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pucksandpower · 10 months ago

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Black Widow

Toto Wolff x black widow!Reader

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and George Russell are convinced you’re trying to kill their team principal, and, to be fair, you do have a trail of seven dead extremely wealthy husbands behind you … but it’s not what they think, you promise

The soft beep of medical equipment provides a rhythmic backdrop as you sit beside the ornate mahogany bed, your manicured fingers intertwined with those of your latest husband, Reginald Worthington III.

At 89 years old, Reggie, as you affectionately call him, is by far your oldest conquest yet. His wrinkled face, now gaunt from months of illness, still manages a weak smile as he gazes at you.

“My darling,” Reggie wheezes, his voice barely above a whisper, “I hope you know how much joy you’ve brought to these final months of mine.”

You lean in, your silky hair cascading over your shoulder as you press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Oh, Reggie. The pleasure has been all mine.”

It’s not entirely a lie. While you don’t love Reggie — or any of your previous husbands, for that matter — you’ve grown fond of the old codger. He’s certainly been the most amusing of your elderly spouses.

Reggie’s eyes twinkle with mischief, a ghost of the rakish playboy he must have been in his youth. “Now, now, my dear. We both know this has been a mutually beneficial arrangement. But I do hope I’ve provided some entertainment along the way.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’ve been a delight, darling. Truly.”

As if on cue, Reggie is seized by a coughing fit. You quickly grab a glass of water from the bedside table, helping him take small sips until the spasms subside. When he catches his breath, he fixes you with a serious look.

“Y/N, there’s something I need to tell you. About the will.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face carefully neutral. “Reggie, please. We don’t need to discuss such morbid topics.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. We both know why you’re here, and it’s not to admire the wallpaper. Now listen, because this is important.”

You lean in closer, curiosity piqued despite yourself.

Reggie’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “In addition to the usual — the houses, the cars, the offshore accounts — I’m leaving you my stake in the Mercedes Formula 1 team.”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. “The racing team? Reggie, I had no idea you were involved with-”

He cuts you off with a wheezy laugh. “Oh, my dear. There’s so much you don’t know about me. Did you think I made my fortune selling denture cream?”

You can’t help but smile. “Well, I did wonder about all those trophies in your study.”

“Remnants of a misspent youth,” Reggie says with a wistful sigh. “But this, this is my crowning achievement. A 33% stake in one of the most successful F1 teams in history.”

Your mind reels at the implications. This is far beyond anything you’d anticipated when you’d set your sights on Reginald Worthington III.

“Reggie, I ... I don’t know what to say.”

He pats your hand affectionately. “You don’t have to say anything, my dear. Just promise me you’ll make the most of it. I’ve always admired your ambition. It reminds me of myself at your age.”

You lean back in your chair, studying the old man before you. In that moment, you feel a surge of genuine affection for him.

“I promise, Reggie. I’ll make you proud.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, tell me about the others. I want to know how I measure up to my predecessors.”

You laugh, shaking your head in amazement. “Are you sure? It’s quite a list.”

Reggie’s eyes sparkle with interest. “My dear, I’m on my deathbed. Regale me with tales of your conquests.”

With a theatrical sigh, you begin. “Well, if you insist. Let’s see ... first, there was Harold.”

“Ah, the virgin husband,” Reggie interrupts with a knowing nod.

You raise an eyebrow. “And how did you know that?”

He winks. “I have my sources. Go on.”

“Right. Well, Harold was a sweet man. A bit naive, perhaps, but genuinely kind. He left me his tech startup. It wasn’t worth much at the time, but I sold it for a tidy sum a year later.”

Reggie nods approvingly. “Smart move. Who was next?”

“After Harold came George. He was ... intense. A retired army general with a penchant for war stories and expensive scotch. Left me his collection of rare military memorabilia.”

“Fascinating,” Reggie murmurs. “And the others?”

You tick them off on your fingers. “Let’s see ... there was Joaquin, the passionate Spanish chef. He left me his Michelin-starred restaurants. Then came Dmitri, the Russian oligarch. That was ... an experience.”

Reggie chuckles. “I bet it was. What did he leave you?”

“A series of shell companies and a rather gaudy yacht. I sold the yacht, kept the companies.” You pause, lost in thought for a moment. “After Dmitri was William, the British lord. Lovely man, terrible teeth. Left me his crumbling estate and title.”

“So you’re technically a lady now?” Reggie asks, amused.

You nod. “Lady Y/N, at your service. Though I don’t use the title much. It tends to raise questions.”

“Understandable. And the last one before me?”

Your expression softens slightly. “Ah, that was Hiroshi. Japanese tech mogul. Brilliant mind, but so lonely. I think I was the first real companionship he’d had in years.”

Reggie studies you carefully. “You were fond of him.”

You nod, a bit surprised by the lump in your throat. “I was. He ... he understood me, I think. More than the others.”

There’s a moment of silence as Reggie processes this information. Finally, he speaks. “And what did Hiroshi leave you?”

You smile wryly. “His AI research company. It’s been ... interesting, to say the least.”

Reggie nods slowly. “Quite a collection you’ve amassed, my dear. But tell me, what drives you? Surely it’s not just the money.”

You’re taken aback by the question. No one has ever asked you that before. You take a moment to gather your thoughts.

“I suppose ... it’s the challenge of it all. The thrill of reinventing myself with each new husband, of navigating these complex worlds they inhabit. And yes, the wealth is nice, but it’s more about what I can do with it.”

Reggie leans forward, intrigued. “And what is it you want to do?”

You pause, realizing you’ve never really articulated this to anyone before. “I want to make a difference. Real, lasting change. These men, they’ve all built empires in their own ways, but they’ve been limited by their own mortality. I don’t have those limitations yet. I can take what they’ve given me and create something ... more.”

Reggie’s eyes light up with understanding. “Ah, now I see why I was drawn to you. You’re not just a pretty face or a clever mind. You’re a visionary.”

You feel a flush of pride at his words. “I try to be. Each husband has taught me something new, given me tools I never had before. Harold showed me the potential of technology. George taught me strategy. Joaquin, the importance of passion in one’s work. Dmitri, how to navigate the murky waters of international business. William gave me a glimpse into old-world power structures. And Hiroshi ... well, he opened my eyes to the future.”

