness and timbre from him that his voice has never had before, till the music that rang out over the water was not the singing of a barroom tenor but someone for whom the opera houses of the world should hold open their doors. It was not Albert – he knew that. It was her. Something in her had the power.

When at last the well of music ran dry, Albert’s throat ached. A fine mist of rain was falling on them both. He was cold to his core but the horse-girl was smiling.

“You should go,” she said. “Back to dry land. The tide will be coming in.”

Albert glanced down at the wavelets lapping at the toes of his boots. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” When she smiled this time, he could see the glint of teeth a little too sharp to be human. “Run, before you are drowned.”

Albert stayed stubbornly put. “Will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow.” Her green eyes flashed. “If you are brave.”

She stepped down from her rock. As soon as her toe touched the water, she dissolved into seafoam. The mass of her bubbled and boiled at Albert’s startled feet until all at once she grew again, the gleaming white horse with the mad green eyes, rearing up to strike his chest with silver hooves, before she turned and fled into the waves from which she came. Albert picked himself up off the ground, squeezing saltwater out of his cap, and splashed thoughtfully back to the protective wall that kept the encroaching tide from swallowing the little town whole.

He was no fool. He knew what became of mortals who tangled with the water-horses and their ilk. But she had not drowned him, had not eaten him up and let his liver float to the surface. Albert was not afraid. He knew he would be back.

The very next night, sure enough, he found the water-horse once again sitting on her rock with her violin resting in her lap.

“Aren’t you afraid,” she asked him, “that I will eat you?”

“Aren’t you afraid,” he replied, “that I will bring an iron poker to stab you?”

“I could smell the iron on you if you had it,” she said loftily. “You would never know I was about to bite until I did.”

Albert agreed that that was true. “Bite me if you will. I want to know your name.”

The girl laughed. “You could never speak my name. It is this.”

She made a sound like the shushing of water over smooth sand, the delicate whisper of a tide coming in at the end of the day.

“My name is Albert.”

“Albert.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Albert admitted. “It means I am the eldest of my siblings, I suppose.”

“I have ten thousand siblings,” the water-horse confessed, “and I am neither older nor younger than any of them.”

“You must never be lonely.” Albert reflected on his own siblings, on the chaos of a small home crowded with people. “Maybe not lonely enough sometimes.”

She watched him as though waiting for a trap to spring. “There are millions of us. Everywhere a wave breaks, we are born. The little foals on the sandy beaches with the shallow tides. The great stallions where the surf rises higher than your people can build walls to trap it. The holy ones born where the deadening waves crash, where the herd runs as one to swallow the land.”

“Are they all your herd?” Albert asked.

The water-horse shook her pretty head. “Our herd is the bay. We run and run upon this beach, against these rocks. I ran here before the town came, so long ago, but I do not remember it well.”

“Why not?”

“There was nothing to remember. We run, we crash, we ebb and flow. What was there to watch but the birds?” She lifted her violin, evidently done with conversation. “I will sing for you now. It is my turn.”

Her voice was sweet and true, the language that of coral reefs and darting fish. She played sunlight on water and sang the swooping, diving gulls. She played shells forming great chalk cliffs and sang the waves sending them crashing down again. The longer Albert stood and listened, the less he seemed to be there at all. He was a pebble spun in the water, washed clean, ground smooth, adrift in the vastness of the ocean.

When silence fell, the moon was low in the sky. Hours had somehow passed. Albert shivered and pulled his jacket a little closer around him.

“You are cold.” The water-horse sounded troubled. “I have never been cold.”

“It will pass. You sing beautifully.”

“Yes.” She did not seem interested in that. “How does it feel, to be cold?”

Albert was not a man much given to flights of poetry. The question stumped him.

“It hurts,” he said, at last. “A sharp sort of hurt.”

The water-horse nodded solemnly as if he had imparted great wisdom.

“How does it feel,” Albert asked in return, “to run in the water like you do?”

“But that I can show you,” she replied. “If you ride on my back, you can see for yourself.”

Albert’s heart was in his mouth. “I would like that.”

“You truly are not afraid of me?” she wondered.

“I have never been afraid of horses.”

She laughed softly. “Do not fall. I cannot save you if you fall.”

She was magnificent transformed, as if sculpted from ivory by someone intent on portraying all that a horse should be. In awe, Albert ran his hand down her neck. He felt the coiled power in those muscles, the stillness where a pulse should beat. She nudged his shoulder with her proud head, urging him on.

With the rock as a mounting block, it was no hardship for Albert to swing onto her back. He wound his fingers into her sand-laden mane. He gripped his thighs tight against her wet glossy coat. He clung on for all he was worth, and his water-horse ran.

She ran fleet as the wind, faster than any ship, faster than any horse Albert had had the privilege to ride, out across the bay. Her hooves churned the sea into a drenching white wake. The salt spray in Albert’s eyes blinded him. When he dared to tilt his head back, he saw the stars racing by, wheeling in their constellations as they galloped in spirals, a grand carousel. Albert had never felt a gait so smooth, a pace so swift. Never had he had to fight so hard to stay on a broad back than now, muscles tight, hanging on by willpower alone. The sea below was dark and foreboding, black as ice on the road. He dared not risk falling.

A rocky outcrop approached too fast, jagged knives of stone protruding. Albert screwed his eyes up tight and braced for a swerve that never came. There was the sensation, for a moment, of strength and then… He opened his eyes as they drifted through the air, flung from a breaking wave, high over the rocks and glittering amongst the freezing spume. Albert threw back his head and whooped to the silent sky. His water-horse whinnied too as they crashed down into the water, plunging below till only Albert’s iron-tight grip on her mane kept him from being ripped clean away from her.

They broke the surface again to coast on the gathering waves. One bore them in, gentle as a leaf in a stream, spitting them out onto the slope of the beach. The water-horse never lost her stride for a moment, slowing to a trot and finally stopping back beside the rock where they had begun. Albert was so cold he could barely speak. Even as he slid from her back, he could not untangle his frozen fingers from her mane. His teeth chattered but his heart sang, his blood thrilled.

She changed form even as he held her, her mane becoming flowing hair, the warm strength of her shoulder supporting him becoming her small body, helping him down to sit upon the rock. She was still strong this way, all the power of her horse-form crushed into something so tiny and frail that it was a miracle her bones didn’t burst under the strain. She laughed the whole time, eyes dancing. She seemed to glow.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” she teased. “You are scared of me now.”

“I’m scared of hypothermia,” Albert grumbled but he couldn’t make his eyebrows frown. “I could never be scared of you.”

“Can people get so cold they die of it?” she asked. “I didn’t know.”

“I won’t die,” he promised, fighting to get his chattering teeth under control.

“You can let go now.” Her voice was softer, her fingers caressing the wrist of the hand that still held tight a lock of her hair.

“I don’t think I can.”

She unwound his fingers for him, prising them open. She held his hand like it was a foreign thing, tracing the veins, exploring the minute flaws in the skin. Her own skin was unnaturally smooth to the touch. Her lips, when she turned her head to kiss his palm, were powder-soft. Her open mouth gave off no heat but her teeth were razor sharp when she bit down hard.

Albert flinched but did not pull away. He held that wild green gaze even as he felt her fangs scrape against the bone and his hand throb in pain. She released him, drawing back slowly, cradling his wrist. Her pointed tongue darted out to lick the blood from the wound. Her eyes closed in satisfaction.

“Salt,” she said. “Just a little bit of ocean in you.”

“Is this the part,” Albert asked, “where you eat me alive?”

“Not yet.” She tasted his blood again. “I’m not ready yet.”

She dropped his hand suddenly and turned her face away. Albert, on the brink of leaning in to kiss her, was left with nowhere to go as she slid to the edge of the rock.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, but the girl was already a horse once more, galloping into the sea, splashing him with her tail.

Albert made his slow way back to his friend’s house, nursing his bleeding hand, unsure why he wasn’t angry that she had done it. Perhaps the thrill of that wild ride still had him in its grip and nothing else could matter. Perhaps it was simply that he had never doubted she would not kill him.

The next night, his hand bandaged, Albert made his way back down to the beach. He found his water-horse waiting for him, sitting on the rocks and playing a merry air on her violin. She smiled as he approached, teeth bared, dimples on show. Albert did not hesitate to sit down beside her, ignoring the leeching cold of the stone beneath him.

“You came back,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He placed his hand over hers. “I am not afraid of you.”

She plucked a single note and set her violin aside. “You are not from here, are you? I had not heard your voice before the other day.”

Albert shook his head. “I’m from a long way south of here, inland. My family, we have a farm. We race horses.”

“Do you have a big family?” There was a note of longing in her voice.

“Not by your standards, maybe. Not an easy family either.” Albert grinned at the thought of his young sister. “A family that’s nothing but black sheep, if I’m honest with you.”

“What does that mean? Black sheep?”

“Oddities,” Albert explained. “Strange types. Lawbreakers.”

“Lawbreakers…” The water-horse fingered the silver chain around her neck. “Do you break laws, Albert?”

He admitted somewhat sheepishly that he did. The water-horse, if anything, seemed pleased by this idea.

“We do not have laws but we do have…ways that things are supposed to be.” Her troubled expression cleared. “Tell me more about inland. I’ve never seen it.”

So Albert told her. Once he had started talking, he found it difficult to stop. He told her about his siblings, about the scrapes he and Andrew got into as boys, about Augustine and his temper tantrums, about Alice-Rose dancing in the kitchen to the radio. His gruff love for them shone through all his insistence on their many sins and terrible natures. He told her about the fields of home, the turning of the seasons, the birds coming home to roost. He told her about hedgerows and vegetable patches and somehow, bathed in her enthusiasm for it all, even the tiresome chores took on a romantic glow.

And he told her about the horses. Oh yes, he told her about the horses. Every member of the little herd, every one who had ever passed through their gates, every point and foible of each. He told her about racetracks, about breeders and trainers and owners, about the place where he was utterly and entirely himself. Running. Free. With every word, he missed it more. He had been away nearly a week. He ached for home.

Through it all, the water-horse listened with rapt attention. She hung on his every word. Her green eyes glowed like stars.

“I wish I could see it.” Somehow, she had ended up pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder. “I have never been beyond this beach in all my life and I never shall. I should like to see the barley grow, just once. You shall leave soon and I shall not even hear about it then.”

“Come home with me,” Albert urged. “Let me show you everything.”

“I cannot.” She sat up, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I belong to my family and the water that made me.”

“Why?” Albert held her pretty little chin in his rough hands, turning her face to look at him once more. “Must you stay with them forever? Will they not let you go if you want it?”

Her tears had no salt in them. They were pure as snowmelt. “What I want does not matter. It is what I am.”

“It matters to me.”

The kiss tasted of brine. Her hands shook only a little more than Albert’s.

“Can you not outgrow them?” Albert demanded. “Are you never to leave the herd? Must you always be what they tell you you are?”

“Yes.” She kissed him again. “Yes, they would be so angry, you cannot know…you cannot imagine! I have a duty to my kin.”

Albert, on another day, might have understood but on that night all he knew was the horse-girl in his arms and the tears in her eyes. He did not want to let her go.

“Marry me.” He did not mean to say it until he already had. The moment it fell off his tongue he felt the rightness of it. “Be my wife. Let me take you away. You will have new kin, new duties. They cannot stop that, can they?”

“I am not human!” she protested. “I am not a woman.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

“There is not a church in the land that will marry us!”

“Is there one in the sea?” Albert clutched her close. “There are ways round everything, if you know who to ask.”

She clung to him, cold arms around his neck, face pressed against his cheek. He held her tight, the frailty of her, the strength, the sea-cold power and the ephemeral foam.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered against his ear. “Tomorrow, my beloved. Join me in the water. Grab hold of my bridle and don’t let go. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

With a final kiss, she slipped from his arms and into the sea. Albert reached up to stroke, for a moment, the muscular neck of the most magnificent horse he had ever seen. She lowered her dished head to him solemnly, the fire in her eyes banked, before she turned and fled, dissolving into the waves.

The final night of his stay in the north, Albert went out to the beach again to collect his bride. He wore his strongest boots and a rose in his buttonhole. There was no girl waiting for him on the rocks this time. Albert felt a prickle of doubt but he pressed on. She had said to join her in the water and so he would. The sea was still that night, flat under a moonless sky. Weak currents tugged at his feet, leading him on.

The water was a shock of ice when it first rose above his boots. His feet were numb in seconds. It squeezed like a clamp around his legs, forcing the blood from them, but still Albert waded deeper. Little by little, the numbness spread up his body. When he was above his waist and the shore seemed so very far away behind him, his water-horse at last appeared.

She trotted forward and Albert reached out gratefully for her, twining his fingers into her sandy mane. She rippled and shifted till her girl’s body was there again, his hands in her hair, her eyes full of tears.

“What is it, my love?” He kissed her sweet cold lips. “Why so unhappy?”

“You must go,” she begged. “You must go now.”

“Come with me then!”

“They are waiting, Albert.” She clutched his hand tightly. “They know! They are going to eat you if you try to take me away. You must leave now and not come back.”

“I am not afraid of them.” Albert squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Come with me now and we will leave them all behind. They cannot threaten you.”

She shook her head urgently. “You do not understand. They are listening to everything you say. If I try to leave with you, they will kill you. You have to make it back to the beach. That’s all – just get to the beach and you’ll be safe.”

“What about you?” He tried to meet her eyes even as she avoided his gaze. “Will they hurt you?”

“They are my family. I will survive whatever they do to me.”

“No!” Albert kissed her fiercely. “I will not leave you here alone!”

“Please,” she begged. “They are my herd. They are my kin. I am of the waves. I cannot - I must not – go, I beg of you!”

“I love you.” He caught and held her wild green gaze. “Do you love me? Could you love me?”

She hesitated. She nodded. Her voice broke. “I could love you.”

“Then marry me.”

Albert folded her into his arms. He kissed her delicate mouth. He closed his hand upon the silver chain around her neck and, when she stepped back from him, did not let go. The silver was colder than ice, colder than anything Albert had ever felt. It burned into his palm but still he pulled. The clasp broke.

Suddenly, his water-horse was vast, a whinny screaming from her throat, hooves kicking the air above him before she plunged down into the depths, leaving him alone and trembling in the shallows. The silver chain still hung from his hand but even as he wound it tighter, it grew heavier and colder.

The sea rose around him. The clouds raced across the sky. The waves that had been lapping at the beach began to bite chunks out of it. Before Albert could strike out for the shore, a stallion burst from the water and hit him full in the chest. He was forced below the surface, mouth open in a startled shout. For an instant he grappled with the darkness, all direction lost. Bitter saltwater choked his lungs.

He surfaced, spluttering, only to be felled again by another horse as it flung itself madly at him. Silver hooves trampled. White manes shook. Nostrils flared and green eyes blazed. The silver chain was dead weight now, dragging him down, almost too heavy to keep above the sand of the seafloor.

Albert crawled. He stumbled. He fell to the terrifying weight of the horses, tumbled and tossed, pulled by the current, till it took all his effort to just stay in one place, avoid being swept out to sea. Every time he managed to get his head above the surface, he sucked in air only to be knocked down again, lungs screaming in protest, head swimming. The shore seemed so distant. Every now and then, sharp teeth tore at his clothes, nipped at his fingers, taunted him with the moment when they would finally rend flesh from bone and end it all. Still he did not let go of the chain.

Her hands found him, warm and human. Her arms still had the wild strength of the ocean in them. He clung to her and she dragged, spitting and screaming in a language like rock scraping against rock. Her family crashed around them, over them. He choked for air. He coughed up water. He felt sure that his arm would be ripped from its socket, that his hand would be torn from his wrist and sink into the sea with the terrible chain.

But there was the beach ahead. The sand turned to pebbles beneath his scrabbling hands. There was the rocky incline and his bride pulling him up, pulling him forward, as the horses dashed themselves recklessly against the rocks around them.

“The tide!” she shouted. “They will bring the tide!”

The water was climbing higher and higher around them, swallowing up the beach, trying to cut them off from the protective seawall ahead. She battled through it, screaming and begging, never letting go of his arm. The chain pointed like a compass needle out to sea, drawn by its own strange magnetism towards the horizon. It was all Albert could do to move an inch or two at a time. The cold was in his aching bones. His lungs seemed stiff in his chest, frozen solid, unable to draw breath, even as the sea retreated, even as he found himself staggering on dry land towards the rusty rickety ladder that would see them safely onto solid ground.

“They’re giving up,” he gasped out, but she only shook her head, dragging him on.

By the time they made it to the ladder, the wind was strong enough to blow branches from nearby trees. Albert risked a glance over his shoulder – and saw, at last, what his bride was so afraid of. A vast wall of water, clear as glass, and above it the foaming, churning madness of the herd, running as one.

“We weren’t fast enough.” She bent his failing fingers around the rusty ladder. “Hold on.”

The hand that clutched the chain could not be persuaded to grip anything. Albert had barely hooked his thumb around a strut before the sea hit him in the back and all was noise.

Albert clung. He felt the chain rip his skin. He felt the bones of his hand break. He felt his lungs fill up with water. He felt the hooves of the herd on his back, his head, his limbs. He could not let go. He would not let her go. He held on tight as the current ripped past him, through him, drowning him; as his broken bones screamed in white-hot pain; as his sturdy boots were torn from his feet by the sheer strength of the water.

The waves broke – and ebbed. The horses were sucked back from the beach. Albert reeled, half-blind, the world spinning and fractured. He scarcely knew with what strength he was climbing the ladder save the relentless pull of his bride’s arms, dragging him to safety. He collapsed onto solid stone just as a second wave hit. They reared up above him, tossed on the spray, blinding white and screaming, but they could not reach him now.

There was silence on the beach. The sea was a dead calm. The wind died away to a gentle breeze. The silver chain, wound so tight around Albert’s broken hand, now weighed nothing at all. Every part of him hurt. The world span in doubles around him. He knelt on the ground and hacked up a lungful of water, coughing and retching till only bile remained. He fell back, flat, staring at the uncaring sky. When he raised his shaking hand above him, he could see hoofprint bruises on his arm, as if he had lain down on the racetrack to be trampled.

But there she was, his bride, his water-horse. No longer was her skin marble but flesh, living and real, flush with blood beneath the surface. No longer were her eyes the madness of the deep water but grey-green, sparkling, human. When she reached out to him, fell laughing, sobbing, against him, he felt her warmth, her solidity, her personhood. He folded her in his arms as she wept freshwater tears into his chest.

“We’re safe.” His voice crackled wetly in his throat. “We’re safe, my love.”

“Stupid, stupid!” She sat up, face blotchy, hair a mess. “I told you they would hurt you! I told you to save yourself!”

“I’ll live.” He reached out to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “How about you? Will you live?”

She nodded, blowing her nose. “Like a mortal woman.”

It took all Albert’s strength to force himself upright. He knew broken ribs when he felt them. He was sure, too, that one eye would be too swollen to see through within the hour. But he sat up nonetheless because how else was he to kiss his little wife?

“I will take you home with me in the morning. You will be happy. I promise.”

“Won’t your people mind?” She seemed, for the first time, shy. “A wife with no name and no family?”

“Catherine is a good name.” Albert chose at random. “I have family enough for the both of us.”

“Catherine…” She weighed it on her tongue. “Catherine….Catherine…”

“Mrs Catherine Tiernan.” Albert laughed suddenly. “I never told you my family name.”

“I didn’t know humans had those,” Catherine admitted. “They will not think I’m strange?”

“They will not mind that you are strange.” Albert caressed her cheek. “My little love, you have nothing to fear.”

They sat there in the cold night till Albert felt strong enough to stand. He limped, his arm around his bride, down into the town, watching the blisters of frozen flesh where the chain had bitten deep turn to silver-white scars.

So it was. If the Tiernan family thought its newest member anything other than fully human, they never passed comment on it. The silver chain sat in an old jewellery box belonging to Albert’s mother, tucked safe at the back of a little drawer where nobody could stumble upon it. It never tarnished. Albert took it out occasionally, lay the links over the scar they had left and tried to remember the weight of it, the dreadful pull of the current. It was still a little colder than it should be. No matter how long he held it, it was never warmed by his skin.

Catherine never went near the sea again. She thrived, his tiny wife, on the farm, blessed him with a son and heir – and more besides. She delighted in the horses, in the barley growing in fields around the village, in the birds of the hedgerows and the songs that they sang. If she regretted her choice of husband, she never said so. But sometimes when the wind was blowing cold from the faraway coast, she sat on the steps outside and played her violin with notes so sweet and aching that Albert’s heart broke just to hear her and he would swear, if only for a moment, he could smell saltwater in the air.

---

I just really liked the idea of the horse-bride. I thought it was whimsical, and the mysterious Catherine Tiernan reminded me a lot of my great-great-grandmother Catherine, who was also a tiny Irishwoman who married an older man against cultural taboos, was a brilliant musician, and would absolutely have eaten a man alive if she was given the opportunity. This isn't my best work but I'm tentatively pleased with it and my therapist says that Killie-fangirling is actually good for me so I guess this is medically necessary fanfiction. It's the middle of the night and I haven't edited this. I'm really crossing my fingers and praying there aren't any glaring mistakes.

#long post #fanfic #killie

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guiltyc0nscience · 9 months ago

Text

⋆˙⟡ flashed, chris sturniolo

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

summary. in which while arguing with chris you flashed him to shut him up.

warnings. smut, making out, missionary, fingering, p in v, small argument at the beginning.

word count. 1.5k

you let out a loud sigh as chris continues to go on about the same thing that he has been for the past thirty minutes—chris was arguing with you because you were at a party last and you over done how much you drank.

“you’re so irresponsible when it comes to drinking!” chris says, running a hand through his messy hair.

you huff and stand up off the sofa and walk into the kitchen, trying to get away from this pointless argument.

he follows you into the kitchen, continuing his rant, “the fuck have i told you about walking away from me when im trying to talk to you?” he says, slamming his palm on the kitchen table.

“chris this is a pointless argument, i said sorry.” you say rubbing your temples due to the headache that was forming.

“i don’t care if you’re sorry. but you always do this, you always walk away when im trying to talk to you, it’s fucking annoying.” he says, his frustration beginning to show.

you throw your head back with a loud groan, rolling your eyes as chris rambled on about how you always walked away from him.

“and i swear to god if you roll your eyes at me again…” he threatened, walking closer to you, “do you ever stop complaining?” you ask rhetorically with a fed up tone.

“no i fucking don’t because you never listen to me and always do whatever the fuck you want.” he groaned, his fist balled up at his side. “and right now i want you to stand there and look at me, without rolling your eyes or walking away.” he demanded, his voice stern and commanding.

you try to think of something, anything to get him to stop talking. and once it finally came into your head you felt like the next albert einstein.

if there was anyone watching you two right now, they would’ve saw the idea literally pop into your head.

a grin comes over your features as you brung your hands to the bottom of your shirt, wrapping your fingers around the hem before lifting the fabric enough until it was exposing your bare chest to the boy in front of you.

his eyes immediately fell to your bare chest, his anger briefly forgotten as he took in the sight of your bare skin. his jaw slacked slightly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“cat got your tongue, baby?” you ask, tilting your head and running your tongue over your top teeth as you watch chris’ expression.

chris doesn’t say anything, just a small ‘woah’ falling from under his breath — just his eyes flickering between your chest and your eyes with a look of disbelief and desire in his eyes. his cheeks turned a slight shade of red as he realised you had flashed him in an argument to shut him up.

you let out a small laugh at his reaction before slowing dropping your shirt to cover your chest again.

after a few seconds, chris finally managed to talk, “what the fuck was that?” his voice a combination of shock, arousal, and residual anger.

he run a hand through his disheveled brunette hair, “you can’t just…flash me like that in the middle of an argument, that’s not fair.”

“well, i had no other choice.” you shrug with a smug look on your face. your legs walked you forward until you were standing in front of chris, you looked up at him with a certain look in your eyes.

his breath hitched as he looked down at you, his heart pounding in his chest. his anger was quickly being replaced by something else entirely as he looked into your eyes. he let out a low groan, his body tensing as he saw the look in your eyes. “what are you doing?”

“just…testing the waters.” you mumble before leaning up to his lips and placing a soft kiss on his lips to see how he would react to your touch.

he stiffened under your touch, his breath hot against your lips as he tried to rein in his body’s immediate reaction to you. he let out a low groan, his hands finding their way to your hips, gripping onto them tightly. “you’re insufferable, you know that?”

“am i?” you question, bringing your hands up to rest of either side of his neck — deepening the kiss.

he groaned into the kiss, his lips parting slightly as his resolve began to crumble under your touch. his hands slid from your hips to the small of your back, pulling your body flush against his. he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours.

as chris parted his lips the slightest bit, you slid your tongue past his lips and into his mouth, which earns a low grunt from him.

his arms wrapped tightly around you, his hands splayed across your back as he crushed you against his chest. He kissed you passionately, his emotions a whirlwind of frustration, desire, and anger. he broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw and down your neck.

you felt chris’ hands come to under your thighs and hoist you up his waist. once you secured your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, he began to walk to the sofa.

he carried you to the sofa and lay you down before hovering over the top of you, his hands on your hips. he broke the kiss to lean his forehead against yours as he tried to catch his breath, “we shouldn’t…” he began, his voice breathy as he tried to calm himself.

“why shouldn’t we?” you ask with a confused expression on your face, licking your lips as you place your hands back on either side of his neck.

he swallowed hard, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he looked up at you with lust-darkened eyes, “because we were fighting…” he said, his hips shifted slightly under you, betraying his growing arousal.

“forget about it for now?” you ask, giving him a look so he would give in quicker.

he let out a low groan and licking his lips, “fine…” he breathed, his hands sliding up your sides and back to your back, pulling you flush against him once more. “for now, we’ll forget about it.”

you moved his head closer to your lips to capture him in a kiss. you closed your eyes and moved your mouth against his, his hands tightened on your hips.

he kissed you back, all thoughts of the argument forgotten as he lost himself in your taste and touch. his hands slid under your shirt, caressing the soft skin of your stomach and sides as he deepened the kiss. he grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel how much he wanted you.

you let out a low whimper as you felt him against you, causing you to slightly buck your hips up into his.

the motion made him break the kiss, panting heavily as he looked down at you. “fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he said, his voice strained with desire. he sat up slightly, reaching for the hem of your shirt, looking up at you for approval before pulling it off over your head, leaving you in your bra.

you sit up on your forearms so you could reach your arms around you back and unclasp your bra, letting to straps fall down your arms before throwing it off to the side and laying down again.

he let out a low groan as you revealed yourself to him, his eyes hungrily roaming over your curves. he leaned down, capturing one of your boobs in his mouth and swirling his tongue around your nipple. his hand reached up to caress your other breast, squeezing gently.

“fuck” you breathe out, biting your bottom lip. you throw your head back as you leaned up on your forearms, your hair flowing down your back.

he groaned around your nipple as you arched your back, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. he lavished your breasts with attention, alternating between sucking and licking until your nipples were hardened and straining. his hand trailed down your stomach, teasing along the waistband of your sweats.

“come on, don’t tease.” you whine out, bringing your head down to look at chris again — see his mouth still wrapped around your boob, but his hand was trailing over your lower stomach and waist band.

he smirked at your whine, enjoying the effect he had on you. he released your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air over the damp skin, "you’re so impatient," he teased, his nimble fingers undoing the drawstring of your sweats.

he slowly lowered your pants, his knuckles brushing against your clothed heat. he hooked his fingers in the waistband and tugged them down your legs, along with your panties. he tossed them aside carelessly, leaving you bare before him.

your hands landed on the hem of his shirt, looking up at him for a nod of approval, once he does you bring the black shirt over his head and toss it over to the pile of your clothes. you then hook your hands around his neck and bring him down onto you again, bringing him into a heated kiss.

he eagerly kissed you back, his hips settling between your thighs. he grinded against you slowly, the friction against his jeans driving them both crazy. he trailed one hand down your side, gripping your thigh and hitching it higher on his waist.

you felt chris’ hand come down to your heat, he runs two of his fingers down your folds, causing you to let out a whine.

he swallowed your whine with his kiss, his fingers parting your folds and slowly slipping inside. he moved them in and out, his pace slow and torturous. he added a third finger, stretching you and scissoring his fingers to prepare you for him.

he watched your face as he continued to finger you, his touch gentle yet firm. he crooked his fingers, brushing against that spot inside you that made your back arch and your hips buck against his hand. "that's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice low.

as chris’ fingers hit that spot that sent you to a different world, you let out loud moans, “f-fuck…oh my god” you stuttered out in a high pitched whine.

he continued to stretch and prepare you, his touch unyielding. he leaned down and kissed you again, his tongue mimicking the motion of his fingers as he continued to toy with you. "i think you're ready for me now," he murmured, his voice strained with desire.

you nodded frantically, biting your bottom lip as chris pulled his fingers out of you, “please… fuck me” you whimper out, your chest moving up and down at a fast pace due to your heavy ragged breaths.

chris sat up on his knees between your legs and undid the zipper of his jeans, shoving them down along with his boxers enough to free his straining erection.

you bit your lip as you watched chris. you felt yourself getting wetter as you looked at him, bringing your hand down to rub your clit as you waited for him.

chris leaned back down to hover over you, bringing his hand to your wrist and moving it away from your clit and intertwining your fingers together.

he positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the tip through your slick folds. "you ready, baby?" he asked looking you in the eyes, his voice husky with desire.

“yeah” you said nodding your head. you moved your body about the sofa until you were comfortable. you brung your free hand around his neck and lowered his head into your neck as he slid inside you, a strained moan falling from your parted lips.

he let out a low groan as he sank deeper into you, his thickness stretching you to your limits. he held still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside you. "fuck," he breathed against your neck, his heart pounding against your hand that was now on his chest.

“shit,” you hissed through your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut.

“you okay, baby?” chris asked, moving his head away from your neck. he moved one of his hands to next to your head to hold his weight up as he watched your pussy engulf his dick as he slowly moved his hips.

you took a deep breath and nodded, your hand squeezing his, "i- yeah… just go faster," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

chris sped up his hips, moving in and out of you with more force as you let out lewd moans. your head now thrown into the cushions as far as they’d go with your eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

he grunted with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. "you like that, baby?" he asked hoarsely, his voice thick with desire. "huh?" he teased, also throwing his head back and biting his bottom lip.

“fuck yeah” you moaned, letting go of chris and bringing your hands up to your tits, running your hands over your nipples causing the knot in your stomach to tighten further.

his eyes locked onto your hands on your breasts, his own movements growing choppier. he brought one hand down to your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist and changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that spot inside you. "you're so perfect,"

when chris changed angles you felt a whole new type of pleasure wash over you, “o-oh my… fuck chris, that feels so fucking good.” you cry out, your hands now gripping the side of the cushion under your head.

he let out a guttural groan, his pace quickening as he drove into you with increased fervor. his hand on your thigh squeezed tighter as he watched your face contort in pleasure.

“i’m gonna- im gonna come” you moan, your teeth sinking harshly into your bottom lip. your knuckles were turning white due to your grip on the pillow.

"come for me then, baby," he encouraged, his voice low and gravelly. he buried his face in the crook of your neck as he pistoned his hips, his movements becoming sloppy as he neared his own release.

you could feel chris nearing his own orgasm along with you. when you felt his hand push down on your stomach it made you reach your orgasm, the knot in your stomach bursting as your legs begun to shake beside chris. stuttered moans and whines falling from your mouth, your hands letting go of the pillow and falling onto chris’ back, your nails gripping into his skin.

feeling your walls clench around him sent chris over the edge. with a final deep thrust and a muffled groan against your neck, he came hard, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled himself inside you. he continued to move slowly, riding out the waves of his intense orgasm.

after a few moments, he stilled and lifted his head to look at you, his eyes filled with warmth and satisfaction. he leaned down and gently kissed your swollen lips, "you okay, baby?" he asked softly, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

“mhm” you hum, opening your eyes and moving the hair away from your face. you sit up on your forearms, looking at chris who has a fucked out look on his face — his hair messed up, his lips swollen, a light layer of sweat on his forehead causing the strands at the front of his head to stick to the skin, and his eyes all hazy.

he grinned at you lazily, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you flush against his chest. "you look so beautiful right now," he murmured, his voice lazy and content. he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses on your skin.

you let out a giggle as you make space for chris to lay next to you on the sofa, once he gets comfy he looks at you letting out a small giggle before saying, “so about that argument..”

877 notes · View notes

jeszrosse · 16 days ago

Text

🧬 “Observations (Classified)”

Albert Wesker x Reader | not really a part 2 | late-night voyeurism | NSFW 🌶 | obsession, formal restraint snapping like a bone.

reader is unaware; Wesker is very much not

---

02:14 A.M.

Late night. Facility security room.

The screens flicker in sterile white. Most are still.

But Camera 6A, the laboratory, glows with motion.

You.

Alone.

On screen, you’re in the west lab, arching slightly over the sink. Just rinsing out a beaker. Simple. Innocent.

But the fabric of your blouse stretches tight along your spine when you lean forward.

And something in him... pulls.

---

Wesker sits, arms folded, jaw stiff.

He’s already undone the top of his collar. Already removed the gloves.

Not because of you.

Of course not.

It’s hot in the control room.

The server fans are loud.

The stress levels are unusually high.

He’s just—adjusting.

Except... your voice, soft and oblivious, carries over the audio feed.

A hum. A simple, lovely, innocent note.

Unaware of the man who’s been replaying your shift three times over.

Unaware of how he’s zoomed in. Cropped the others out. Enhanced the footage of you turning to brush hair behind your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs,

to no one. To the air. To himself.

To you.

---

By the third time you lean forward, the motion is burned into his brain.

He doesn't mean to—

but his hand is already dragging over the front of his slacks, slow. Testing. Pressing down.

His breath leaves sharp through his nose.

This is beneath him.

This is pathetic.

This is...

His palm stills.

But your figure remains—graceful, hypnotic, damning—on-screen.

---

02:44 A.M.

He gives in.

Fingers pop the belt loose with one flick.

Zipper—quiet, slow. As if anyone might hear.

He leans back in the chair with a long, soundless breath through gritted teeth.

This is beneath him. He repeats.

His fist moves anyway. Down. Up. Slow at first—controlled, like everything else in his life. But his jaw is tight. His brows drawn. His breath shallow. He shouldn’t need this.