Reggie nods slowly. “And what have I taught you, I wonder?”

You smile softly. “Patience, Reggie. The long game. And the value of a good sense of humor in the face of adversity.”

He chuckles weakly. “Well, I’m glad I could contribute something to your education. Now, about this F1 team ...”

You lean in, eager to hear more. “Yes?”

“It’s more than just a racing team, you know. It’s a pinnacle of engineering, a testament to human ingenuity and the constant push for improvement. I think you’ll find it fits quite well with your ambitions.”

You nod slowly, mind already racing with possibilities. “I can see that. The technology, the global platform, the prestige ...”

Reggie grins. “Exactly. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find husband number eight in the paddock.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, Reggie. Always thinking ahead, aren’t you?”

He winks. “Someone has to. Now, promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” you say, and you’re surprised to find you mean it.

“When you’re accepting that championship trophy — because I know you will — wear something fabulous. Give those stuffy old men in the paddock something to talk about.”

You can’t help but grin. “Oh, don’t worry. I intend to shake things up a bit.”

Reggie nods approvingly. “That’s my girl. Now, I think I need to rest for a bit. But don’t go far. I want to hear all about your plans for world domination when I wake up.”

As you watch Reggie drift off to sleep, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Sadness at the impending loss of this charming old rogue, excitement at the unexpected opportunity he’s given you, and a renewed sense of purpose.

You glance at your reflection in the ornate mirror across the room. Lady Y/N Y/L/N, soon-to-be racing magnate. It has a nice ring to it.

As you settle back into your chair, you begin to plan your next moves. The motorsport world won’t know what hit it.

***

The sleek boardroom of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team headquarters buzzes with hushed conversation. Around the polished mahogany table, team executives and board members huddle in small groups, their voices low and urgent.

Toto catches snippets of conversation as he reviews his notes for the meeting.

“Did you hear? She’s actually coming today,” whispers Bradley, the team’s financial officer.

Sarah, head of marketing, leans in. “I can’t believe Reginald left her his stake. What was he thinking?”

“Probably wasn’t thinking with his head, if you know what I mean,” chuckles Thomas, the technical director.

Toto clears his throat, silencing the gossip. “Let’s keep things professional, shall we? We have important matters to discuss today.”

As if on cue, the boardroom door swings open. The room falls into an immediate, almost eerie silence as you stride in, turning heads with every click of your Manolo Blahnik heels against the polished floor.

Toto finds himself holding his breath, caught off guard by your presence. He’s seen photos, of course, but they didn’t do you justice. Your tailored Armani suit exudes power and confidence, while your eyes scan the room with a shrewd intelligence that sends a shiver down his spine.

You take your seat at the far end of the table, directly opposite Toto. “Good morning, everyone. I hope I’m not late.”

Your voice, smooth as silk with a hint of amusement, breaks the spell. The room erupts into a flurry of awkward greetings and nervous coughs.

Toto clears his throat again, trying to regain control of the situation. “Not at all. We were just about to begin. Welcome, Lady Worthington. We’re honored to have you join us today.”

You smile, a dazzling display that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Please, call me Y/N. We’re all colleagues here, after all.”

Toto nods, fighting to keep his composure. “Of course, Y/N. Shall we begin with the agenda?”

As the meeting progresses, Toto finds himself increasingly distracted. He’s used to being the most commanding presence in any room, but your arrival has shifted the dynamic entirely. Every time you speak, offering insights or asking pointed questions, the rest of the board seems to hold its breath.

“I’ve been reviewing our sustainability initiatives,” you say during a lull in the conversation. “While I applaud our efforts so far, I believe we could be doing more. Formula 1 has an unique platform to drive innovation in green technologies. We should be leading the charge, not just following along.”

Bradley shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “With all due respect, Lady- I mean, Y/N, implementing new sustainability measures could be quite costly. We need to consider the bottom line.”

You lean forward, fixing Bradley with an intense gaze. “And what about the cost of falling behind? Of being seen as out of touch with the concerns of younger fans? Sometimes, you have to spend money to make money.”

Toto finds himself nodding in agreement before he even realizes it. “Y/N raises an excellent point. Perhaps we should form a task force to explore more aggressive sustainability options.”

You flash him a grateful smile, and Toto feels his heart skip a beat. He quickly looks down at his notes, trying to regain his composure.

As the meeting continues, you consistently challenge the status quo, pushing for bolder strategies and innovative approaches. Toto watches in fascination as you deftly navigate the complex dynamics of the board, alternating between charm and steel as the situation demands.

During a discussion about driver development, you interject again. “I’ve been looking into our junior driver program, and I think we’re missing opportunities. We’re too focused on traditional racing backgrounds. What about sim racers? Or scouting karters from developing countries? We could be tapping into a whole new pool of talent.”

Sarah, the marketing head, perks up at this. “That’s ... actually a brilliant idea. It could really broaden our appeal, especially in emerging markets.”

You nod appreciatively. “Exactly. And imagine the stories we could tell. The sim racer who became an F1 champion or the kid from a small village who rose to the top of motorsport. That’s the kind of narrative that builds brand loyalty and inspires the next generation of fans.”

Toto finds himself leaning forward, completely engrossed. “I love this direction. Y/N, would you be willing to work with Sarah to develop a proposal for expanding our driver search?”

“Of course,” you reply with a smile that makes Toto’s pulse quicken. “I’d be delighted.”

As the meeting winds down, Toto realizes that the entire dynamic of the board has shifted. The initial wariness towards you has given way to a mixture of respect and curiosity. Even those who seemed most skeptical at the start are now hanging on your every word.

“Well,” Toto says, glancing at his watch, “I think that concludes our agenda for today. Unless anyone has any other matters to discuss?”

The room is silent for a moment before you speak up. “Actually, if I may, I’d like to address the elephant in the room.”

A tense hush falls over the gathering. Toto holds his breath, unsure of what’s coming next.

You stand, your posture relaxed but commanding. “I’m aware of the rumors and speculation surrounding my ... personal life. I want to assure all of you that my presence here is purely professional. I’m not here to cause drama or upheaval. I’m here because I believe in the potential of this team and this sport. I hope that over time, you’ll come to judge me based on my contributions, not on gossip or hearsay.”

The sincerity in your voice is palpable, and Toto can see the effect it has on the room. Shoulders relax, expressions soften. There’s a collective exhale, as if a weight has been lifted.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Toto says, standing as well. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we look forward to working with you and seeing what fresh perspectives you can bring to the team.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. As the meeting officially adjourns, people begin to gather their things and file out of the room. Toto notices that several board members linger, clearly hoping to have a word with you. He feels an unexpected twinge of jealousy.

Before he can second-guess himself, Toto makes his way around the table to where you’re chatting with Sarah about the junior driver program idea.

“Excuse me,” he says, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. “Y/N, I was wondering if I could have a word?”

You turn to him with a smile that makes his heart race. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

He takes a deep breath, acutely aware of the curious glances from the remaining board members. “I was impressed by your insights today. I think there’s a lot we could discuss further about the future direction of the team. Would you perhaps be interested in continuing this conversation over dinner?”

A hush falls over the remaining occupants of the room. Toto can practically feel the weight of their stares, but he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

You raise an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement playing across your features. “Dinner? My, my, Toto. Aren’t you afraid of me? I do have quite the reputation, you know.”

There’s a challenge in your voice, but also a hint of vulnerability that catches Toto off guard. He realizes that beneath your confident exterior, you’re testing him, gauging his true intentions.

Toto meets your gaze steadily, his voice low but firm. “I don’t put much stock in rumors. I prefer to form my own opinions based on what I see and experience. And what I’ve seen today is a brilliant, passionate individual who could be a tremendous asset to this team. That’s the person I’m interested in getting to know better.”

The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for your response. You study Toto for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spreads across your face.

“Well, in that case, I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

Toto feels a rush of relief and excitement. “Eight o’clock sounds perfect. I know just the place.”

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Toto can’t help but feel like he’s standing on the precipice of something monumental. He’s built his career on calculated risks, on seeing potential where others see danger. Looking at you, he knows that this might be the biggest gamble of his life.

But as you turn to give him one last smile before exiting the boardroom, Toto is certain of one thing: it’s a risk he’s more than willing to take.

***

The Monaco Grand Prix paddock buzzes with excitement, a hive of activity as teams prepare for the most glamorous race on the Formula 1 calendar. Lewis Hamilton and George Russell huddle in a quiet corner of the Mercedes garage, their voices low and urgent.

“I’m telling you, mate, something’s not right,” George insists, his eyes darting around to ensure they’re not overheard. “Have you seen the way Toto’s been acting lately? It’s like he’s under some kind of spell.”

Lewis nods grimly, his usual pre-race focus replaced by concern. “I know what you mean. Ever since she came into the picture, it’s like he’s a different person. Always distracted, making decisions that don’t quite add up.”

“Exactly!” George exclaims, then quickly lowers his voice again. “And have you noticed how she’s always around now? At every meeting, every strategy session. It’s like she’s trying to learn all our secrets.”

Lewis furrows his brow, deep in thought. “You don’t think ... I mean, surely she wouldn’t actually try to ...”

“Kill him?” George finishes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, mate. But look at her track record. Seven husbands, all dead within months of marrying her. And now she’s got her claws into Toto.”

As if summoned by their conversation, you appear at the entrance of the garage, Toto at your side. The team principal’s hand rests comfortably on the small of your back as he leads you through the bustling workspace.

Lewis and George fall silent, watching intently as you make your way towards them. Your designer sundress and oversized sunglasses scream understated elegance, but to the two drivers, you might as well be wearing a black widow’s web.

“Good morning,” Toto calls out cheerfully. “Ready for qualifying?”

Lewis forces a smile, his eyes never leaving you. “Morning, Toto. Yeah, we were just discussing strategy.”

You step forward, flashing a dazzling smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. I’m still learning all the intricacies of race weekends.”

George clears his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Not at all. We were just finishing up.”

Toto beams, looking from you to his drivers with pride. “Isn’t it wonderful having Y/N here? She’s already brought so many fresh ideas to the team. I don’t know how we managed without her.”

You laugh, a sound that sends chills down Lewis and George’s spines. “Oh, darling, you’re exaggerating. I’m sure these boys were doing just fine before I came along.”

As you speak, your hand reaches up to smooth Toto’s collar, a gesture that seems innocent enough but makes both drivers tense.

Lewis clears his throat. “Actually, Toto, could we have a quick word? About the, uh, tire strategy?”

Toto looks surprised but nods. “Of course. Y/N, would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Not at all,” you reply smoothly. “I’ll just go chat with the mechanics. I’m fascinated by all this technology.”

As you saunter away, Lewis and George exchange a meaningful glance. This is their chance.

“Toto,” Lewis begins, choosing his words carefully. “We’re a bit concerned. About you, actually.”

Toto’s brow furrows in confusion. “Concerned? What do you mean?”

George jumps in, his words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s just that ... well, things have been different since you started seeing her. And given her history ...”

“Her history?” Toto repeats, his voice taking on an edge. “What exactly are you implying?”

Lewis takes a deep breath. “Toto, we care about you. And we can’t help but notice that Y/N’s previous partners have all met with ... unfortunate ends.”

For a moment, Toto just stares at them, his expression unreadable. Then, to their surprise, he bursts out laughing.

“Oh, boys,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I appreciate your concern, truly. But I assure you, it’s misplaced. Y/N has been nothing but a positive influence on both me and the team.”

George persists, his voice urgent. “But Toto, you have to admit, the pattern is alarming. Seven husbands, all dead within months of marriage. And now she’s here, learning all about our team, our strategies ...”

Toto’s amusement fades, replaced by a stern look. “That’s enough. I understand you’re worried, but I won’t have you spreading baseless rumors. Y/N is here because she’s a part-owner of this team and because I invited her. End of discussion.”

As Toto walks away, Lewis and George share a look of dismay.

“He’s in too deep,” Lewis mutters. “We need to do something.”

George nods grimly. “We can’t let her hurt him. Or the team. We need a plan.”

Throughout the day, as qualifying unfolds, Lewis and George find themselves constantly distracted. Every time they catch a glimpse of you in the garage or on the pit wall, their imaginations run wild.

During a brief break between sessions, they overhear a snippet of conversation between you and one of the engineers.