He’s superior. Beyond weakness. Beyond base urges. Beyond the kind of pathetic, primal desperation that leaves lesser men gasping into their palms in the dead of night.

But here he is. Knees spread. Glove tossed aside. Muscles flexing tightly on the fabric of his shirt in the dim light. His cock’s already slick, already hard—already leaking for you.

Disgraceful.

Illogical.

Weak.

There’s nothing clinical in the way his hips lift once, slightly.

Nothing detached in the way he groans when your laugh echoes through the speakers.

He imagines—

your lips parting when he finally corners you.

the way you’ll gasp when he tells you what he’s done for you.

How you’ll cry when you realize you were never alone.

---

“You don’t even know,” he whispers.

“What you do to me.”

“How long I’ve watched.”

“How hard I’ve worked to keep others away.”

“To keep you... close.”

Your laugh. Again. On loop. It plays like pure torture.

He imagines you writhing beneath his gloved hand, spine arched, eyes glassy—like a creature begging to be dissected. Every sound you make, every breathless moan, cataloged in his mind like data points. You’re not just a body—you’re a subject. A specimen. One he intends to ruin.

He imagines pulling you apart slowly—methodically—stretching your tolerance until you're no longer sure whether you're sobbing from overstimulation or worship. His thrusts would be relentless. Calculated. Deep enough to make you cry out, shallow enough to make you beg for more.

He imagines how your body would cling to him, trembling and slick, so desperate to keep him inside. He’d slow down—not out of mercy, but to watch you fall apart more beautifully.

He imagines gripping your face, forcing your gaze up to meet his—glasses still on, smile absent. Just cool, exacting control as he thinks, "This is what you're made for. Submission, chaos, and absolute obedience."

He imagines not stopping—not when you beg, not when you shake, not even when you forget your own name. He wants you empty, filled with nothing but his voice echoing in your skull. No thoughts. Just Wesker.

He imagines marking every inch of you—bite, bruise, handprint—proof of his ownership. Scientific. Clinical. Intimate in the most violent way.

He imagines your voice going hoarse from crying out for him. And he knows—you would. Again and again.

His strokes speed up. His breath stutters. He thinks of your lips wrapped around him, warm and wet and reverent—of bending you over some cold, sterile lab table, pressing your face to the glass just to see your fogged-up breath as he ruins you from behind.

You're his already. You just don’t know it yet.

He should be above this.

But he's not. He's fucking not.

He'd KILL for the real thing. He’d burn the whole facility just to hear you moan his name like you mean it.

“Mine,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“You’ve always been mine.”

He hates this. Hates the shaking in his thighs. The raw, desperate sound that slips past his clenched teeth. The image of you sprawled and crying on his sheets—something he’s never even seen, but imagined with such terrifying precision he could swear it's real.

The monitor crackles slightly as you tilt your head and smile on screen—

and Wesker spills over his own hand with a low, brutal sound.

---

03:39 A.M.

Silence.

He exhales.

Reaches for a wipe.

Tucks himself away again.

He stares at the mess. Then at nothing.

Never again.

...Until next time.

Rewinds the tape.

Watches you one more time.

And doesn’t delete the footage.

---

(A/N: HAHA got you lovelies with the booby trap pic😈 Here's a little tease for you hoes;3 you'll get that wesker coc next time, I pwomise🥺 and he sure as hell won't make it easy for you. P. S. I'M STILL LEARNING HOW TO USE TUMBLR ALRIGHT???) Posted this draft at 3am.

#fanfiction #x reader #fanfic #albert wesker x y/n #albert wesker x you #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker smut #albert wesker #resident evil albert wesker #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil smut #smutty fanfiction #smutty smut smut #resident evil wesker #re wesker #minors dni #minors do not interact #smut fanfiction #smut fantasy

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Note

Hello! 👋

Could i ask for one where reader Its the daughter of an old driver (Could be raikkonen for example like that era hehe) and now lewis starts to notice her when she was in love with him his whole life ? I would love angst and happy ending

Thank you !

𝒴𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒯𝑜𝑜 𝐿𝒶𝓉𝑒

Authors Note: Hey all! I really enjoyed writing this. I wanted to make an introduction of the reader being young and seeing rookie Lewis. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Kimi Räikkönen’s daughter and Lewis Hamilton rekindle a long-lost connection.

Warnings: mild angst, mild age gap

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

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

2007 — Age 11

The first time your father cursed because of Lewis Hamilton, you were ten years old, swinging your feet off the edge of the leather couch in the Ferrari motorhome at Albert Park.

It was the season opener your favourite race of the year, not just because it was in Melbourne where the air smelled like eucalyptus and burnt rubber, but because it was the only race your dad would let you attend from start to finish.

The weekend was always too hectic during the European leg of the calendar and he claimed the jet lag made you cranky in Singapore, but Melbourne? Melbourne was special. It was yours.

You’d spent the morning darting between the hospitality suite and the garage, clutching your paddock pass like a golden ticket. The red and black lanyard bounced against your chest with every step. Mechanics would ruffle your hair, engineers would give you knowing smiles, and even the intimidating race strategists had softened when they saw your wide eyed curiosity.

You wore your miniature Ferrari team shirt like a second skin, complete with your father's name stitched across the back—RÄIKKÖNEN—in bold black letters.

And that Sunday afternoon, your father had won.

A clean start, a dominant lead, pole to podium. The garage exploded into celebration, high-fives and champagne sprays even before the cool down lap had ended.

You had leapt into your father’s arms as he returned from parc fermé, grinning beneath his helmet, his fireproof suit still radiating heat. It was the happiest you’d seen him in months until the replay started.

The screen in the motorhome flickered with highlights. Kimi had sunk onto the couch beside you, a bottle of water in one hand and his phone in the other, posture relaxed until the rookie appeared on-screen.

Third place. Debut race. McLaren’s golden boy.

Lewis Hamilton.

You didn't know his name at the time, just the flash of his car, the glint of silver streaking through turns like mercury. He'd made a bold overtake on Alonso into Turn One. The onboard footage showed him navigating wheel to wheel combat like he’d been born in the cockpit.

Kimi's jaw clenched. He leaned forward. Then muttered something in Finnish sharp and low, words you weren’t supposed to understand yet but recognised as unmistakably not polite.

You looked up at him, wide eyed.

“Who is he?” you asked, the question tumbling out before you could stop it.

Your dad didn’t look at you. Just took a slow sip of his water and replied with a single word, like it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“New kid,” he muttered. “Fast.”

At ten years old, you didn’t yet understand what made someone “fast” in Formula 1. You didn’t know the intricacies of tire strategy or the politics of team orders.

But when the camera zoomed in on Lewis Hamilton’s face helmet off, drenched in sweat, eyes sparkling like he'd just stepped into a dream - you felt something shift inside you.

Something quiet.

Something electric.

His smile was wide and effortless, a flash of light across the screen. His hands were still trembling from adrenaline as he waved to the crowd, the McLaren logo stitched across his overalls catching the sun. He looked like he belonged there as if the moment had been waiting for him all along.

You didn’t know what it meant yet, but your heart stuttered. Froze. It wasn’t a crush. You were too young to call it that. But something about him imprinted on you like the way you knew the sound of your father’s engine, or how the smell of fuel and hot brakes made you feel strangely at home.

He wasn’t like the others.

Not in the way he walked or his shoulders back, like he carried the weight of history without flinching. Not in the way he spoke during interviews in a calm, poised way, just a little too mature for someone only twenty-two. And not in the way your father spoke about him either with a rare mix of wariness and respect.

The Ferrari garage had always been your kingdom. You’d grown up among torque wrenches and tire blankets, cradled by the comforting drone of telemetry chatter and the hiss of compressed air.

The mechanics let you perch on unused tire stacks, hands smudged with grease as you scribbled in your notebook about pit stop procedures and race flags. You knew this world and understood it in a way that made teachers back home shake their heads.

But that season, someone new occupied your thoughts.

Lewis Hamilton.

You started to notice his McLaren car more than your father’s on the big screen. You tracked his movements around the paddock when you tagged along to the races.

You memorised his stats, clipped magazine photos and tucked them into the back of your school binders. You even practiced signing his name once just to see how it felt.

And then, one day it happened.

The paddock in Bahrain was hot really hot the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer like it was alive. You were waiting near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, idly peeling the label off your water bottle, when you saw him.

Lewis.

In full race suit, gloves stuffed into his belt, walking alongside one of his engineers. Laughing. Head tilted back, eyes crinkling. And then he looked up.

Right at you.

For one suspended second, time stilled. Then -

“Hey there,” he said, catching your gaze as he passed. His accent was smooth and warm, the kind that settled behind your ribs. “You must be Kimi’s little one.”

He didn’t stop walking.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Just flashed you that blinding, boyish smile and kept going, like it was no big deal.

But it was everything.

You stood frozen, your heart hammering in your chest, unable to breathe. You wanted to say something anything but your voice betrayed you. You just nodded, cheeks burning, unable to stop the slow, stunned grin from spreading across your face.

He noticed you.

And in that moment, you weren’t just Kimi Räikkönen’s daughter.

You were seen.

It was the beginning of everything.

You just didn’t know it yet.

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

Age 14 – Silverstone, 2010

You’d spent the entire race standing behind the Ferrari pit wall, your chin resting on your folded arms, half hidden behind rows of engineers and strategy screens.

The rain came in fits sharp and steady, blown sideways by the wind and soaked the sleeves of your red team jacket until the fabric clung cold against your skin.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Because Lewis was on track.

And he was flying.

Silverstone was always unpredictable, but that Sunday it had opened up with a storm that seemed almost theatrical.

Fans huddled beneath ponchos, umbrellas flipped inside-out and teams scrambled for intermediate tires. But you barely noticed the chaos around you. Your eyes stayed locked on the screen, following the familiar flash of silver and reddish orange.

Lewis.

He darted through spray like it didn’t touch him. Where others hesitated slipping wide, spinning out - he carved the racing line as if it had been etched there just for him.

There was something almost defiant about the way he moved, the way he refused to be tamed by the weather or the weight of expectation.

He crossed the finish line in first.

Your father came in fourth.

There was no celebration on your side of the garage. Kimi ducked into the media pen without so much as a glance in your direction. You knew better than to follow. He hated being asked questions after anything less than a podium.

So you slipped away.

No one stopped you they rarely did. You’d grown up in these paddocks, drifting like smoke between garages and hospitality units.

A familiar shadow, overlooked and underestimated. Being thirteen helped. You weren’t old enough to matter yet, but you weren’t too small to be taken seriously. Just invisible enough to go where you weren’t supposed to.

Your soaked sneakers squelched against the pavement as you crossed over to the McLaren side, dodging cameras and technicians pushing trolleys of wet tires. You clutched your paddock pass tightly in one hand and a silver marker in the other.

On the back of your lanyard, hidden behind the usual FIA branding, you’d carefully drawn a small number 44 that morning.

It wasn’t his number yet not officially. He still drove with No. 2 on his car. But you’d read in an interview that 44 had been his karting number. The one he loved. The one he would’ve chosen if he ever got the chance. So you’d scribbled it in your best block letters, tracing it over three times in silver ink until it gleamed.

Your hands were trembling now.

Because there he was.

His suit darkened with rain and sweat. He was laughing with his engineers, head thrown back, his whole body alive with energy. Like the victory hadn’t tired him it had fed him.

You stared.

He looked older than he had three years ago. Taller. Stronger. But the smile was the same.

And you felt it again that painful, impossible flutter in your chest. Like something tethered inside you had pulled taut, almost to the point of snapping.

You stepped forward.

One foot, then another.

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the outline of his mouth move as he spoke, could hear the warmth in his voice, even if you couldn’t make out the words.

You could’ve reached out, could’ve tapped his arm, said his name, offered the marker, the lanyard, something.

But you hesitated.

He passed you.

Didn’t see you.

Your hand, frozen mid air, slowly dropped to your side. The silver marker slipped between your fingers, fell with a soft clack against the wet pavement. A moment later, the lanyard slipped from your grip, landing in a shallow puddle near your foot.

The number 44 began to bleed.

Ink unraveling in tendrils beneath the water. The silver smudging into grey, then vanishing entirely as the rain continued to fall.

You stared down at it, breath caught behind your ribs, throat burning with something you couldn’t quite name. Your eyes stung.

It wasn’t about the autograph.

It wasn’t even about the moment.

It was about not being seen.

You’d spent the whole race watching him. And he hadn’t seen you at all.

You picked up the lanyard slowly, fingers shaking and tucked it back into your pocket like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t meant everything just moments ago.

You didn’t try again that day.

You just turned around and walked away, head bowed, heart bruising quietly in your chest.

You were thirteen.

And you were starting to understand that sometimes, even when you love someone from a distance, they don’t always look back. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Age 17 – Monaco, 2013

You wore your first proper dress to the Monaco paddock party, a sleek black number borrowed from your mother’s side of the closet - elegant, understated and entirely unlike the red team polos you'd grown up in. It hugged you in the right places, hinted at the beginnings of the woman you were becoming.

Nerves twisted like rope in your stomach.

You’d memorised every line of your reflection in the mirror before coming down.

This was Monaco.

This was your debut, in a way.

He was there.

Of course he was.

Standing near the bar in a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, collar open just enough to hint at skin and swagger. His chains glinted under the warm party lights. The Mediterranean night hummed behind him with luxury yachts bobbing in the harbour.

He laughed easily, head tilted back, dimples deep, one hand resting casually on the bar, the other gripping a crystal glass of something golden. He was surrounded by drivers, models, people who looked like they belonged in this glittering world.

You were close enough to see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

You were close enough to remember every line of his face.

And yet he didn’t see you.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe his eyes brushed past you once. Maybe he recognised you for half a second the quiet kid from the Ferrari garage, Kimi’s daughter, now suddenly in heels and eyeliner and a dress that whispered grown up. Maybe something flickered across his expression. Or maybe that was just your imagination, dressing up silence as hope.

You walked past him once.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

You kept walking, heart hammering in your chest, face tilted toward the golden lights strung across the patio, pretending the rejection didn’t sting. Pretending you hadn’t built this moment in your head a hundred times already.

You told yourself it was just a crush.

That it would pass.

That you were seventeen and boys didn’t see girls like you not when they had the world at their feet, not when they lived in a different orbit entirely.

But deep down, you knew better.

Because it wasn’t just a crush. Not really.

He’d lived in your chest since you were eleven. And tonight only proved it. No matter how grown up you tried to be, no matter how close you got to him…nothing will happen. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Melbourne, 2021 – Present Day

You haven't stood in the Ferrari garage in almost ten years, but the ghosts never left.

They’re stitched into the walls, curled in the corners, clinging to every red fibre of the uniforms and toolboxes.

The low murmur of strategy still crackles behind the team headsets, voices crisp and serious, layered beneath the mechanical thrum that vibrates through the concrete floor.

It’s all the same. Except you.

You're not the girl perched on the edge of a toolbox anymore, legs swinging, oversized headphones sliding off your ears.

You’re not hiding behind your father’s fireproof shadow or sketching numbers on the backs of paddock passes.

You've built something outside of this world by earning a degree, navigated heartbreaks that had nothing to do with Formula 1, chased dreams that led you miles away from this universe of carbon fibre and relentless adrenaline.

But the moment you step back into the red, your pulse stumbles - one beat behind the rhythm it’s tried to forget.

“Didn’t say you were coming,” your father mutters beside you, arms crossed, chewing lazily on a toothpick like it’s 2007 again.

You glance sideways, taking him in older around the edges, but still unmistakably Kimi. Stoic as ever, unreadable even when the world burns around him.

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

He lifts a brow. “You don’t like surprises.”

You shrug, slipping your hands into your coat pockets. “People change.”

He squints at you, amused. “Not that much.”

You smirk, but it’s fleeting.

Your eyes drift toward the pit lane.

Teal. Black. Number 44.

Time collapses.

Lewis Hamilton pulls into the Mercedes garage with the same command he’s always had, the car sliding in clean, sharp, precise.

His helmet comes off in one practiced motion, revealing his braids, sweat catching in the light along his temple. He’s 37 now - older, harder in the jaw, the boyish charm weathered into something steelier. But the way he moves with fluid, confident, like music you’ve never stopped hearing still hits you in the centre of your chest.

He steps out of the car. Rolls his neck. Walks past.

And for a moment his eyes flick toward Ferrari’s side of the paddock.

Toward you.

You freeze. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t double take. Just keeps walking, his gaze sliding over you like wind over glass.

You exhale through your nose. It shouldn’t hurt anymore.

But it does. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later That Evening – Ferrari Hospitality Suite

“Ran into Hamilton,” Kimi says, not looking up from his phone, his tone so casual it might as well be about the weather.

You don’t flinch. “Yeah?”

“He didn’t recognise you.”

You pause, watch the ice melt into your glass. “That’s fine. Why would he?”

Kimi sets the phone down, finally meeting your gaze. There’s something in his expression you can’t name an echo of protectiveness, maybe. Or guilt, thinly veiled beneath decades of silence.

“He saw you enough times. Back in the day.”

“People forget,” you say lightly, but it lands with a weight neither of you pretend to ignore.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quietly, he says, “You never did.”

And you don’t answer.

Because he’s right. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Saturday Morning – Paddock

The sun’s just beginning to press down through the clouds, casting sharp, golden edges across the paddock.

You walk with purpose, eyes ahead, coffee in hand, trying to remember you belong here now in your own right. Not as Kimi’s daughter. Not as the girl who once timed her steps to McLaren’s arrival schedule.

But as you.

Then you hear it. His voice.

Low. Familiar. Resonant in a way your body still knows too well. It cuts through the crowd like instinct of a line drawn through fog.

You turn before you even think to stop yourself.

Lewis stands just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit, mid conversation with his race engineer. His chains glint in the morning light. His posture relaxed but alert.

Then his eyes flick toward you. And this time he sees you.

He pauses. Brows furrow, his focus sharpening with a suddenness that knocks the breath from your lungs. You see it the flicker of confusion, of something almost cautious.

He takes a step closer, almost unconsciously. “Wait are you…?”

You stop walking. Your heartbeat jumps. You brace yourself, every nerve in your body stretched tight like a tether.

“You’re Räikkönen’s daughter, right?”

There it is.

The shadow. Always the shadow.

You offer a polite smile, your grip tightening slightly around your coffee cup. “Guilty.”

He huffs a breath, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “Damn. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”

“Nearly ten years.”

He whistles softly, eyes sweeping over you. “You’ve grown up.”

You tilt your head, just enough to stay steady. “That tends to happen.”

“True,” he murmurs, still looking at you like he’s trying to recalibrate something in his mind. “You look wow. It’s good to see you.”

He says it like you’re a stranger he’s just been reintroduced to. Like he didn’t walk past every milestone you quietly built around him. Like you’re someone new.

And maybe you are. But the ache doesn't care and still your smile. Because that’s what you’ve always done. Even when he didn’t see you.

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

The paddock hums around you as team radios, rolling tire trolleys, clipped conversations layered with adrenaline but it all blurs as you walk.

You keep your steps even, head high, even though your heart’s still echoing from the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to remember you and forget you at the same time.

You don’t head back to the Ferrari motorhome right away. You veer toward the back lot where the trailers are quieter, where no one’s looking at you like that paddock kid returning to haunt the ghosts of her past.

Your phone buzzes. A message from your dad.

Iceman: Lunch soon?

You type back a quick Yeah, on my way, but your fingers hover over the screen for a second longer than they should.

For a moment, you want to tell him. About seeing Lewis. About how strange it felt. How it didn’t hurt in the way it used to, but it still meant something.

But you don’t. Kimi would just grunt and say people are complicated, and you’d both pretend that was enough.

When you finally make your way back to Ferrari’s hospitality, your dad’s already seated outside, sunglasses on, eating pasta like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. He looks up as you slide into the chair opposite him.

“You disappeared.”

“I went for coffee.”

“You saw him.”

It’s not a question.

You blink. “How did you -?”

“You have a face,” he says flatly, stabbing a piece of tomato. “You only make that face after talking to him.”

You lean back, suddenly exhausted. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

Kimi chews, then shrugs. “That’s racing. You never expect the crashes.”

You stare at him. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Still true.”

You smile despite yourself. Same old dad who’s gruff, blunt, but always seeing more than he lets on.

“Did he say anything?”

You nod slowly. “He said I’ve grown up.”

Kimi snorts. “Idiot.”

“Yeah.”

You both fall into silence. Not tense, just unfinished. Like there’s still a conversation left to be had, but neither of you is ready to reach for it yet.

Later, after qualifying, you walk alone again this time not because you’re running, but because you need the air. You cut through the back of the Mercedes garage, near the side entrance where media doesn’t usually hover.

And there he is.

Again.

Lewis stands against the wall, suit peeled down to his waist, helmet in one hand, sweat glistening along his temple. He’s talking to Angela, but he spots you the second you round the corner.

She follows his line of sight, then smiles gently and walks off without a word. Like she already knows.

You stop a few feet away. “You waiting here all afternoon or?”

His grin is lazy this time, not cocky just genuine. “Thought you might pass through again.”

You cross your arms, considering him. “And if I didn’t?”

He shrugs. “Then I’d just stand here looking dramatic.”

You bite back a smile. “You’ve always been good at that.”

He steps closer. “I meant it, you know. That it’s good to see you.”

“I can tell.”

His gaze searches yours now not just nostalgia, but something newer. Something heavier. “It was never about you,” he says quietly. “Back then. The distance. That was me, trying to figure out how to be who I needed to be without screwing up everything You were just a kid admiring from far and I ignored you; I apologise for that.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales slowly. “But I did anyway.”

You say nothing at first. Just look at him. The man he is now. The man you maybe could still fall into again, if you’re not careful.

“Coffee,” you say at last. “Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow.”

Something in his expression lifts, hope without pressure.

“I’ll take maybe.”

You hand him your number and turn to go.

This time, you do look back.

And he’s still standing there, smiling like he never stopped waiting. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You don’t sleep much that night.

The hotel bed feels too stiff, the Melbourne wind sneaks through the crack in the balcony door, and your mind won’t shut off looping back to the look in his eyes.

The way he said “You were just a kid.” Like he still regrets it. Like it still matters.

Morning breaks with soft light and distant traffic, and somehow your first thought isn’t the schedule or the paddock call time it’s him.

But you shake it off, even though Sunday means race day. It means nerves and ritual and adrenaline running under everyone’s skin.

And it means facing Lewis again.

You don’t message him. You don’t need to. Not when the memory of him standing there—quiet and hopeful feels closer than your own reflection.

You and your dad walk to the paddock together that morning, a quiet routine you’ve slipped into like muscle memory. He sips coffee, you match his pace and the silence between you is comfortable.

Until he says, “You’re going to see him again, huh?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How do you always know?”

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking. “You don’t flinch anymore when I say his name. That means something’s changed.”

You huff a small breath, somewhere between amused and impressed. “Since when did you become emotionally observant?”

Kimi shrugs. “I’ve always been observant. I just don’t care most of the time.”

You laugh, and he lets a corner of his mouth twitch in response.

The paddock is already buzzing when you arrive.

You keep close to the Ferrari motorhome at first, tucked into the rhythm of it all. But your gaze drifts toward Mercedes more times than you care to admit.

And then, at 10:43 a.m., your phone vibrates.

Lewis: There’s a quiet spot behind the team trucks. Just a minute. If you want.

Your stomach dips. You reread it twice. Then, without giving yourself time to think too much, you slip out the side exit.

He’s waiting where he said he’d be. Cap pulled low, hoodie half-zipped, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything at first just watches you approach like he’s checking you’re real.

You stop in front of him, arms crossed, but not defensive. Just waiting.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

“I didn’t think I would either.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

He nods slowly, like he understands exactly what you mean.

“I didn’t handle it well back then,” he says, voice low. “You were Kimi’s daughter. Young. Smart. Untouchable in some ways. And I thought staying away was the right thing.”

“And now?” you ask.

His eyes lift to yours. “Now I think maybe I was just scared Especially because you are like 10 years younger than me, I didn’t want to seem like a weirdo.”

Instead, you say, “I used to wait for you to notice me, you know. Back when I was just that quiet girl in the motorhome pretending not to stare.”

He smiles, soft and rueful. “I noticed.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, voice barely above the shuffle of wind between trailers. “Of course I noticed. You were bright. Sharp. You had your dad’s stubbornness and none of his filters.”

You laugh, caught off guard.

“I noticed everything. I just didn’t let myself see it.”

Silence settles between you again but it’s different now. It’s warmer.

You glance toward the track. “You’ve got a race in two hours.”

He nods. “And I’ll be thinking about this the whole time.”

You smile, just a little. “That could either help you win or completely ruin your strategy.”

He grins, stepping back but keeping his eyes on you. “Let’s find out.”

And just like that, he’s gone walking back into his world of telemetry and torque, while you stand there, wondering how something that used to hurt so much can suddenly feel like hope.

Maybe this isn’t a return. Maybe it’s the start.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who never stopped waiting.

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

Somewhere beneath the roar of engines and countdowns and strategy meetings your thoughts keep flicking back to him.

The way he looked at you. The way he finally saw you.

You're perched beside your dad on Ferrari’s pit wall by the time the formation lap begins. The sun’s climbed higher now, streaking the track in molten gold.

Kimi’s arms are folded as he watches the screen, jaw tight in focus. But then, without looking at you, he murmurs, “He’s in his head.”

You glance at him. “Lewis?”

Kimi nods once. “He’ll either drive like hell or make mistakes.”

You bite your lip. “He’s usually better with pressure.”

“Not this kind,” Kimi says simply.

And deep down, you know what he means.

Lewis starts strong. Second off the line, tailing Verstappen through the first corners, his Mercedes snapping into position with a confidence that feels more like instinct than engineering.

You watch from the garage monitors, breath shallow, heart stuck in your throat.

And for a while, it’s just racing. Just precision. The blur of tires and risk and strategy.

Until lap 32.

He locks up slightly into Turn 9. Just enough to make the engineers flinch. Just enough for you to know he’s thinking again. Thinking too much.

When the race ends, Lewis finishes P2. Solid points. A clean drive. But not enough for the win. You see him step from the car, peel off his gloves and hand the helmet to a mechanic with a tight nod.

And then before media, before press conferences he finds you again.

You’re standing near the back exit, trying to stay invisible, when he breaks away from the huddle of cameras and walks straight toward you.

No hesitation. Just him. Sweat-slicked and exhausted and searching.

He stops in front of you, breath still uneven. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Every lap,” he admits. “Probably not the smartest idea.”

“Definitely not,” you say softly, then pause. “But maybe the bravest.”

He watches you for a long moment. Then - “Dinner. Tonight. Not in the paddock. Not in the spotlight. Us two.”

Your heart thuds once. Loud enough that it almost drowns out everything else.

You don’t answer right away. Of you. Not Kimi’s daughter. Not a memory. But a woman standing here with the chance to decide if this is something new.

Finally, you nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

His smile is slow, wide, real. “I’ll send a car.”

He turns to go but then stops. “And hey…”

You meet his eyes.

He grins. “You’ve really grown up.”

You roll your eyes. “Still a terrible line.”

“Still true,” he calls back.

And this time, when he walks away, he doesn’t feel so far.

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

Sunday Night

You don’t tell your dad where you're going, but he doesn’t ask. Just gives you a grunt of approval when you change out of your paddock gear and slip into something simple - your favourite black dress with clean lines, the fabric soft against your skin and a jacket that still smells faintly of engine oil. That scent, gritty and comforting, wraps around you like an old friend, grounding you in this adrenaline-fuelled world you know so well yet sometimes feel far from.

The car Lewis sends pulls up quietly, sleek and understated not flashy, just perfectly tuned to the moment. Inside, the leather seats cradle you, the engine’s gentle purr a soothing contrast to the storm of nerves fluttering in your chest.

Outside, Melbourne moves softly through the twilight, streetlights spilling golden pools onto wet pavement.

The flutter inside your stomach grows as the car glides toward the restaurant, a hush settling over your thoughts.

It’s not Lewis you’re nervous about. It’s this new chapter, this delicate dance of maybe, maybe not, this chance to rewrite everything.

When you step inside, the warm light wraps around you like a secret embrace. Lewis is already there waiting, calm, the kind of quiet that speaks louder than words.

His eyes find yours instantly, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, soft and real, like the first ray of sun after a long, restless night.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and steady, like it’s the first time and the only time that matters.

You return the smile, feeling the tension in your shoulders melt away. “Hi.”

Dinner unfolds like a gentle melody no heavy questions, no awkward pauses, just laughter that bubbles up and spills over and stories that slip between you like a warm breeze.

His knee brushes yours beneath the table, subtle but deliberate, a tender tether grounding you to this moment. Your fingers twitch, aching to reach for his hand, but you wait, savouring the electric hum between you.

At one point, he reaches across, his fingertips brushing your skin, sending a delicious shiver up your arm. “I wasn’t lying,” he murmurs, voice barely above the noise of the restaurant. “I thought about you the whole race.”

You arch a brow, teasing, “Could’ve fooled me. P2 isn’t exactly a disaster.”

He chuckles softly, eyes shimmering with something unspoken. “It wasn’t the car slowing me down,” he confesses, voice thick with quiet longing. “It was wondering if I’d lost my chance before I even had it.”

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in a wild rhythm beneath your ribs. “And now?”

Slowly, his smile deepens, reaching all the way to his eyes. “I’m here,” he says simply. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Later, the two of you slip out onto the balcony overlooking the Yarra River. The city’s lights twinkle like scattered stars reflected in the dark water, a galaxy just for you two.

The night air is cool and crisp, brushing softly against your bare arms. You lean against the railing, fingers curling around the cold metal as the warmth in your chest blooms into something fierce and bright.

Lewis steps closer, the heat from his body pressing gently against your back, close enough to feel every breath he takes, but still giving you space to breathe, to savour the moment. His voice is a soft murmur near your ear. “I should’ve seen you back then. I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head toward him, a quiet invitation, your pulse quickening. “You see me now.”

His hands slide around your waist with a feather light touch, fingers tracing the curve of your hips like a whispered promise. He turns you slowly to face him, giving you all the time in the world to meet his eyes.

His gaze drops to your lips, then back up, searching for the smallest sign, the softest yes.

You close the distance, your lips parting like a question.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that starts gentle soft, slow, like a caress in the dark but deepens with every heartbeat, every breath. It’s a kiss that speaks of patience, of longing held close and finally released.

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if memorising the feel of you, while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing this.

Time slows, the world melting away until only the two of you remain, tangled in the quiet heat of something new and beautiful.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the cool night air. His eyes hold yours like a secret shared in the dark.

“So, what now?” you whisper, voice trembling with hope.

He smiles, soft and sure, a promise written in every line of his face. “Now, I try not to let you go again. After all you’re my biggest fan.” He teases.

You laugh, a light, breathless sound that breaks the spell just enough to make it sweeter. “Good.”

Under the vast Melbourne sky, lit by stars and city lights, he pulls you close again. This kiss is slower, deeper a quiet vow, a promise stitched from warmth and dreams.

No past. No doubts.

No worries about you being that little girl who admired him afar.

Just a future waiting to be written.

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concretejunglefm · 19 days ago

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I need to get this out my brain, ever since I saw the ask about a Noah x Vessel x Reader threesome 😖 Noah wearing his ski mask and Vessel still in his full stage attire, black paint and all. Vessel taking u from behind, holding your hips tightly to keep a steady rhythm, the black paint on his hands rubbing off on your hips. Noah down your throat, enjoying the view of u taking him and his friend.

Plus both of them are huge men (Noah 6'3" and Vessel *allegedly* 6'1" - 6'4") makes my size kink go *brrrrr*

this made me feral, had a breakdown, bon appétit 💕 also can't stop thinking about my babe iii being like 6'3-6'4 😮‍💨

CW: includes mentions of unprotected sex (p in v), oral (m receiver), threesome, partner sharing, double penetration (mouth & p), size kink if you squint, thick dick Vessel, Vessel has a Prince Albert piercing, mask kink.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

You honestly didn’t expect it to happen a second time, and yet here you are, in another hotel room after another festival. Only this time, Noah’s donning his signature ski mask instead of being dressed like Vessel.

There are no guessing games. This isn’t about mystery; it’s about your pleasure, about the two of them using you, pulling you apart together—and what a pretty sight that makes.

Noah never imagined he’d enjoy the idea of sharing you, not until that first time. Watching you come apart on Vessel’s cock shifted something in him. As long as he was part of it—getting to witness, getting to participate—he liked the thought. He liked it a lot. So long as you wanted it, he was all in.

And god, did you want it.

Though it’s hard to moan around Noah’s cock when he slips it back into your mouth, it doesn’t stop you from trying. He’d just pulled back to kiss you, heated, sensual, the kind of kiss that leaves you trembling, and now you’re taking him again, tasting him and yourself on his tongue. The sensation makes you clench around Vessel, his thick cock dragging along your walls, the gleam of his piercing brushing places so perfectly it sends heat ricocheting through your limbs.

Noah gathers your hair in one hand, the other cradling your jaw, then your throat, eyes locked on where he disappears past your lips. Every so often, his gaze flickers to Vessel behind you, watching him fuck into you, the rhythm relentless, the wet slap of his hips echoing against your ass.

“Fuck, you’re doing so good for us, baby.” Noah groans the praise, pulling you off his cock again just to kiss you once more, messy and eager, the fabric of the ski mask grazing your cheek as his tongue licks into your mouth like he’s starved—for the taste of you, or himself, or both.

Between them, you’re practically bouncing with each thrust. Your height, more than a third below theirs, only makes it easier for them to handle you like a doll. The thought alone makes you moan, especially with the way Vessel’s black painted hands grip you—one on your waist, the other on your hip, roaming briefly before clutching tight again. His pace picks up, and the black paint smears against your skin, marking you with every place he’s touched.

“You gonna cum for us?” Noah murmurs into your mouth before pulling away, his hand tender yet firm on your neck as he tilts your head to make you look up at him. “You gonna cum all over Vessel’s cock?”

And you are. You can feel it coiling inside you, heat threatening to tear through every nerve ending. The second Noah leans over your body and reaches between your thighs to press his fingers to your clit—rubbing in tight, slow circles—you’re gone.

You cry out, body trembling violently as the orgasm rips through you. Vessel holds you up as your legs give, Noah holding you steady too, pressing kisses to your shoulders through the fabric of his mask. His mouth never stops whispering, praise, filth, and affection poured into every breath as they help you ride it out together.