“So, if something were to go wrong with the car during the race,” you’re saying, “what would be the most catastrophic point of failure?”

The engineer launches into a detailed explanation of various mechanical vulnerabilities, unaware of the horrified looks on the drivers’ faces.

“She’s gathering intel,” George whispers to Lewis. “Probably planning some sort of accident for Toto.”

Lewis nods, his jaw set with determination. “We need to warn him again. Make him see reason.”

But their attempts to get Toto alone prove futile. You seem to be constantly by his side, your hand on his arm, whispering in his ear. To an outsider, it might look like the actions of a loving girlfriend, but to Lewis and George, every gesture seems calculated and sinister.

As the day wears on, their paranoia grows. They start seeing threats everywhere. When you hand Toto a bottle of water, they’re convinced it’s poisoned. When you suggest he take a look at something in the back of the garage, they’re sure you’re luring him away to do him harm.

Finally, as the sun begins to set over the Monaco harbor, they decide they can’t wait any longer. They need to confront you directly.

They find you alone in the hospitality area, reviewing some papers. As they approach, you look up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Lewis, George,” you greet them warmly. “Excellent qualifying today. You must be pleased.”

Lewis takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Cut the act. We know what you’re up to.”

Your expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in your eyes. “I’m not sure I understand. What exactly am I up to?”

George steps forward, his voice low and intense. “We know about your husbands. All seven of them. And we’re not going to let you add Toto to that list.”

For a moment, you just stare at them, your face unreadable. Then, to their surprise, you burst out laughing.

“Oh,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “Is that what this is all about? You think I’m here to kill Toto?”

Lewis and George exchange confused glances, thrown off by your reaction.

You lean in, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me tell you a little secret. Those men? They were all terminally ill when I married them. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple. They got to spend their last months with a young, beautiful wife, and I got their fortunes. No foul play involved.”

The drivers stare at you, speechless. You continue, your tone becoming more serious.

“As for Toto, well, that’s different. For the first time in my life, I’ve found someone I genuinely care for. Someone who sees me for who I am, not just what I can offer. I’m not here to hurt him or the team. I’m here because I want to be part of something meaningful.”

Lewis and George exchange uncertain glances, their convictions shaken.

“But ... all the questions about the car, the team strategies ...” George begins.

You roll your eyes, a hint of amusement in your voice. “I’m a part-owner of this team now, remember? Of course I’m trying to learn everything I can. How else can I contribute?”

As the truth of your words sinks in, Lewis and George begin to feel a creeping sense of embarrassment. They’ve let their imaginations and preconceptions run wild, seeing threats where there were none.

“I ... we ...” Lewis stammers, struggling to find the right words.

You hold up a hand, stopping him. “It’s alright. I understand. My reputation precedes me, and you were just looking out for Toto. I can respect that.”

George rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “We may have gotten a bit carried away. I’m sorry.”

You smile, and this time it reaches your eyes. “Apology accepted. Now, what do you say we put this behind us and focus on winning tomorrow’s race?”

As if on cue, Toto appears, looking between the three of you with curiosity. “Everything alright here?”

You stand, moving to his side and slipping your arm through his. “Everything’s perfect, darling. In fact, I think Lewis and George were just about to share some ideas they had for the race strategy. Weren’t you, boys?”

Lewis and George nod, grateful for the out you’ve given them. As they launch into a discussion about tire management and overtaking opportunities, they can’t help but marvel at how wrong they’ve been.

Watching you interact with Toto, they see not a black widow spinning her web, but a woman genuinely in love, bringing out the best in their team principal. They realize that sometimes, people can surprise you. And sometimes, the most unexpected additions to a team can be the most valuable.

***

The soft glow of chandeliers bathes the exclusive Monégasque restaurant in warm light, casting elegant shadows across the faces of Monaco’s elite. Grigori Volkov, a grizzled veteran of the Russian underworld, sips his vodka, his weathered face a mask of careful neutrality as he surveys the room.

His eyes narrow as they land on a familiar figure across the crowded dining area. It can’t be, he thinks, leaning forward for a better look. But there’s no mistaking that face, those eyes that have haunted his dreams and nightmares for years.

You.

Grigori watches as you laugh, your hand resting lightly on the arm of a tall, distinguished-looking man. He recognizes him vaguely. But what catches Grigori off guard is the easy intimacy between you, the matching wedding bands glinting in the low light.

For a moment, Grigori considers slipping out unnoticed. But curiosity gets the better of him. He signals the waiter, ordering another round of drinks to be sent to your table.

As the waiter approaches with the drinks, Grigori sees your posture stiffen slightly, your eyes scanning the room until they lock onto his. He raises his glass in a small salute, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You lean in, whispering something to Toto. The man looks surprised but nods, and together you make your way towards Grigori’s table.

“Grigori,” you greet him, your voice a mix of warmth and wariness. “It’s been a long time.”

Grigori stands, bowing slightly. “Indeed it has, my dear. You’re looking well. And who might this be?”

Toto extends his hand, his grip firm. “Toto Wolff. And you are?”

“An old friend of your wife’s,” Grigori replies smoothly, noting the flicker of surprise in Toto’s eyes at the word ’wife’. “Grigori Volkov. I knew Y/N back in her Russian days.”

You gesture to the empty chairs. “May we join you?”

Grigori nods, waving expansively. “Please, be my guests.”

As you settle in, Grigori can’t help but study Toto more closely. He’s younger than expected, vital and alert. Not at all what he’d imagined for your latest conquest.

“So, Toto,” Grigori begins, his accent thick with amusement, “how long have you and our dear Y/N been married?”

Toto smiles, his hand finding yours on the table. “Just over two years now. Best decision I ever made.”

Grigori’s eyebrows shoot up. “Two years? My, my. That’s quite impressive.”

You shoot him a warning look, but Toto just looks confused. “I’m not sure I follow. Why is that impressive?”

Grigori chuckles, taking a long sip of his vodka. “Oh, forgive me. I just meant that Y/N here has always been something of a ... how do you say ... free spirit? Never one to be tied down for long.”

You interject quickly, “People change, Grigori. I’ve found what I was looking for.”

Grigori nods, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Indeed they do. And what of your ... other interests? The ones you inherited from dear Dmitri?”