#anon ask 💕#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token smut #vessel fanfiction #vessel smut #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #noah sebastian x reader x vessel #concretejunglefm fics

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erikawrites13 · 14 days ago

Text

Love in Contract - Racing Hearts Down Under

Part 1

Lando Norris / Oscar Piastri Genre: Romance, Angst, Rivalry, Mature Themes, slowburn

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

It started as a joke.

A clause buried deep in their updated contracts, slipped in by a cheeky legal intern and approved without anyone really reading it. Lando found it first, stretched out on the worn leather couch in the McLaren motorhome, the late Australian afternoon light slanting through the windows.

He flipped through the pages, brows knitting, until he stumbled on it.

“Free use clause,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. He read aloud, “‘The driver who finishes higher in any race shall have unrestricted access to the other driver for the following seven days.’ Who signs off on this kind of madness?”

Oscar peeked over from the other side of the room, eyebrow raised but silent. That was Lando always joking, always light on his feet. But there was a flicker in his eyes that made Oscar wonder if maybe he wasn’t joking entirely.

The clause was forgotten as race weekend in Melbourne ramped up. The roar of the engines, the flashing cameras, the grid girls, the desperate seconds counting down.

Oscar felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as he lined up on the grid at Albert Park, heart hammering beneath the suit. He and Lando had been teammates for two seasons now friends, rivals, something in between. They pushed each other hard on track, but off it, the rules were clear. Or so he thought.

The lights went out.

Lando rocketed off the line, flawless launch, the car dancing on the edge of traction. Oscar kept pace, but Lando was on a mission.

When the checkered flag waved, it was Lando crossing first, clinching P3, while Oscar took P6 after a tough battle.

Back at the motorhome that evening, the tension between them was thicker than the humid Melbourne night.

Lando pulled out the contracts again, smirking. “Remember that little clause I found? Guess it’s my turn to cash in.”

Oscar gave a half-laugh, unsure if this was still a joke. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Lando said, stepping closer. “Seven days. Unrestricted access.”

Oscar’s pulse quickened. “Access? What does that even mean?”

Lando’s grin deepened, cocky and teasing. “Whatever I want. Time, attention… touch.”

Oscar swallowed, the line between challenge and invitation blurring.

The first touch was innocent—Lando’s hand briefly resting on Oscar’s shoulder during the post-race debrief. Then a look that lingered a moment too long, a brush of fingers that sparked more than it should.

A kiss came next. Quick, deliberate, pressed to the side of Oscar’s neck while they were alone in the garage, engines humming around them.

“Contractual obligations,” Lando murmured against his skin, voice low.

Oscar laughed, breathless, but inside, something stirred—a slow, steady burn he couldn’t ignore.

The week stretched ahead, full of stolen moments and quiet games of control. The clause was more than a joke now. It was a promise. A challenge.

And somewhere between friendship and rivalry, something new was beginning to take hold.

87 notes · View notes

llovelylove · 3 months ago

Text

█▓▒▒░░░“You look good on camera, baby. Let’s go make a film?”░░░▒▒▓█

୨⎯series ⎯୧

PT. 1 Levi Ackerman

PT. 2 Eren Yeager

PT. 3 Armin Arlert

PT. 4 Jean Kirstein

PT. 5 Connie Springer

PT. 6 Porco Galliard

[NOTE]

—I was watching SATC and this came to me. Basically the premise is making a sex tape w/ AOT boys. I’m making this into a mini series, one for each boy, so six one shots or short stories. Enjoy!!

(Sex, Filming sex, dirty talk, age gap, porno)

⋆˚࿔ Levi. A 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

It was a late night, coming over to professor Levi’s house. He was always sarcastic and a little rude but so lovable. Sitting on his couch as he typed on his laptop, Y/N smiled at him and put her phone down.

She crawled over and took his laptop out of his hands, putting it on the glass table.

Levi's eyes narrow as she take his laptop, his normal scowl playing on his lips despite himself. "Mhm? Can't I at least finish this email before my girlfriend decides she needs my attention?" His hands move to her waist automatically.

"Don't you have essays to write?" He pulls her closer, one eyebrow quirking up slightly as he adjusts his glasses. "And stop crawling around like a cat. You'll ruin those cute pajamas." Despite his words, his voice is gentle, almost concerned about the outfit she's wearing.

“You look like Albert Eienstien with these on.” She laughed softly as she straddled his lap fully. He removes his glasses, setting them aside as he turns to face her fully.

"Y/N, stop moving around." He groans slightly as she settles on his lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist. "You're going to make me lose focus." His eyes flicker down to her cute pajamas, pink silk matching Victoria secret set. A lacy tank top and shorts.

“Levi.” She said with raised brows as she stared at him, trying to look serious.

“Mhm?” He tilts his head slightly, his scowl softening as he looks at her. His large hands rest on her hips, thumbs gently caressing her skin.

"What are those puppy eyes for? I'm not giving you money for shopping this time." Despite his words, his grip on her hips tightens possessively. "And stop biting your lip like that." He adjusts his seating position slightly, making her lean more against his chest.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” She scoffed at him and adjusted herself on his lap slightly. “It’s something different.”

"Like what?" He asks softly, his scowl returning slightly as he studies her expression. His fingers drum on her lower back unconsciously. "You're being too quiet. Do I need to prepare for something?" He half jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners slightly.

She shifted slightly closer to him, her hands resting on his shoulders. "I was wondering..." She trailed off mischievously. “What are your thoughts on porn?”

Levi blinks slowly, staring at her for a moment before bursting out laughing. The deep sound fills the room, his head thrown back slightly. "Are you kidding me right now?" He asks between chuckles, his hands tightening on her hips. "Porn?"

"Where the hell did that come from?" His eyes narrow playfully as he adjusts her position on his lap again, pulling her closer. "And what makes you think I even watch it?" He tries to keep a serious expression but fails miserably.

She giggled at his reaction and shrugged innocently. “Doesn’t every guy watch it? I mean you’re a guy right?” She teased him playfully. “So?” She asked curiously. “Do you watch it or not?”

Levi's cheeks flush slightly at her teasing, his usual scowl replaced with a small, rare smile. "Well, I'm not going to deny it." He admits quietly, leaning in closer to her. "But it's not like I'm some kind of addict or anything."

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "So, you do watch it." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "I was talking with some girlfriends from my dev psych class and one of the girls was saying…how she and her boyfriend made a sex tape.”

"A sex tape?" His eyebrows shoot up, a mix of surprise and something else crossing his face. "And exactly why are you telling me this?" He moves one hand to trace patterns on her back.

She bites her lip again teasingly, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "Just curious what you'd think." She shifts subtly on his lap, pressing herself closer. "Would you ever consider making one…with me?"

Levi's breath catches as she presses closer, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You're asking if I'd make a sex tape with my girlfriend?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Mhm.” She nodded slightly, looking up at him with innocent eyes. “I mean, it sounds pretty fun. And you could jerk off to it later when I’m not around.” She teased him playfully.

"For fuck's sake..." He runs a hand through his hair, trying to maintain his composure. "First porn, now sex tapes..." He shakes his head but doesn't move her off his lap. "And who the hell said I jerk off when you're not around?"

She gives him an amused smirk, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulder. "Oh please, every guy does it." Her eyes glimmer mischievously as she leans in closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear. "Unless you're some kind of saint, which I highly doubt."

"And what makes you think I'm not?" He counters, his voice low and husky in her ear. "Maybe I don't need to jerk off because my girlfriend already puts out every night." He wraps an arm around her waist possessively.

She giggles softly, nipping at his earlobe playfully. "Keep dreaming, old man." She pats his chest mockingly. "But seriously, would you do it? Make a tape with me?" She asks again, her tone softer this time.

Levi's expression turns thoughtful, his thumb gently stroking her side as he considers her question. "Honestly?" He pauses, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "If you really wanted to, I wouldn't say no."

She grins widely, clearly pleased with his response. "I knew you'd say that." She leans back slightly to look into his eyes, her own sparkling with excitement. "So, hypothetically speaking, what kind of things would you want to do in this sex tape?"

"Hypothetically?" He raises an eyebrow, his mind already racing with possibilities. "I'd want to try every position we've ever done, plus a few we haven't. I'd want to film it in every room of the house."

"I'd want to see you on your knees, sucking my cock. I'd want to watch you bend over and take it from behind. I'd want to film every dirty thing we've ever done."

She bites her lip, blushing at his dirty words. "You're so bad..." She whispers, squirming slightly in his lap. "But I like it." She leans in and kisses him hungrily, her hands running through his hair. "Let's do it."

Levi groans into her mouth, his hands gripping her hips as he pulls her down onto his lap. "Now?" He asks, his voice hoarse with desire. "Are you saying you want to make a fucking tape right now?"

She nods eagerly, her eyes gleaming with lust. "Yeah, why not? We're both horny and you just gave me all these dirty ideas." She grinds against him slightly, feeling his hardness through his pants. "Do you have an old timey camera? like the one not on your phones?”

"In the drawer by the bed." He manages to grind out, watching her grind on him slowly. "You serious about this? Making a damn porno?" He laughs softly, already hard as a rock from the idea.

"Dead fucking serious." She grins wickedly, lifting herself off him reluctantly. "Be right back." She saunters off towards the bedroom, her hips swaying exaggeratedly. Moments later, she returns with the vintage camera, checking it over. "How do I work this thing?"

Levi chuckles, standing up and taking the camera from her hands. "It's portable consumer, honey." He loads a cartridge into it, his movements practiced. "Point and shoot, basically. Nothing fancy."

She watches him with a playful smile, taking the camera back from him. "So, where do you want to start?" She asks, her voice soft as she sets the camera on a nearby table, pointing it towards the couch.

"Let's start with me watching you take your clothes off." He says, his voice low as he sits back down on the couch, spreading his legs slightly. "Come here, in front of the camera." He pats his lap. "Slowly."

“Wait! You—need to get the camera ready. And I need to go make sure I look pretty first.” She strictly told him.

"Y/N, don’t piss me off or turn me off." He scoffed, picking up the camera and adjusting the settings.

She sticks her tongue out at him playfully, before disappearing upstairs. After a few minutes, she comes back down, now wearing a cute laced see through baby doll top and matching panties that hugs her curves perfectly. She poses in front of the camera, twirling around.

"Damn." He mutters softly, watching her through the camera lens. She's way too sexy for her own good. He captures her twirling, laughing, touching her hair softly. He zooms in on her body, her breasts practically spilling out of the top.

"Those fucking panties..." He growls, adjusting himself through his pants. "Come closer to the camera. Let me see everything." His tone became more dominant. The way the light catches her body through the see-through material making his mouth water. "Touch yourself."

She smiled softly , moving her fingers softly as she slowly spreads her legs slightly wider apart. She slowly slides her hands up her bare thighs softly, pushing her breasts together with her arms. She bites her lip softly, pushing her hips forward slightly as if she's taking a dick slowly.

"Jesus fuck." He mumbles, zooming in closer. The way she's moving, the way she's teasing - she knows exactly what she's doing to drive him crazy. He clicks a few photos, then lowers the camera slightly to watch her fingers moving on her thighs. "Keep going."

She slowly slides her fingers up her stomach, pushing her breasts together again. She spreads her legs wider, showing off her wet panties through the see-through material. She starts to touch herself through the panties, circling her clit softly.

Levi's breath hitched, his cock throbbing painfully in his pants. "Fucking hell, Y/N." He adjusts the camera to get a better angle, capturing every detail of her fingers moving against her clit. "Pull your panties aside. Let me see that pretty pussy."

She slowly slides her fingers under the side of her panties, pulling it aside to reveal her bare pussy. She spreads herself open, showing off her wet folds. She slowly slides one finger in her hole, moving it in and out slowly.

Levi's grip on the camera tightens, his knuckles turning white. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he watches her finger fuck herself. "Add another finger," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "I want to see that pussy stretch around them."

She slowly adds a second finger, stretching herself open. She curves her fingers up, hitting her g-spot and making her gasp softly. She starts to move her fingers faster, her hips bucking slightly. "Oh fuck... Levi." She bites her lip, looking into the camera lens.

"God damn it." He mutters, placing the camera down. He sees her fingers moving fast, making wet noises. He unbuttons his shirt quickly, throwing it off. He drops to his knees in front of her, spreading her legs wider.

"That's enough. Let me take over," he said, grabbing her wrist gently to stop her fingers. He moves her hand away and replaces it with his own, sliding two fingers deep inside her. "You're so fucking wet, baby," he murmurs, pumping his fingers in and out.

She moans softly, spreading her legs wider for him. He adds another finger, stretching her small hole. He watches his fingers disappear inside her tight pussy, spreading her wetness all over. He pulls his fingers out slowly, only to push them back in hard, making her yelp softly.

"Levi!" She cries out, her back arching. He curls his fingers inside her, hitting her g-spot over and over again. His thumb circles her clit, applying pressure. "I'm gonna..." She trails off, her walls tightening around his fingers. "I'm gonna cum!"

"Cum for me, baby," he groaned, his fingers moving faster and harder. He watches her face contort with pleasure, her eyes rolling back slightly as she chases her orgasm. He presses his thumb firmly against her clit, rubbing it in tight circles to push her over the edge.

"Fuck!" She screams as she cums, her pussy clamping down hard on his fingers. He feels her juices gushing out, soaking his hand and the cushions beneath her. He keeps fingering her through her orgasm, drawing out every last tremor until she's a boneless mess.

"Levi... I-I can't... It's too sensitive," she whimpers, her hips squirming to get away from his fingers. But he doesn't stop, instead, he slows down his movements, gentling his touch to help her come down from her high.

He keeps his fingers buried inside her, gently massaging her inner walls as she tries to squirm away. "Shh, shh," he murmurs, his other hand coming up to hold her hip down. "You can take more, baby. You can take my whole hand if I say so,"

He slowly adds a fourth finger, stretching her even more. She whines softly, her face scrunched up in discomfort and pleasure. He watches his hand disappear inside her tiny pussy, his thumb still circling her clit gently. "Look at you taking all four fingers,"

He grabs the camera with his free hand, turning it to face her. "Look at yourself, baby. See how well you're taking my hand?" He angles the camera to capture the obscene sight of his hand buried inside her, her pussy stretched wide around his fingers.

He zooms the camera in, getting a close-up of his hand inside her. He spreads his fingers slightly, making her whine and try to pull her hips away. "Stay still," he muttered, his thumb finding her g-spot again.

He presses his thumb hard against her g-spot, rubbing insistently as she squirms. The camera captures her face twisting with pleasure and overstimulation, her lips parted in breathless moans. "That's it, take it like a good girl," he sighed, his voice low and husky.

He feels her pussy clench tightly around his fingers again, another mini orgasm rocking through her body. She cries out, trembling on his hand. "Fuck, look at that," he growls, zooming the camera in closer to catch every twitch and flutter of her abused cunt.

He spreads his fingers wider again, stretching her small hole. He watches the camera screen as her pussy lips stretch thin around his fingers. He adds a small thrust with his hand, making her breasts bounce slightly. He captures this on camera, muttering. "Fucking hell, look at those tits bouncing while I fuck her pussy with my whole hand," he groans, his own arousal evident in his voice. He keeps the camera focused on her face and chest, capturing the beautiful sight of her being completely dominated by his huge hand.

She can feel his entire hand buried inside her, stretching her wider than she’s ever been stretched by him before. His thumb massages Y/N’s g-spot insistently as his other four fingers spread inside her, threatening to tear her open. She whine and beg for him to stop, but the camera keeps rolling.

He suddenly stops moving his hand, leaving it buried deep inside her. She whimpers at the sudden stillness, her pussy clenching around his unmoving fingers. He keeps the camera focused on her face as he slowly withdraws his hand from her soaked, swollen pussy.

She throws her head back as his fingers slowly pull out, her pussy making suction noises around his withdrawal. He catches this on camera, making a sharp breath as he realizes how obscene this looks.

Y/N gasps for air as Levi's hand finally slips out of her. Her pussy gapes open, drip with her juices. She feels so empty without him inside her. She looks up at him with a pleading expression, her lips parted and her eyes glassy.

He watches her through the camera, seeing the desperate look in her eyes. He smirks, his hand still glistening with her arousal. "You want more, don't you?" he asks, his voice low and commanding. The camera pans down to capture her swollen, dripping pussy.

He chuckles darkly, bringing the camera closer to her leaking cunt. "Look how fucking desperate this pretty little pussy is," he murmurs, using his slick fingers to lightly tap her clit, making her jolt and moan sharply.

Y/N's voice comes out as a whimper "P-please... Levi, please..." She reaches down, trying to pull his hand back between her legs, needing more of his touch "I need you inside me again... please..."

He watches her try to push his hand back between her thighs on camera. Her small hands look desperate as they try to capture his huge one. He swallows hard as she spreads her legs wider, giving the camera a clear view of her needy, wet pussy. "Baby…”

Y/N looks up at Levi with wide, pleading eyes, her chest heaving. "Levi, fuck me..." she begs breathlessly, arching her back to present her dripping slit to him invitingly. "I'm so empty without your cock filling me up..."

He groans at her words, his eyes darkening with desire as he quickly sets the camera on the table, making sure it captures the entire couch. He quickly unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants, his large, hard cock springing free. "You want this?"

Y/N bites her lip, her eyes fixed on his thick cock as he strokes it slowly. "Yes... God, yes... I want your big dick inside me... Fuck me hard, Levi..." She spreads her legs wider, showing off her glistening pussy to the camera.

He grunts, grabbing her legs and throwing them over his shoulders as he kneels between her thighs. He rubs his thick head against her swollen folds, teasing her before slamming inside her in one brutal thrust, making her scream and the camera shake.

"Fuck, you're so fucking tight around my dick," he groans, pulling out and slamming back in, his thick length hitting her sensitive spots and making her whimper and squirm. The camera captures her bouncing tits and his thick, veiny dick spreading her open.

Y/N throws her head back, moaning loudly as Levi's massive cock stretches her impossibly wide with each relentless thrust. Her fingers claw at his back, desperate for leverage against his dominating pace. "Oh fuck, oh fuck yes! Harder, fuck me harder!"

"Jesus fuck," he groans, reaching out to grab the camera and bring it closer, zooming in on where his huge dick disappears inside her tiny pussy. "Look at how fucking small you look around my big dick," he growls, fucking her harder.

He turns the camera to her face, capturing her open-mouthed moans and the tears streaming down her cheeks from the intense pleasure and size of his cock. "You love taking this dick, don't you? You're such a good girl.”

He pulls the camera back to show his cock slamming in and out of her, her pussy lips stretched obscenely around his thick shaft. "Look at this fucking sight," he grunts, using one hand to spread her pussy lips wider for the camera.

Levi holds the camera steady, angling it to showcase her pussy being brutally fucked. He zooms in close, giving a perfect view of his enormous cock violently spreading her tight cunt. "Fuck, you're squeezing my dick so hard. Taking it so well."

Y/N's eyes roll back as she feels Levi's thick cock hitting her deepest spots. She looks at the camera, her face flushed and contorted with pleasure. "I... I'm so full... your dick is stretching me so much... it's too big... but I love it!"

He chuckles darkly, his pace turning brutal as he fucks her like an animal, the camera shaking with each powerful thrust. "You can take it, can't you? Fuck, you were made for me."

He suddenly pulls out, making Y/N whimper at the sudden emptiness. He flips her onto her hands and knees, spreading her legs wide and slamming back inside her from behind. The camera captures his powerful body pounding into her tiny frame, his balls slapping against her clit with each thrust.

Levi reaches around to rub Y/N's swollen clit furiously as he continues his relentless assault on her pussy from behind. His other hand grips the camera, angling it perfectly to showcase her bouncing ass and his monstrous cock pistoning in and out.

Y/N's back arches as she reaches her peak, her pussy clamping down on Levi's cock as she screams out his name. Levi's grip on the camera tightens as he feels her orgasm trigger his own, his hot release filling her to the brim.

He keeps the camera rolling as he pulls out slowly, their mixed juices dripping out of Y/N's well-used hole. He spreads her ass cheeks apart, letting the camera capture the lewd sight of his cum overflowing from her red, puffy pussy. "Look at that... you're a mess."

Levi sets the camera down on the nightstand, his breath still ragged as he sits on couch, panting. “I love popping the birth control.” She huffed and got up, stretching. She sat up and grabbed the camera, facing it toward them. Y/N smiled at the lens and fixed her hair, turning her head toward Levi. “You should say hi to your camera.”

Levi looked up at the camera, his muscular chest heaving as he caught his breath. He scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Hey," he muttered gruffly, his deep voice filling the room.

Y/N giggled as she recorded him, zooming in on his chiseled features and disheveled appearance. "You look so grumpy," she teased, knowing he hated being on camera without his knowledge.

"Goddammit..." he scoffed, reaching for the camera but missing as Y/N playfully moves it out of reach. "Give me that camera before I bend you over my knee." Despite his words, his eyes flash with amusement, betraying his frustration.

Y/N laughed, her face lighting up as she kept the camera trained on him. "No way, I'm having too much fun. I love to look back and see your grumpy face." She pouted exaggeratedly, batting her eyelashes. "Pleaaase? Just a few more seconds?"

He unknowingly flexes his muscles as she records him, his abs tightening. "Damn it, woman..." He smirks without meaning to, watching her laugh and play with her hair. "Five more seconds, then." He lifts his arms slightly, showing off his V-line unconsciously.

She zooms in closer, capturing his perfect eight-pack and sharp V-line. "Holy abs..." She mutters softly, then realizes the camera picked up her words. She laughs louder, covering her face with one hand. Levi chuckles quietly, watching her unguarded laughter fill the room.

The timer goes off, and Levi suddenly lunges for the camera, successfully snatching it from Y/N's hands. He turns it off, his face inches from hers as he holds the camera hostage. "Your five seconds are up,"

Levi's voice softens slightly as he looks into her eyes, still holding the camera. "You know what? You're a mess, and I'm sure you're sticky and uncomfortable." He says. "Why don't you go take a shower?"

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully but obeys, stretching her arms above her head. "You're right," she admits, getting up from the couch. "I'm all sticky and gross." She sticks her tongue out at him, making him scoff softly.

Levi shakes his head with a smirk as he watches her saunter towards the bathroom. Deciding he wants to join her, he tosses the camera aside carelessly, not bothering to turn it off. He follows her, pausing in the doorway to admire her lithe figure as she turns on the shower.

"You know what?" He calls out. "I think I might be sticky too." He steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The shower starts running, steam already filling the room.

Y/N looks back over her shoulder, a smirk on her lips as she hears the shower start. "Oh? You're going to join me, old man?" She teases, stepping under the warm spray. The water cascades over her curves, making her skin glisten.

Levi steps into the shower behind her, his eyes traveling appreciatively over her slick body. "Old man? Please," he scoffs, reaching out to tug playfully at her wet hair. "I can still outlast you in the bedroom, Y/N."

His strong hands grip her waist as he presses against her back, his chest pressing against her shoulder blades. His voice drops to a husky whisper. "In fact, I seem to remember making you beg earlier. You remember that, right?" He reaches around to turn the water temperature slightly warmer.

Y/N leans back into Levi's strong embrace, a shiver of pleasure running through her as the warm water cascades over them. She tilts her head to look up at the ceiling. “I want ice cubes after.”

Levi chuckles low in his throat, the vibrations rumbling against her back. "You always want something after," he murmurs, his hands slowly drifting upwards from her waist to cup her breasts. "Fine, ice cubes it is. But first, I think we need to get you really, really clean."

Later. Y/N sat criss cross on Levi’s big bed with him as Levi had on his sweats and grey compression shirt to bed. She ate ice cubes out of a cup as Levi worked on transferring their sextape off the camera to their phones, using his laptop with his glssses. “Your Albert Eienstein glasses are sexy.” She teased him and threw an ice cube at him.

Levi catches the ice cube mid-air, a scowl tugging at his lips as he adjusts his glasses. "Shut up and eat your ice cubes before you get brain freeze," he replies, his focus back on the laptop screen.

He transfers the final clip, saving it to both their phones with a few expert clicks. "There," he says, closing the laptop and taking his glasses off, putting them down on the night stand."All done." He turns to look at her, his usual stoic expression on his face.

"Now stop having brain freeze over ice cubes and get under the covers." He reaches over to pat her head gently then moves to turn off the bedside lamp. The dim moonlight casting shadows on his sharp features. "And... don't say my glasses are sexy again." He adds in a murmur.

"Too late," Y/N giggles softly, throwing another ice cube at him. "They really are hot. You should wear them more often." She scoops another ice cube into her mouth, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You know you're really sexy when you do serious stuff like this?"

Levi rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You're ridiculous," he says, catching the ice cube and tossing it back into the cup. "And I wear these glasses when I need to see clearly, not to look'sexy.'"

"Which is all the time," Y/N argues, grinning. "So you're always looking hot. Poor me, dating my sexy handsom professor." She sighs dramatically, throwing another ice cube at him.

Levi ducks the ice cube, his expression stern. "Enough with the ice cubes," he says firmly, but there's a spark of amusement in his eyes. "And I'm not your professor, I'm your boyfriend." He reaches over and snatches the cup of ice cubes away from her.

"And you're acting like a child," he adds, setting the cup down on the nightstand out of her reach. He turns back to her, his arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the headboard. "Now come here and act like my adult girlfriend instead."

Y/N pouts playfully but crawls towards him across the bed, sliding into his lap. "Fine, fine. No more ice cubes." She wraps her arms around his neck, pressing a quick kiss to his jawline. "But you're still incredibly hot in those glasses."

"Stop."

Y/N smiled at her older boyfriend, though she wasn’t taking his class, he was still technically her professor in other cases.

"I swear, if you don't stop calling me 'hot' in these glasses one more time..." he warns, his hands finding her waist to keep her in place. His face is serious, but the way he's trying not to smile gives him away. "What am I going to do with you?"

There was a little silence between them before he spoke again.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he starts to tickle her sides suddenly. "I'm going to make you stop talking about my glasses being sexy by distracting you with something else entirely."

Y/N dissolves into giggles as Levi's fingers find her most ticklish spots, squirming in his lap. "Stop, stop!" she laughs breathlessly, trying to wriggle away. But Levi holds her firmly, his lips twitching with amusement as he continues his assault.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop," Levi says, finally releasing her from his tickle attack. He catches her as she collapses against his chest, still giggling softly. "But it's getting late. Time for bed, woman."

He shifts her gently off his lap and stands up, stretching briefly before turning to face her with a stern expression. "I mean it.”

"Mhm," Y/N replies unconvincingly, grabbing another ice cube from the melted pile on the nightstand. She sucks on it loudly, avoiding his warning look. "Just one more ice cube." She mumbles around it.

"That was not 'just one more ice cube' and those are melting faster than you can eat them," he says firmly, taking a few steps closer to her. "Did you hear me say it's time for bed? Or are you going to force me to actually be serious?"

Y/N rolled her eyes and continued to suck on the ice cube. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be a grown woman, you're acting like a child who refuses to go to bed." He crosses his arms, his expression stern but slightly amused. "Now put that ice cube down before you give yourself brain freeze."

Y/N sticks her tongue out at him playfully, popping the ice cube into her mouth one last time before swallowing dramatically. "There, finished. Happy now?" She crawls into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin with a exaggerated yawn. "Night night, handsome professor."

He rolls his eyes, but can't suppress a small smirk at her childish antics. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket back down from her chin. "Not quite yet," he says, his tone hinting at an unspoken consequence for her stalling tactics.

"Since you've insisted on acting like a brat tonight," Levi begins, his voice low and teasing as he leans in closer. "Maybe I should treat you like one." Quickly, he grabs a pillow and lightly bonks her on the head with it. "Say goodnight properly this time."

Y/N yelps surprised, throwing the pillow back at him. "Jerk." she laughs softly, pulling the blanket back up.

"Mhm," Levi hums softly, watching as she burrows deeper into the blanket. Then suddenly, an arm snakes out from under the covers, wrapping around his neck and pulling him down. He laughs softly as soft lips press quickly against his jawbone, then his cheekbone, then finally his lips.

He turns his head to capture her lips properly, kissing her back briefly before pulling away. "Better." he murmurs, tapping her nose lightly.

"Mmm," Y/N mumbles against his chest as she nuzzles in closer, her arms wrapping around his waist possessively. "You promise you're not going to sit there and read again?" she asks, her voice muffled.

He chuckles softly, running his fingers through her hair. "I promise," he assures her, settling back against the headboard with her in his arms. "Now go to sleep before I change my mind and start lecturing you about proper bedtime habits."

Y/N smiles sleepily against his chest, her eyes already drifting shut. "Goodnight, Professor," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifts slightly in his arms, getting comfortable before falling silent and still. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, indicating she's fast asleep.

He smiles softly at her sleeping form, carefully adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. "Good night, Y/N." he whispers, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead before turning off the bedside lamp. The room falls into darkness, but his arms remain securely around her as he settles down to sleep.

#attack on titan #attack on titan smut #levi ackerman #levi x reader #captain levi #levi smut #levi ackerman smut #x reader

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taliaarchive · 2 months ago

Text

Greed on the Grid

☆ pairing. Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri

☆ word count. 7.4k

☆ dedication. This is for the girls who still believe in soulmates- especially the kind found in the blur of a race car, beneath a helmet, or behind a quiet smile in the paddock. Maybe he’s wrapped in adrenaline and fireproof fabric. Maybe he’s Australian. Maybe his name is Oscar Piastri. This one’s for you. May you never stop believing that love- real, fierce, forever love- can find you exactly where you are.

☆ talia notes. Also, yes- look, I may have done extensive research on the bougiest, most luxurious, most outrageously expensive outfits for this story. But honestly, can you blame me? God forbid a girl likes fashion. If you want to see the whole wardrobe, it's all down below. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the first chapter of this story. x

☆ synopsis. "He didn’t see her- but I did. Walked in wearing a dress like forgiveness and eyes like war… and I knew I’d never look away again."

You. Beautiful. Loyal. Unshakeable. To the world, you were just the girl next door- Lando’s oldest friend, the one who stood quietly in the shadows of his spotlight. But behind every podium, every photo, every win... was you. The one who held him together. The one who loved him first. No one knows how hard it was to let him chase his dreams while you buried yours. But you never complained. Never let it show. Not even now, after eight years together, when something feels... off. You crossed oceans for him- crossed the line between friendship and forever. Only to find him kissing someone else beneath the same lights he once said were yours. And in that moment, something inside you shattered- and something stronger woke up. He was supposed to be the finish line. But maybe the race is only just beginning.

Oscar. Silent. Calculated. Watching. He saw you before anyone else ever truly did. Before the lights. Before the chaos. Before the heartbreak. You were never his to lose- but he’s been losing you slowly, secretly, painfully from the moment he realised what you meant to him. Oscar never meant to want what wasn’t his. But every time Lando looked away, he couldn’t stop looking. And when he saw you break that night, walking away without a word, wrapped in the silk and ruin of your love- he knew. He would fight for you. Even if it meant standing on the grid, ready to burn the world down for one more chance.

Chapter 1: Before the Storm

Song: "greedy" – Tate McRae

"Tonight, he would know you had crossed oceans for him- that when the world roared his name, you were still the girl whispering it first."

2:58 p.m. - London

Your hands trembled as they clutched the navy McLaren hoodie tighter around your body, fingers twisting the fabric in a desperate, unconscious knot against your chest. It wasn’t fear- not really. It was something far worse, far heavier. It was hope. Pure, electric, unbearable hope, fizzing and snapping beneath your skin until it felt like you might tear apart.

The television cast a flickering glow over the living room, painting the space in murky greys and papaya orange. Outside, true London rain tapped restlessly against the windowpanes, a ghostly echo of the scene unfolding thousands of miles away. The broadcast buzzed in front of you, Melbourne’s storm-drenched Albert Park shimmering under the harsh gleam of stadium floodlights. Rain clung to the track like a living thing- a silver sheen glossing every corner, turning braking zones into cruel, unpredictable battlegrounds.

You sat curled on the couch, barefoot, half-wrapped in the sleeves of his hoodie, heart hammering so violently it made your vision blur. The screen flashed- Lap 56/57. One lap left.

One lap standing between Lando and everything he had ever worked for.

He was leading. Still leading.

Somehow- against Max Verstappen’s newer tires, against Red Bull’s relentless machine, against everything stacked against him- he was still in front. Your chest ached so fiercely it felt like your ribs might crack under the pressure of it.

Your Lando.

Not the public figure beamed across television sets. Not the polished interviews or the sponsorship obligations. No- this was the boy from next door. The boy who used to race you with Hot Wheels across the garden hedges until your knees were stained green and your hair tangled from laughing too hard. The boy who had asked you to be his girlfriend at eighteen, stumbling over the words under the fairy lights he had strung up himself in his backyard, hands clammy with nerves even after a full rookie season in Formula 1. The boy you had loved- fiercely, tenderly, without condition- through every brutal crash, every broken front wing, every podium missed by a fraction of a second.

You knew Albert Park like the back of your hand- not from commentary or track maps, but from living it alongside him. You knew the way Turn 3 tempted desperate divebombs. You knew Turn 6 slicked with rainwater, how cruelly it spat cars out if they clipped the curb wrong. You knew Turn 11 was everything- the crux of the lap- because if you didn’t carry enough speed there, you were dead meat down the back straight.

And he was threading it.

Threading it through the chaos with a precision that made your breath catch.

The race had been carnage. Isack Hadjar’s crash on the formation lap, Jack Doohan’s wreckage only minutes later, Carlos Sainz spinning under the safety car in a moment so surreal you had gasped aloud. The air itself felt heavy, weighted down by the rain and the stakes. And still, there he was. Still leading.

Verstappen’s DRS light blinked furiously behind him- a siren in the mist, a shark circling its prey.

You leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the couch so hard your knuckles turned white. "Defend inside into Turn 3," you whispered, voice shaking, almost praying. "Protect it. Don’t open the door."

You could barely hear the commentary buzzing in your ears anymore, barely notice the excited crescendo of Croft and Brundle. Your world had narrowed to one trembling, electric line- Lando’s papaya McLaren cutting through the mist, defying every odd, every whisper of doubt.

The final sector.