Toto’s brow furrows. “Dmitri? I’m afraid I don’t know much about Y/N’s ex-husbands.”

“Ex-husbands?” Grigori repeats, feigning surprise. “Oh, but Dmitri was special, wasn’t he? After all, not every day one inherits a slice of the Bratva.”

The color drains from Toto’s face as he turns to you. “The Bratva? As in, the Russian mob?”

You sigh, shooting Grigori a glare that could freeze vodka. “It’s complicated, darling. And very much in the past.”

Grigori leans back, thoroughly enjoying the drama unfolding before him. “Oh, come now, Y/N. Surely your husband deserves to know the truth? About your colorful past, your string of deceased husbands, your unexpected rise to power in certain ... shall we say, unofficial circles?”

Toto looks between you and Grigori, his expression a mix of confusion and growing concern. “Y/N, what is he talking about?”

You take a deep breath, squeezing Toto’s hand. “Toto, there are parts of my past I haven’t told you about. Not because I wanted to keep secrets, but because I wanted to leave that life behind.”

Grigori interjects, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Oh, but my dear, can one ever truly leave such a life behind? Especially when one has risen to such ... prominent positions?”

Toto’s eyes narrow as he looks at Grigori. “And what exactly is your role in all this?”

Grigori smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Let’s just say I’m an old associate of Dmitri’s. And by extension, of Y/N’s. Though I must admit, I’m surprised to see you still among the living, Mr. Wolff. Our dear Y/N has quite a reputation, you know.”

You slam your hand on the table, your voice low and dangerous. “Enough, Grigori. That’s not who I am anymore.”

Grigori holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. I meant no offense. I’m merely ... surprised. After all, your previous husbands weren’t quite so fortunate. Or so young and vigorous.”

Toto’s jaw clenches, his eyes darting between you and Grigori. “I think it’s time we left.”

As you stand to leave, Grigori calls out, “Oh, but we’ve only just begun to catch up. There’s so much your husband doesn’t know, Y/N. About the power you wield, the empire you inherited. Don’t you think he deserves to know the truth about the woman he married?”

You turn back, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something deeper, more dangerous. “The truth, Grigori, is that I left that life behind. I found something real, something worth living for. And if you or anyone else tries to drag me back into that world, you’ll regret it.”

Grigori leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Is that a threat, my dear?”

You smile, cold and sharp. “Consider it a friendly warning. From one old friend to another.”

As you and Toto walk away, Grigori can’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine. He’d forgotten, in the years since you’d left Russia, just how formidable you could be.

He watches as you and Toto have an intense, whispered conversation by the exit. To his surprise, instead of storming out, Toto nods, takes your hand, and leads you back to Grigori’s table.

“Mr. Volkov,” Toto says, his voice steady and controlled, “I think it’s time we had an honest conversation. About Y/N’s past, about your ... association, and about how we move forward from here.”

Grigori raises an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “Well, well. It seems you’ve found yourself a man with a spine, Y/N. Very well, let’s talk.”

As the three of you settle back into your seats, Grigori can’t help but feel a grudging respect for Toto. Most men would have run for the hills by now, but here he is, ready to face the truth head-on.

“So,” Grigori begins, pouring fresh vodka for all of you, “where shall we start? With Dmitri? With the Bratva? Or perhaps with the mysterious deaths of Y/N’s previous husbands?”

Toto takes a sip of vodka, his eyes never leaving Grigori’s. “Let’s start with the truth. All of it.”

You sigh, your hand finding Toto’s under the table. “Alright. Dmitri was my fifth husband. He was a high-ranking member of the Bratva, and when he died, I inherited his position and his connections.”

Grigori nods approvingly. “She’s being modest. Y/N didn’t just inherit Dmitri’s position — she expanded it. Forged new alliances, eliminated rivals. She became a force to be reckoned with in our world.”

Toto looks at you, his expression unreadable. “And the other husbands?”

You meet his gaze steadily. “They were all older men, all terminally ill. It was a business arrangement. They got to spend their last months with a young wife, and I got their fortunes. No foul play, I swear.”

Grigori chuckles. “Oh, come now. There were rumors, whispers of poison, of accidents arranged just so ...”

You whirl on him, your eyes flashing. “Rumors started by people like you. People who couldn’t believe a woman could gain power without resorting to murder.”

Toto squeezes your hand, his voice gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

You turn back to him, your expression softening. “Because I wanted to leave it all behind. When I met you, I saw a chance at a real life, a real relationship. I didn’t want my past to taint that.”

Grigori watches this exchange with growing fascination. He’s never seen you like this — vulnerable, open, genuinely in love. It’s... unsettling.

“And now?” He asks, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. “What becomes of your empire, Y/N? Your power? Your connections?”

You straighten, your voice firm. “I’ve been systematically dismantling it all. Using the resources to fund legitimate businesses, charitable foundations. I’m out. For good.”

Grigori leans back, genuinely surprised. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re really walking away from it all.”

Toto speaks up, his voice steady. “We’re building something new together. Something honest, something we can be proud of.”

Grigori studies them both for a long moment, then throws back the last of his vodka. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve actually done it. You’ve found a way out.”

You nod, a small smile playing at your lips. “I have. And I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word. Y/N Wolff is retired. Permanently.”

Grigori stands, straightening his jacket. “Consider it done, my dear. But know this — there will always be those who remember who you were, what you were capable of. Be careful.”

As he turns to leave, Toto calls out, “Mr. Volkov?”

Grigori pauses, looking back. “Yes?”

Toto’s voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath the surface. “If anyone from Y/N’s past tries to cause trouble for us, they’ll have to deal with me. And I assure you, I can be just as formidable as my wife when necessary.”

Grigori studies Toto for a moment, then breaks into a broad grin. “I believe you, Mr. Wolff. I really do. Take care of her, won’t you? She’s one of a kind.”

As Grigori walks away, he can’t help but shake his head in amazement. You, the Black Widow of the Bratva, settled down and in love. Will wonders never cease?

He glances back one last time to see you and Toto deep in conversation, your hands intertwined on the table. There’s an openness to your expression that he’s never seen before, a vulnerability that speaks volumes.