You rose to your feet without realizing it, toes sinking into the thick carpet, the hoodie sliding down one bare shoulder. The blood rushed in your ears, drowning out everything but the rhythmic slam of your own heart against your ribs.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

The camera switched to his on-board feed- the visor cam- and for a second you were right there with him. You could see the tiny corrections in his gloved hands as he feathered the throttle, the calculated lift into Turn 13, the delicate kiss of the apex at Turn 14. You could practically feel the car squirming beneath him, every twitch a symphony of trust between man and machine.

And then- The line.

The flash of the checkered flag slicing through the Melbourne rain.

The screen erupted with color, noise, chaos, but your body stayed frozen- paralysed for one long, suspended second- until the reality crashed over you in a tidal wave:

"Lando Norris wins the 2025 Australian Grand Prix!"

The breath ripped out of your chest. The cushion you had been hugging slipped from your arms and hit the floor with a soft, forgotten thud. You choked on a sob that had been buried so deep inside you, you hadn’t even realized it was there.

On the screen, you watched him cross the finish line, his McLaren slicing through the storm as if he had carved open the sky itself. His helmet glittered under the stadium lights as he punched both fists into the air so hard it looked like he could tear a hole straight into the stars. The McLaren pit wall exploded in orange and blue- engineers screaming, mechanics vaulting over barriers, Zak Brown practically crying into his radio.

You pressed a hand to your chest. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel the raw, blinding joy tearing through you.

And then, through the crackling radio feed, came the sound that shattered you completely: Lando’s voice- rough, broken, triumphant- filling the living room like a lifeline.

"We fucking did it, boys. Thank you. Thank you!"

Tears blurred your vision until the living room dissolved into a smear of grey and orange and white. You sank to your knees on the carpet, pressing your forehead into the sleeves of his hoodie, clutching at the only thing you could still hold onto.

You had never loved anyone this much. Not even close.

Every second of doubt, every moment you had spent praying he would get his shot- it all exploded inside you in a messy, beautiful flood. You needed to be there. Not tomorrow. Not next week.

Now.

You surged to your feet, still dizzy with the magnitude of it all. Your suitcase lay open by the door, half-packed, waiting, just in case. You moved on instinct, hands trembling, heart pounding, throwing essentials into the RIMOWA Classic Cabin, mind already racing ahead.

You had to go. You had to be there. Because when he looked for someone in the crowd tonight- someone who had believed in him when no one else did- it had to be you.

It had only ever been you.

── .✦

4:05 p.m. - Packing for Melbourne

You chose your clothes with meticulous care- every piece intentional, every detail a whisper of who you were, and who you hoped to be when you saw him again.

For the airport, you wanted something practical but striking, luxury stitched into every seam without appearing forced. You pulled on your Balmain Logo-Detailing Flared Washed Jeans, their fitted waist and dramatic flare sculpting your figure like you had stepped off a runway. The subtle Balmain embroidery at the hip, visible just beneath your top, gave away your secret to those with the eyes to notice. You paired it with an Alaïa Cotton jersey Crop Top in smooth black, sleek and sculpted, with a square neckline and snug fit that hugged your frame like a second skin. Its minimalist cut contrasted effortlessly with the relaxed flare of your jeans, refined yet effortlessly cool.

Over it, you layered something infinitely more personal- his McLaren F1 Team Hoodie from the 2024 season. The grey cotton was worn and softened by time; the papaya orange logo stitched proudly across the chest. It still carried the faded scents of sunscreen, pit lanes, and bittersweet adrenaline, clinging to it like a memory you hadn’t realized you missed until now.

For shoes, you wore the rare and coveted Dior x Air Jordan 1 Retro High OG Sneakers, crafted in soft Dior grey and white calfskin leather, with the iconic swoosh detailed in the Dior Oblique pattern. They weren’t just sneakers; they were a statement, one that grounded your look in effortless cool.

You slipped on Celine Triomphe Oval Sunglasses in sleek black acetate, hiding the glint of nerves behind your lenses, and carried the structured Saint Laurent Manhattan Bag in black box leather, its understated gold hardware gleaming subtly under the terminal lights.

Inside the Saint Laurent bag, you packed the essentials no woman travels without. Nestled inside was a Dior Addict Lip Glow Balm, a Dior Lip Maximizer Plumping Gloss, and a Chanel Rouge Coco Flash Lipstick- the full arsenal for your signature lip combination. A Chanel La Crème Main Hand Cream rested beside a travel-sized Diptyque Eau Rose Eau de Toilette, tucked neatly against a Gucci Beauty Miniature Brush and Mirror Set. You carried a slim Aesop Resurrection Rinse-Free Hand Sanitiser, the earthy scent a comfort mid-flight, and a pack of Tatcha Aburatorigami Japanese Blotting Papers to keep your skin fresh. A mini bottle of Moroccanoil Treatment Light and a Slip Silk Skinny Scrunchie Set in neutral shades completed the carefully curated collection- everything you might need, right at your fingertips.

Trailing behind you, your suitcase rolled smoothly across the polished airport floors- a RIMOWA Classic Cabin Carry-On in gleaming silver aluminium, its surface scuffed in a way that spoke of places travelled and memories collected, but still gleaming like new under the lights.

Inside your suitcase, packed with precision, was the centrepiece of it all: the dress. The Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown was a vision of ethereal beauty- strapless, with a soft sweetheart neckline, melting from luminous ivory at the bodice into a deep, romantic plum at the hem. The fitted bodice sculpted your waist gently, before dissolving into endless floating layers of silk chiffon that caught the light with every movement. It was a dress meant for once-in-a-lifetime moments. If everything went to plan, you would wear it tonight- when you surprised him at the rooftop celebration.

For the gown, you packed the perfect companions. You had chosen Jimmy Choo Minny Metallic Leather Sandals in silver, their barely-there straps shimmering like a second skin. Harry Winston Winston Cluster Diamond Earrings (in a small size) would catch the rooftop lights like stars caught in your hair. Around your wrist, you would clasp your Cartier Love Bracelet in polished white gold, a whisper of timeless elegance. Resting just above your heart, the Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace in white gold would gleam, subtle and personal.

For the final touch, you packed two evening clutches: The Judith Leiber Couture Slim Slide Mother-of-Pearl Clutch, delicate and shimmering with every movement, and the Jimmy Choo Cloud Crystal-Embellished Metallic Clutch, a dazzling constellation of tiny, hand-placed crystals.

Your wardrobe beyond the gown had been chosen with the same careful thought.

For lazy, sunlit mornings and relaxed brunches, you packed the Zimmermann Illuminate Midi Dress- an ivory, tropical-inspired linen piece that drapes effortlessly around the body, capturing the softness of a summer breeze. To complete the look, you considered two elegant shoe options. The CHANEL Calfskin Pearls Sling-back Sandals in Cream, with their delicate pearl accents and vintage-inspired design, offered a graceful, feminine touch that blended seamlessly with the dress’s romantic silhouette. Alternatively, the Manolo Blahnik Shbealo 70MM Buckle-Detailed Leather Sandals, crafted in smooth ivory leather with a signature buckle detail, brought a refined modernity to the ensemble, perfect for elevating a casual morning into something quietly luxurious.

You paired the look with the Loewe Small Basket Bag, woven from straw and finished with tan calfskin leather straps- an artisanal piece that echoed the natural, effortless charm of the outfit. For a slightly more structured alternative, the Celine Ava Bag in natural textile and tan leather offered a softly sculpted silhouette with timeless appeal. Your accessories remained intentionally delicate: the Van Cleef & Arpels Sweet Alhambra Bracelet in mother-of-pearl added a subtle shimmer with each movement, while Missoma Mini Hoop Earrings in gold provided a gentle glint near your cheeks.

To protect your face from the sun while maintaining polished elegance, you opted for the Eugenia Kim Mirabel Wide-Brim Straw Hat in natural and ivory- its oversized silhouette and silk ribbon band creating a dreamy, garden-party finish. For sunglasses, you chose the Celine Triomphe Oval Sunglasses in Nude Acetate, their soft frame blending seamlessly with the palette of creams, ivories, and warm neutrals, offering just the right touch of understated luxury.

As a backup for spontaneous city strolls, you folded the Zimmermann Halliday Scalloped Floral Linen Midi Dress into your suitcase. With its delicate embroidery and scalloped edges, this dress evokes a romantic, countryside charm. To match its softness, you selected the Manebi Yucatan Raffia Platform Sandals- light, comfortable, and just elevated enough for a gentle lift. For a more playful alternative, the Aquazzura Aloha Flat Sandals in soft blush leather with subtle floral embellishments perfectly echo the dress’s mood. For accessories, you opted for the Chanel Deauville Small Canvas Tote in light pink- a feminine carryall that balances practicality and beauty.

Alternatively, the Valentino Garavani Rockstud Straw Shoulder Bag adds a touch of edginess to the otherwise sweet ensemble. Delicate jewelry was essential. You wore the Tiffany & Co. T Wire Bracelet in rose gold for a clean, refined wrist accent, and adorned your ears with Sophie Bille Brahe Petite Perle Splash Earrings, their soft pearls curving elegantly along the lobe. Finishing the look, you packed your Linda Farrow square-frame sunglasses, lending a subtle vintage appeal. A Zimmermann Straw Sun Hat with a floral silk scarf tied around the crown completed the outfit, perfect for meandering through city streets or browsing weekend markets.

For evenings under starlight, you packed the Zimmermann Tama Lace-Up Corset Top paired with the Tama Wrap Midi Skirt- a flirtatious yet refined ensemble that flowed with romantic ease. You completed the look with the Gianvito Rossi Flavia mirrored leather sandals, their delicate gold straps winding elegantly up your ankles like liquid light, perfect for a slow evening stroll or an intimate rooftop moment. Around your neck, you wore the Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace in yellow gold, its single diamond catching the light like a secret, while your ears sparkled with Van Cleef & Arpels Sweet Alhambra Earrings in mother-of-pearl. On your wrist, a single Cartier Juste un Clou Bracelet in yellow gold added a sleek, quietly rebellious edge. You carried the Bottega Veneta Mini Jodie in ivory Intrecciato leather, its sculptural shape and soft tone bringing the entire look together with a whisper of understated luxury.

Inside your Louis Vuitton Nice BB Vanity Case, you had packed your entire beauty routine: Armani Luminous Silk Foundation, NARS Radiant Creamy Concealer, Charlotte Tilbury Airbrush Flawless Finish Powder, Dior Rosy Glow Blush, Rare Beauty Soft Pinch Liquid Blush, a Tom Ford Eye Color Quad in Honeymoon, Lancôme Monsieur Big Mascara, and your faithful Anastasia Beverly Hills Brow Wiz. Your favourite Pat McGrath Labs Lip Balm, an extra YSL Rouge Volupté Shine Lipstick, and an Hourglass Veil Setting Spray completed the essentials.

Your haircare wasn’t forgotten either. You tucked in a Mason Pearson Pocket Bristle Brush, a Tangle Teezer Compact Styler, mini bottles of Oribe Gold Lust Dry Shampoo, and Gisou Honey Infused Hair Oil. Your Dyson Supersonic Travel Dryer, with its compact diffuser, lay carefully cushioned inside a protective case. For tech, you packed your Apple AirPods Max in silver, your iPhone charger, your MacBook, the charger for your MacBook, and a slim Mophie PowerStation for emergencies.

Tucked within a special pouch was your perfume collection: Your signature Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540 Eau de Parfum, and a travel-sized vial of Byredo Gypsy Water, in case you needed something lighter to suit the mood.

At the very heart of your suitcase, nestled between folds of soft silk, lay the most precious item of all. You reached for it with careful fingers, cradling it in your palm like it might dissolve if you held it too tightly- a custom Cartier bracelet, designed especially for you by Lando for your twenty-first birthday.

It was a reimagining of the classic Cartier Love Bracelet- slimmed down, sleeker, forged in brushed 18k white gold, with a single, hidden pavé diamond set discreetly along the inner band. Inside, pressed against the metal so intimately that only you could ever see it, was the engraving in his unmistakable handwriting:

Always, L.

He had chosen white gold intentionally, once smiling across a candlelit dinner and murmuring in a voice low and certain, "You’re more moonlight than sunshine."

You turned the bracelet over in your hands, thumb brushing over the groove of the engraving, feeling the small ridge where his words had been etched into permanence. You had meant to pack it. You had meant to tuck it away, safe and hidden, waiting for the right moment to wear it.

But now, standing there with the city still sleeping outside the window and your heart racing faster than you could breathe, the thought of locking it away felt unbearable. Wrong.

You slipped the bracelet onto your wrist instead, the clasp clicking shut with a soft, certain sound that echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room. It wasn’t just jewellery. It was a tether. A memory. A piece of his soul wrapped around your wrist- a silent vow you carried with you across oceans, across time, across every impossible mile you had crossed just to find your way back to him.

You pressed your fingers lightly over the cool metal, whispering a promise that only the dark could hear.

Soon.

And with that, you zipped the suitcase closed, your pulse steadying just a little beneath the weight of him, of it, of everything still waiting ahead.

── .✦

8:38 p.m. - Heathrow Airport

The terminal glowed under the soft burnish of late afternoon light, each golden ray filtering through the enormous glass walls like the last breath of a dying day. Heathrow’s First-Class check-in wing gleamed beneath it- polished marble floors that mirrored the haze of travellers drifting by the low murmur of hushed voices blending with the occasional crisp rustle of designer coats and the smooth glide of luxury luggage wheels across the floor.

Everything around you felt suspended, weightless- a muted world cocooned by sterile luxury and quiet urgency. You barely heard any of it. Your breath came shallowly, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, as you stepped up to the counter. The staff worked quickly, practiced smiles and efficiency wrapping around you like an invisible force field. You didn’t even remember offering your passport; it was muscle memory at this point.

A few taps, a few clicks- and then it was there. British Airways Flight 009 to Melbourne. Seat 2A. First Class.

The boarding pass was warm against your palms, almost fragile, as if it could vanish if you blinked too hard. You stared down at the print, tracing the letters with your fingertips, grounding yourself in the reality of it. You were going. You were really doing this.

The walk to the lounge felt dreamlike- a slow drift through glass tunnels and soft-lit hallways, past walls of curated perfumes and champagne bottles, past sharply dressed executives tapping rapidly at their phones. You didn’t belong to their world right now. You weren’t thinking about meetings or miles or private lounges. You were thinking about him.

In the First-Class lounge, you found an armchair tucked against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a quiet corner where you could disappear. You sank into the deep leather, the rich scent of polished hide and fresh coffee wrapping around you. The McLaren hoodie you wore- his hoodie- felt like armour, soft and worn, familiar against the antiseptic coldness of the airport.

A staff member offered you a glass of champagne; you took it automatically, the stem thin and cool against your fingers. You sipped once. Mechanically. Barely tasting the expensive bubbles. Your foot bounced restlessly against the floor, tapping out the frantic rhythm of your heart.

You pulled out your phone, the screen lighting up your face in the gathering dusk.

No text from Lando.

You let out a slow, shaking breath. Strange. But it was fine. You wanted the surprise to be clean- raw- the moment unspoiled by warnings or hints.

Opening Instagram felt dangerous, but you couldn’t help yourself. You found his tag page immediately- it was flooded. Blurred, shaky photos from the grandstands, official team shots of McLaren’s pit wall exploding in a riot of color and cheers, close-ups of Lando soaked in podium champagne, laughing, overwhelmed, alive. You zoomed in on one. His helmet was off, hair damp and curling slightly, eyes alight in a way you hadn’t seen in so long- pure, unfiltered joy.

A tremble passed through you.

Tonight, he would see you. Tonight, he would know you had crossed oceans for him- that when the world roared his name, you were still the girl whispering it first.

You tucked your phone away carefully, cradling it in your hands like it was something precious. Outside the windows, planes taxied in slow, lumbering lines across the runways, bathed in the orange aftermath of sunset. You pressed your forehead lightly against the glass, watching one jet’s engines kick up spirals of mist, the sheer force of it rumbling through the ground into your bones.

It felt like your whole life had been distilled into this single, breathless wait.

── .✦

9:10 p.m. - Boarding the Flight

The boarding call was a low murmur over the speakers, almost lost beneath the steady hum of travellers and the clink of glassware. You rose without thinking, moving on autopilot, guided by something older and deeper than logic.

The private jet bridge unfurled in front of you- carpeted, silent, intimate- a hallway of muted golds and off-whites, far from the chaos of the main gates. Your sneakers, worn and beloved, barely whispered against the floors as you walked.

The first-class cabin of the 777 wrapped around you like a cocoon. It smelled faintly of fresh linen, wood polish, and something sharper underneath- jet fuel, ambition, the pulse of far-off places. The soft lighting above cast everything in a warm, golden glow, blurring the harsh edges of reality.

You found your seat- 2A- and slid into it slowly, as if afraid you might somehow wake from all of this if you moved too fast. The seat- wide enough to swallow you whole- was lined with pale cashmere blankets and an oversized pillow embroidered with the airline’s crest. You tucked yourself into the corner, knees folding up against your chest, cocooned in Lando’s hoodie and the thick blanket, seeking comfort in the small pocket of space you had carved for yourself.

A flight attendant approached, offering another glass of champagne or a pressed juice, her smile serene. You shook your head politely, barely managing to find your voice.

You didn’t want anything. You didn’t need anything.