For the first time in years, Grigori feels a twinge of envy. Not for your power or your wealth, but for the genuine connection you seem to have found. As he steps out into the cool Monaco night, he wonders if perhaps it’s time for him to consider a change of his own.

After all, if the infamous Y/N can find redemption and true love, maybe there’s hope for an old dog like him yet.

2K notes · View notes

mrsfancyferrari · 5 months ago

Text

My Darling

Summary: Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.

Song: Earned It · The Weeknd

Author’s note: THANK YOU FOR THE 1K FOLLOWERS!! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engine vibrates through your chest, a familiar feeling that settles you even amidst the pre-race jitters. The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final race of the season. Another year you’ve spent on the edge of your seat, watching George chase his dream.

You adjust your headset, the noise-cancelling mufflers doing little to completely silence the cacophony of the paddock. He's starting P3 today. A good position. A position where anything can happen.

You've known George Russell since you were awkward teenagers, navigating the minefield of secondary school. He was the lanky, perpetually energetic kid obsessed with karting, and you were the quiet one, buried in books and content to observe from the sidelines.

He dragged you into his world, fuelled by passion and the unwavering belief that he was destined for greatness. He was right, of course.

Now, standing in the Mercedes garage, surrounded by a whirlwind of mechanics and engineers, you feel a surge of pride, so potent it almost makes you dizzy. He’s come so far.

Your focus snaps back as George's voice crackles through your headset. "…and then, darling, I told Toto that the balance felt a little off in turn 7. We made some adjustments, and it's feeling much better now."

Darling.

That single word, so casually dropped, still manages to send a jolt of electricity through you. It always has. It's a habit of his, a comfortable term of endearment he seems to bestow on everyone from his mother to the team's catering staff. But when he says it to you, it feels different. Warmer. More intimate.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. "Good to hear. Just focus on the start, George. You've got this." You manage to say, hoping your voice doesn't betray your inner turmoil.

"Always do, darling. Always do." He chuckles, and the sound sends another shiver down your spine. "See you after the race."

The line goes dead, and you let out a shaky breath. You hate this. Hated the way one simple word could throw you off balance.

You grab your clipboard, feigning interest in the tyre strategy, desperately trying to regain your composure.

The race unfolds in a blur of adrenaline and anxiety. You watch, heart hammering against your ribs, as George battles for position, expertly navigating the tight corners and high-speed straights.

Every overtake, every defensive move, sends a wave of relief or panic washing over you. He finishes second. A great result.

Later, after the post-race interviews and the podium celebrations, you find him in the cool-down room, towelling off his sweaty hair. He looks exhausted but exhilarated, his eyes shining with hard-earned triumph.

"You were amazing out there," you say, offering him a water bottle.

He takes a long swig, the muscles in his throat working. "Thanks. Felt good. Could have been better, but I'll take it." He grins, and the weariness seems to melt away. "So, darling, what did you think of that move on Leclerc in turn 6?"

There it is again. That word.

You feel your cheeks flush. "It was… impressive. Very aggressive."

He laughs. "Had to be! He wasn't going to give me the position otherwise. Besides," he adds, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I knew you were watching. Had to put on a show."

Your heart skips a beat. "Oh, really?" You try to sound nonchalant, but your voice wavers slightly.

"Of course! Always got to impress my biggest fan." He playfully nudges your shoulder. "So, fancy grabbing some dinner? Celebratory Nando’s?"

Nando’s it is. You and George have had a tradition to go to Nando’s after every single race since he started in F1.

The restaurant is buzzing with energy, filled with fans buzzing about the race. You and George manage to find a relatively quiet booth in a corner, and settle in.

"So," George says, after you've both ordered your food, "what did you really think about the race?"

You tell him honestly, praising his overtaking skills, gently pointing out a couple of areas where he could have been smoother. He listens intently, nodding occasionally, absorbing your feedback. He values your opinion, always has.

Even after all his success, he still trusts your judgement.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his seat, "I really appreciate you being here, at all the races, darling. It means a lot."

The word hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken meaning. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of the napkin.

"I wouldn't miss it," you say softly. "Seeing you achieve your dreams… it's incredible."

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, his touch warm and comforting. "You've been there since the beginning. Through all the karting races, the Formula 4 championships, everything. You've always believed in me, even when I doubted myself."

You meet his gaze, your heart swelling with emotions you've kept buried for far too long. "I always will, George."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the clatter of plates and the murmur of conversations around you. Then, George speaks again, his voice thoughtful.

"You know, I don't think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you, darling. You're not just a friend, you're… you're family."

Family. The word echoes in your mind, a bittersweet melody. You cherish your friendship with George, but you long for something more. Something deeper.

"I feel the same way," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

The food arrives, momentarily interrupting the conversation. You both dig in, the familiar taste of peri-peri chicken a welcome distraction. But the unspoken feelings still linger in the air, a tangible presence between you.

At the end of the meal, George drives you home. As he turns to you before you get out of the car, he says, “I had a great time, darling. We should do it again.”

As the years pass, George's career continues to soar. He wins races, challenges for championships, becomes a household name. Your life, too, evolves.

You pursue your own dreams, excel in your chosen field, building a successful career. But through it all, your friendship with George remains a constant, a source of unwavering support and affection.

And still, he calls you "darling."

He doesn’t realize the effect he has on you. How your heart skips a beat when he says it, how your palms get clammy, how you have to consciously fight the urge to blurt out something ridiculously embarrassing. He uses it with everyone, you tell yourself.

It's just a friendly term of endearment. But still, you can't help but feel a little different when he says it to you. Special, even.

One evening, years after that Abu Dhabi race, you're at George's house, helping him pack for the summer break. He's sprawled on the bed, surrounded by a mountain of clothes, looking utterly overwhelmed.

"I have no idea what to take," he groans, running a hand through his hair. "It's supposed to be relaxing, but I always end up overpacking."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Leave it to me. I'm a master packer."

You start sorting through the clothes, folding shirts and neatly arranging them in his suitcase. George watches you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he says, after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "you're the only person who can make packing look effortless."

"Years of practice," you reply, without looking up.

"Speaking of years," he continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "we've known each other for a really long time, haven't we, darling?"

There it is again. That word. But tonight, it feels different. Heavier. More deliberate.

You finally meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "We have," you say softly.