You pulled the hood up over your hair, shutting out the world, curling deeper into the seat until the low thrum of the engines became the only sound you could focus on.

As the plane taxied slowly down the runway, your fingers found the edge of your boarding pass, still tucked into the pocket of your hoodie. You rubbed the corner absently, grounding yourself.

You closed your eyes.

You pictured him.

You imagined the exact moment he would see you- imagined the disbelief flashing across his face, the way his mouth would part slightly, eyes wide with shock before breaking into that smile that still, after all these years, undid you completely.

You pictured the way his arms would wrap around you- tight, desperate, like he couldn’t believe you were real- the way he would press his forehead to yours, maybe even laugh out loud, breathless with it.

You clung to that image like a lifeline, holding it fiercely against your heart as the plane’s engines roared into life, the force of take-off pushing you back into your seat.

Outside the window, London disappeared into a dark, starless sky.

You didn’t look back.

You were going forward. Toward him. Toward home.

I’m coming, Lando. I’m coming home.

── .✦

3:10 a.m. - Melbourne Airport

The landing gear struck the wet tarmac with a muted thud, jolting you awake in your seat. For a moment you weren’t sure where you were- the cabin lights had dimmed into a soft, dusky blue, casting long shadows over the first-class cabin, and for a few precious seconds, you floated somewhere between dream and reality.

Then you remembered: Melbourne. You had crossed the world for him.

The plane taxied slowly, its tires sending up thin sprays of mist from the slick runway. Outside the small oval window, the city slumbered under a heavy black sky, scattered with the distant flicker of runway lights and the faint neon buzz of terminals still alive at this impossible hour. There were no crowds waiting at the gates. No frantic rush of travellers. Just the slow, lonely shuffle of the few who had dared to fly this far, this late.

You sat back, clutching the edge of Lando’s McLaren hoodie closer around your body, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the scent of worn cotton and faint detergent wrapping around you like armour. The world outside was dark and wet and unfamiliar, but inside the cocoon of his hoodie, he still felt close- as if you could reach back across oceans and find him again.

── .✦

3:42 a.m. - Immigration and Baggage Claim

The terminal was near-empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above your head as you moved through the deserted corridors. The echo of your sneakers tapping against the polished floors was the only real sound, aside from the distant whir of baggage carousels starting up.

At immigration, there was no line. No waiting. The officer barely glanced at you before stamping your passport, his expression blank, almost mechanical in his exhaustion.

You clutched your passport and boarding pass tightly in your hand as you made your way to baggage claim. The RIMOWA carousel had already started its slow, rhythmic churn, the few suitcases tumbling onto the belt under the harsh white lights. You spotted yours almost instantly- the familiar silver glint catching your eye like a beacon. You hauled it down with trembling fingers, the adrenaline of the landing still fizzing in your veins.

The air inside the terminal smelled of rain and concrete and something faintly metallic- like all the stories of arrivals and departures lingering in the walls, long after the people had gone.

You adjusted your grip on the handle, your movements automatic but shaky. The hotel was waiting. And somewhere beyond the shrouded skyline, so was he.

── .✦

4:05 a.m. - Arrivals Hall

The automatic doors sighed open, spilling you into the cold, wet embrace of the Melbourne morning.

Rain misted down steadily from the black sky, catching the halo of the terminal’s floodlights and turning the air silver. The parking bays stretched out in orderly rows, mostly empty at this hour except for a handful of waiting chauffeurs and blinking cab lights.

A black Mercedes-Maybach idled at the curb- understated but unmistakably luxurious, its sleek chassis beaded with rainwater, its tinted windows glowing faintly from the interior lights. The driver stepped forward, wordless, taking your suitcase with practiced efficiency. You murmured a soft thank you, your voice hoarse from hours of disuse, and slid into the backseat.

The leather was cool and soft against your palms. The door closed with a whisper, sealing you into silence.

── .✦

4:09 a.m. - Driving into Melbourne

The car glided away from the curb, tires slicing through thin puddles on the asphalt. Outside, the world blurred- wet roads reflecting the broken lines of streetlights, vacant sidewalks glistening under the rain.

The city was sleeping. Shadows loomed large against the abandoned shopfronts and shuttered cafés. Stoplights blinked lazily through the mist, throwing splashes of red and green across the empty intersections. It was a different Melbourne than the one most people knew- stripped of its bustle, its noise- left raw and soft and waiting.

Inside the car, you sat folded into yourself, forehead pressed lightly to the window. The cold seeped into your skin, but you barely felt it.

Your fingers found the bracelet on your wrist without thinking- the slim, custom Cartier band Lando had given you, the hidden engraving pressed close to your pulse. Always, L.

You turned it slowly against your skin, grounding yourself. You weren’t dreaming. You were here. You were closer than you had been in what felt like forever.

The rain picked up, drumming a soft, steady rhythm against the roof of the car.

You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it all in. The clean, rain-drenched scent of the city. The ache of exhaustion curling in your bones. The way your heart leapt higher with every passing street, every flicker of neon dragging you closer to him.

4:28 a.m. - Hotel Arrival

The Maybach pulled up to the hotel’s private entrance- a hidden driveway lit by discreet wall sconces, the pavement slick and shining in the rain. The building towered above you- sleek glass and stone wrapped in soft golden lights- a quiet fortress against the sleeping city.

The concierge opened the door before you even reached it, ushering you inside with a soft nod, respectful of the late hour. The lobby was dim, lit only by pools of warm light spilling from under marble pillars. Fresh-cut orchids perfumed the air- crisp, sweet, and a little dizzying after the cold outside.

You barely heard the check-in process. You simply nodded, signed where they pointed, accepted the card key with numb fingers.

Room 1703.

Your suitcase bumped softly behind you as you crossed the marble floor toward the elevators.

The silence inside the elevator was absolute- a velvet hush broken only by the soft mechanical hum of the ascent. You watched your reflection in the polished steel walls- wide eyes, tangled hair, the hoodie drowning your frame, making you look smaller, younger, infinitely more breakable.

You tightened your grip on the suitcase handle until your knuckles whitened.

You could do this. You had come all this way. You could wait just a little longer.

── .✦

4:41 a.m. - Inside the Hotel Room

The suite exhaled around you when you stepped inside, its air thick with stillness and something unspoken- something trembling just beneath the quiet. You let the door click shut behind you, setting the RIMOWA suitcase down by the wall with a dull thud that seemed too loud in the sleeping city.

For a moment, you simply stood there, the weight of the day- the weight of all the days that had led you here- pressing down until your shoulders sagged under it. The air smelled faintly of rain and new carpet and a hint of something floral- orchids maybe, tucked into some hidden corner you couldn't see.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Melbourne stretched endlessly, blurred and silvered by mist and the steady pulse of city lights. It didn’t feel like a city at all; it felt like a dream suspended just beyond the glass, waiting.

You crossed the room slowly, your body heavy with the ache of travel, the emotional whiplash of hope and fear and longing. The McLaren hoodie slid from your shoulders almost reverently, as if it, too, understood that its job was done- at least for now. You draped it over the velvet armchair carefully, smoothing out the sleeves. A promise laid down like a marker in the night.

Peeling off your sneakers and socks felt like shedding the final layers of the journey you had fought through to get here. You padded barefoot across the thick carpet, the fibres soft and springy under your toes, the kind of luxury you had once imagined sharing with him during late-night hotel stays after long races. The memories twisted sharp and sweet in your chest.

At the window, you pressed your forehead to the cool glass, your breath misting it into a ghostly circle.

The city below looked endless. And somewhere in that sea of light and darkness, he was laughing, living, shining in the way you always knew he could.

You closed your eyes and whispered it- a prayer, a vow, a simple, sacred truth: "I'm here, Lando."

You turned away, the cold of the window still biting your skin, and crawled onto the bed without even peeling back the covers. The weight of the hotel duvet swallowed you whole, cocooning you, making you feel both protected and heartbreakingly small.

Sleep pulled at you hard, but excitement fought it- a tremulous, burning thing that kept your hands clenched in the fabric of the blanket, your heart hammering in your chest.

Somewhere in the folds of consciousness, you remembered the alarm you had set- the one you had double-checked three times before collapsing into bed. The thought comforted you in a strange way, like he had somehow helped guide you here across all the miles.

You pressed your face deeper into the pillow.

In a few short hours, you would stand before him again. And for the first time in too long, you would be exactly where you belonged.

Home.

── .✦

4:45 p.m. - Waking Up

The alarm cut through the silence with a sharp, vibrating buzz, dragging you up from the bottom of sleep. You surfaced slowly, your body stiff and sluggish, but your mind was already leaping ahead- the tidal wave of nerves and hope crashing back into you all at once.

You sat up groggily, rubbing your hands over your face, the bracelet cool and solid against your wrist- the same way it had been when you first fastened it on back in London.

The room was bathed in golden dusk now, the city outside beginning to pulse alive as lights flickered on in office buildings and cars began to thread through the wet streets below.

You rose from the bed carefully, every movement deliberate, almost ceremonial. Today mattered. Every second of it.

You moved toward the bathroom, feeling the thick carpet drag against your toes, grounding you in the here and now.

── .✦

5:01 p.m. - The Shower

The bathroom lights buzzed faintly as you flicked them on. The marble gleamed under the soft lighting, pristine, untouched, like a sanctuary you were about to step into.

You turned the shower on full blast, waiting until the bathroom filled with steam, clouding the mirror, blurring the edges of reality into something softer, something kinder.

The water was almost scalding when you stepped beneath it- just the way you liked it- the heat burning the remnants of exhaustion from your skin.

You stood there for a moment, letting it pound against your back, against your face, against the trembling place where hope lived just under your ribcage.

You reached for your Oribe Gold Lust Repair & Restore Shampoo, the scent of bergamot and jasmine immediately filling the air, reminding you faintly of the nights you used to steal his shirts just to smell him longer. You lathered it into your scalp, massaging in slow, thorough circles, feeling the weight of the journey wash away with every pass of your fingers.

You rinsed and followed with Oribe Gold Lust Conditioner, combing it gently through the ends, smoothing the frayed pieces of yourself back into something whole.

Next, you reached for Nécessaire The Body Wash in Sandalwood, pouring it into your hands and working it into a thick lather across your skin. The scent- rich, woodsy, grounding- wrapped around you, pulling you into your body, reminding you that you were real, that tonight was real.

When it came time to shave, you slowed down even further- spreading the Flamingo Foaming Shave Gel in soft, luxurious layers across your legs, your arms, every inch of you that the silk gown would touch. The razor slid smoothly, leaving your skin pristine, impossibly soft.

You even shaved your underarms, the backs of your knees, your toes- every tiny detail- the way you always did when it mattered most. You remembered racing mornings, getting ready to watch him, shaving carefully so you could wear shorts, feeling that same wild, giddy hope fluttering under your skin.

You rinsed off one final time, letting the water run down your body like a blessing.

When you finally stepped out onto the marble floor, the air outside the shower was freezing against your overheated skin, goosebumps blooming instantly. You wrapped yourself in a thick towel, hugging it around your chest, standing in the lingering steam.

── .✦

5:33 p.m. - Haircare

You towel-dried your hair gently, careful not to rough it up, before smoothing a few pumps of Gisou Honey Infused Hair Oil through the strands- the sweet, summery scent curling around your wrists.

You misted Oribe Royal Blowout Spray next, lifting sections of hair and smoothing it through. You wanted your hair soft, luminous, undone but perfect- like the kind of beauty that didn’t need to try too hard.

You blow-dried it slowly, using your Dyson Supersonic with the smoothing nozzle, letting the strands fall into place like silk ribbons across your shoulders.

When you were finished, you ran your fingers through the waves- soft, loose, romantic- letting it tumble naturally around your collarbones, the way it used to when he first started staring at you a little too long when you laughed.

── .✦

6:03 p.m. - Skincare Ritual

You padded barefoot back to the vanity, towel wrapped loosely around you, your reflection fogged slightly in the mirror from the lingering heat.

You picked up the small jar of La Mer The Cleansing Gel, smoothing it over your skin in delicate circles, washing away the last remnants of flight fatigue and city grime. The familiar scent- soft, clean, oceanic- wrapped around you, and for a moment, it felt like London again. The nights you'd spend meticulously preparing for his races, lining up tiny bottles on a hotel vanity just like this one, stealing moments to yourself before the world demanded everything from you both.

You patted your skin dry with a plush towel and reached next for the Augustinus Bader the Essence, pressing it into your cheeks, your forehead, your chin- feeling your skin drink it in like parched earth finding rain.

Then came La Mer the Concentrate, warmed between your fingers, smoothed along the lines of your face. It left your skin plump, luminous, alive- as if lighting it from within.

Finally, you sealed everything in with a thick layer of La Mer Crème de la Mer, pressing it into your skin slowly, methodically, the way someone might smooth the petals of a precious flower.

You took your time. You let the ritual soothe the tremble in your hands. You let it remind you that you were real- that tonight was real.

── .✦

6:32 p.m. - Choosing the Lingerie

You crossed to your suitcase and unzipped the second compartment carefully- the one you had packed with trembling hands back in London.

Your fingers brushed over delicate fabric- the La Perla white lace set you had chosen specifically for tonight.

You lifted it from the folds of tissue paper like it might disintegrate if you weren’t gentle- soft white lace, nearly translucent, stitched into the lightest whisper of a bra and a matching set of barely-there panties.

You held it against your skin for a moment, feeling the lace catch lightly on your fingertips.

Wearing white tonight- not black, not red- had been a choice. A statement. A promise. You weren't here to seduce him.

You were here to come home to him.

You slipped into the lingerie slowly, savouring the feeling of the delicate fabric against your freshly shaven skin, the cool lace moulding to your body like a second, secret layer of confidence.

You caught your reflection briefly in the mirror and smiled- soft, shy, a little sad. He had once called you his angel in a hotel room just like this one- half-laughing, half-awed, his hands clumsy with wonder. You wondered if he would think of that time tonight, maybe even say those same words to you again.

You hoped he would.

── .✦

6:50 p.m. - Dressing

You turned to the bed where the dress waited, draped carefully across the covers like something sacred.

The Oscar de la Renta Ombré Silk Chiffon Gown looked even more ethereal in the dying light- the gradient from ivory to plum so soft it seemed painted by hand, the silk rippling as if breathing on its own.

Your hands trembled slightly as you lifted it.

You stepped into the gown slowly, pulling it up over your hips, letting the bodice Mold to your curves with the ease of something inevitable.

The silk slid over your skin like a sigh, the fitted sweetheart neckline framing your collarbones, the delicate cinch of the waist pulling you into shape without suffocating.

The skirt floated around your ankles, weightless, moving with every shift of your body like mist.

You stood still for a moment, just feeling it- the weight, the movement, the dream of it- and for a split second, you felt like you were suspended between two worlds: the girl who had left London with nothing but hope, and the woman who was about to change everything.

You slipped into the Jimmy Choo Minny Metallic Leather Sandals, the silver straps gleaming subtly against your ankles.

Then the accessories- The Harry Winston Cluster Diamond Earrings, each stone catching the light and throwing it back in tiny, perfect flares. The Boucheron Serpent Bohème Pendant Necklace, the diamond resting lightly against the soft hollow of your throat.

The Cartier Love Bracelet still circled your wrist- silent, steady, his promise hidden against your pulse.

You caught your reflection in the mirror and froze.

You looked... unearthly.

Soft and strong at once. Romantic and real. The kind of beauty that didn't shout, but simply stood there, unshakable, undeniable.

You swallowed hard against the sudden lump rising in your throat.

Tonight, he would see you.

And he would remember exactly what it meant to have ever let you go.

── .✦

7:15 p.m. - Makeup

You sat at the vanity again, the mirror catching the fading light as you began your makeup with careful, reverent hands.

You buffed Armani Luminous Silk Foundation in sheer layers, letting the natural glow of your skin shine through. You dotted NARS Radiant Creamy Concealer only where you needed it- under your eyes, around your nose- blending it until it disappeared completely.

You swept a soft veil of Charlotte Tilbury Airbrush Flawless Finish Powder over your T-zone, leaving the rest of your skin dewy and luminous.

For blush, you chose Dior Rosy Glow, brushing it high across your cheekbones- a soft bloom of color, as if you had just come in from laughing too hard in the cold.

Your eyes stayed understated- a gentle wash of champagne shimmer from your Tom Ford Eye Quad, deepened with the faintest trace of warm brown in the crease, just enough to make your eyes look larger, more awake.

You curled your lashes and coated them with a single, defining sweep of Lancôme Monsieur Big Mascara- letting your lashes fan out like wings.

Your brows were brushed up softly with Anastasia Beverly Hills Brow Gel, left natural and untouched, because you wanted every part of you to feel real.

And your lips- You layered Dior Addict Lip Glow, then a kiss of Dior Lip Maximizer Gloss. Your mouth looked soft, flushed, kissable- like a secret waiting to be told.

── .✦

7:55 p.m. - Perfume

You uncapped the slim travel bottle of Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540, holding it between your fingers like a final piece of armour.

You misted it behind your knees, at your wrists, at the base of your throat, at the small of your back. Not too much- just enough that when he pulled you into his arms, he'd breathe it in and know, instantly, that it was you.

You closed your eyes and let the scent settle into your skin, the silk of your gown, the hollow of your collarbones.

You were ready.

No- You were more than ready.

You were inevitable.

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