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. You could see the gears turning in his head, something shifting behind those hazel eyes. You braced yourself, wondering if he was finally going to say something, anything, to acknowledge the undercurrent that buzzed between you.

But then, he blinked, and the moment was gone. He chuckled, a light, disarming sound. "It's crazy, isn't it? All those years of school, all the races we've been to, all the… well, everything. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess."

Relief and disappointment warred within you. He wasn’t going to confess anything. He wasn't going to say anything at all. He was just going to keep calling you “darling,” completely unaware of the effect it had on you.

You forced a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "It does. And we've definitely had a lot of… everything."

He nodded, leaning back against the headboard. "Remember that time in Monaco, when you accidentally dumped a bucket of ice water on Toto?"

You groaned. "Don't remind me. I thought I was going to be banned from Formula 1 for life."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the room. "You were lucky he has a sense of humor. Anyway, back to the packing. What do you think? Three pairs of swim trunks or four?"

The tension had dissipated, replaced by the comfortable familiarity that had defined your friendship for so long. You sighed inwardly. The moment had passed, and with it, any hope of clarity.

You turned back to the suitcase, picking up a pair of bright blue swim trunks. "Three is plenty, darling. Unless you're planning on entering a speed-swimming competition."

He grinned, completely oblivious. “You never know!”

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur of folded clothes, shared memories, and lighthearted banter. You told him about your upcoming photography exhibition, he regaled you with stories of his disastrous attempt at learning to surf, and the word "darling" continued to slip from his lips with casual ease, each utterance a tiny pinprick of longing.

Later, as you were leaving, George walked you to the door. He paused, his hand resting on your arm. "Thanks for doing this," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I really appreciate it. You always know how to make things easier."

"Anytime," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just promise me you won't spend the entire vacation glued to your phone."

He chuckled. "I'll try my best, darling."

He hugged you goodbye, a brief, friendly embrace that left you wanting more. As you walked down the driveway, you could feel his gaze on your back.

You resisted the urge to turn around, knowing that seeing him standing there, bathed in the warm glow of the porch light, would only make your heart ache more.

You knew, with a certainty that settled heavy in your stomach, that George wasn't going to say anything. He was comfortable with the way things were, with your comfortable friendship, with the casual affection he expressed so freely.

And you, you were destined to remain on the periphery of his life, forever blushing at a word he didn't even realize held so much power.

As you drove away, you whispered to yourself, “Goodbye, darling.” It tasted of longing and unrequited hope. You knew that the word would continue to haunt you, a constant reminder of a love that could never be. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Maybe the quiet ache of longing was better than the risk of shattering the fragile balance of your friendship. . . .

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

The Ibizan sun beat down on George, but he barely registered it. He lay sprawled on a white sun lounger, the epitome of relaxation, yet a million miles away in his head.

His family buzzed around him; his father tinkering with the pool filter, his sister Cara splashing in the shimmering water with her children tossing a frisbee. Normally, he would be right in the thick of it, teasing his nieces, engaging in some competitive sports.

But not today. Today, he was lost in the past.

He clutched his phone, the screen replaying a grainy video. It was eight years old, a relic from a simpler time. A time before roaring engines, screaming fans, and the relentless pressure of Formula 1. A time when his biggest concern was acing his Physics exam and impressing a certain girl with sparkling eyes and a mischievous grin.

That girl was Y/N.

The video, a chaotic mess of shaky camera work and teenage exuberance, documented a day in their 'exciting' secondary school life. Y/N, the mastermind behind the whole thing, had insisted on capturing their mundane reality for posterity.

He remembered protesting at the time, embarrassed by the prospect of immortalising their awkwardness. Now, he was grateful.

On the screen, a younger version of himself, all gangly limbs and nervous energy, fumbled with his tie as he walked alongside Y/N. Her laughter, bright and infectious, echoed from the phone's speakers, cutting through the gentle lapping of the pool water. She was narrating, her voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm.

"Good morning, world! It's Y/N, and this is 'A Day in the Life of Two Utterly Average Teenagers'. Prepare for thrills, spills, and questionable fashion choices!"

The video cut to a shaky shot of the school gates, then to a montage of their lessons. George cringed as he watched himself struggle to solve a quadratic equation, Y/N whispering the answer beside him with a playful smirk. There was a clip of them sharing chips at lunchtime, fighting over the last one. Another of them huddled over textbooks in the library, Y/N’s hand resting lightly on his arm as she explained a complex concept. He could almost feel the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her lavender perfume that always lingered in the air around her.

The video was utterly pointless, utterly ridiculous, and utterly captivating. It was a window into a time when life was uncomplicated, when happiness resided in shared glances and whispered jokes. It was a reminder of the deep connection he shared with Y/N, a connection that had only deepened with time.

He was supposed to be sharing this holiday with her. They had planned it for months, a much-needed escape from the relentless F1 calendar. But then, a last-minute work commitment had forced her to cancel. An important project, she had explained apologetically, her voice laced with disappointment. He had understood, of course, but it didn't make her absence any easier to bear.

He was so engrossed in the video, reliving those cherished memories, that he didn’t notice someone sitting beside him until they spoke.

"Where's Y/N? I haven't seen her in a while," his mother, Alison, asked, her voice laced with concern.

George jumped, startled, nearly dropping his phone. He looked up at his mother, her eyes filled with gentle curiosity. “Oh, hi Mum. She… she couldn’t make it. Work stuff.”

Alison's brow furrowed. "That's a shame. I was looking forward to seeing her. She's practically family at this point."

George smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "She is, Mum. She really is."

He paused the video, the image of a laughing Y/N frozen on the screen. "I miss her, you know?" he confessed, the vulnerability surprising even himself. "I miss just… being around her. Being normal."

Alison reached out and squeezed his hand. "I know, darling. It's hard when life pulls you in different directions. But you two have something special. Don't let anything break that."

He nodded, his throat tight. "I won't." He knew she was right. Their connection was strong, forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unwavering support. It had weathered long distances, demanding careers, and the constant pressures of his public life. He wouldn't let it falter now.

"Show me the video," Alison said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's see what you two were like back in the day."

George hesitated for a moment, then handed her the phone. As they watched the video together, he found himself explaining the context, reliving the stories behind each clip. His mother laughed at their teenage antics, her face softening with fondness. He realised, with a surge of gratitude, that his family understood his relationship with you. They saw something special in it, something he had been too afraid to acknowledge.

After the video ended, Alison handed the phone back to him. "She's a good one, George. Don't take her for granted."

"I won't, Mum. I promise," he'd replied, a little too quickly.

Then came the bombshell. “Try and ask her out soon,” she added, her eyes twinkling.

“What!” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He hadn’t expected that. He thought his mum would be more cautious, tell him to take things slow. This was the opposite of that.

“Oh, come on! Everyone can see it, George. Except maybe you, in your state of blissful denial.” His sister, Cara, perched beside him on the sun lounger, her eyes knowing. "She's practically perfect for you, you know. Smart, funny, loves dogs… what's not to like?"

The rest of the holiday passed in a blur of sun, sea, and a constant internal debate. You were always on his mind.

He found himself reaching for his phone to text you, only to stop himself, unsure of what to say. He didn't want to jeopardize their friendship with clumsy advances. Rejection scared him, especially from you.

He glanced at the group of sunbathers by the pool, families laughing and couples holding hands. It made him feel a pang of loneliness, a longing for something more than just friendship with you.

Finally, on the last day of the holiday, he decided he couldn't put it off any longer. He needed to talk to you. At least, send a message. He typed and deleted several texts, each one sounding more ridiculous than the last.

“Hey Y/N, just thinking of you. Hope you’re having a good week!” - Too generic.

“Missing you! Greece is great, but it would be better with you.” - Way too forward.

“Fancy grabbing a coffee when I get back?” - Too casual.

He groaned and threw his phone onto the sun lounger. He was overthinking it. Terribly.

Later that evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, George found himself alone on the beach. The gentle lapping of the waves was the only sound that broke the silence. He picked up a smooth, white stone and skimmed it across the water.

"Overthinking it, are we?"

George jumped, startled, and turned to see his sister, Cara, walking towards him, a knowing smile on her face.

"How did you…?" he began.

"Oh, please. I know you better than you know yourself," she said, sitting down beside him on the sand. "Look, George, I know you're scared. You don't want to ruin the friendship you have with Y/N. But sometimes, you have to take risks. Life's too short to wonder 'what if?'"

He sighed. "It's just… what if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I make things awkward? What if…?"

"What if she does?" Cara interrupted. "What if she's been waiting for you to make a move? You won't know unless you try. And honestly, the way she looks at you? It's pretty obvious to everyone but you."

Cara’s words hung in the air, a stark challenge to his own self-doubt. He knew she was right. He couldn't let fear dictate his actions. He had to be brave.

When George returned home, he went straight to his apartment and after some thought, he texted you.

He replayed their text exchange in his head, his palms sweating.

George: Hey darling, how are you doing? Hope work isn't too crazy.

Y/N: Hey George! Glad you're back from your holidays. I'm good, swamped with work as always, but surviving. How was Ibiza?

George: It was nice, but glad to be home. Actually, I was wondering if you were free sometime this week? I’d love to hear all about what you’ve been working on.

Y/N: I might be. What did you have in mind?

George: There’s this new italian place I've been wanting to try.

Y/N: Dinner? You’re asking me on date, George?

That text had sent his heart into overdrive.

George: Only if you want it to be.

The agonizing minutes of waiting, the wave of relief when she finally responded.

Y/N: I’d like that very much.

He knew he had to confess. He couldn’t just dance around the issue any longer, teasing himself and her. He had to lay it all on the line after dinner.

Now, as he waited for the time to pick her up, he felt a nervous energy he hadn't experienced since his first F1 race. He checked his reflection one last time, smoothing down his hair.

He was wearing a crisp, dark blue shirt, tailored to fit perfectly, and dark jeans.

Smart casual, he hoped. . . .

The hum of the hair dryer vibrates in your hand, a dull counterpoint to the frantic drum solo your heart is currently playing. George asked you to dinner. Just dinner. A friendly dinner. To discuss work and his upcoming holiday.

You repeat the mantra in your head like a lifeline, trying to quell the butterflies that have taken up residence in your stomach.

The dryer clicks off, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. A strand of hair stubbornly refuses to cooperate, twisting into a rogue curl despite your best efforts.

You sigh. This is ridiculous. It's just dinner. With George. Your best friend. Right?

Your gaze drifts towards the two dresses laid out on your bed, each a stark contrast to the other, each holding a different promise. The first, a little black dress, is a classic. Short, sleek, and undeniably alluring.

It hugs your curves in all the right places, the low-cut neckline hinting at just enough skin to be intriguing without being overtly provocative. You imagine yourself in it, feeling confident and sophisticated, ready to take on the world.

Or at least, ready to face George.

Then there's the blue dress. Long, flowing, and ethereal. The color is a vibrant cerulean, mirroring the summer sky, and the fabric shimmers with a subtle, almost otherworldly glow.

It's elegant and understated, the kind of dress that makes you feel like you could float away on a gentle breeze. It hides more than it reveals, whispering of secrets and untold stories.

You pace between the two dresses, your mind a battlefield of conflicting desires. The black dress screams confidence, but is it trying too hard?

Would George think you're trying to send a message that isn't there? The blue dress, on the other hand, feels more like you. Honest. Authentic. But is it too… casual?

After what feels like an eternity, you make your decision. The blue dress. It feels right. It feels like you. And tonight, you need to be yourself.

You slip into the dress, the cool fabric cascading down your body like liquid silk. You smooth it over your hips, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. A light touch of mascara, a swipe of your favorite lip gloss, and you're ready.

The doorbell rings, and your heart leaps into your throat. You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, and walk towards the door.

When you open it, George is standing there, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored crisp, dark blue shirt and dark jeans. His blue eyes widen slightly as he takes you in, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

"Wow darling," he says softly, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "You look… amazing."

You blush, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. "Thanks," you manage to stammer, your voice betraying your nervousness. "You look pretty good yourself."

He grins, that familiar, boyish grin that still makes your heart skip a beat after all these years. "Shall we?" he asks, extending his arm.

You slip your arm through his, and together, you step out into the warm evening air.

He leads you to his car, a sleek, dark Mercedes that screams money and success. He opens the passenger door for you with a flourish. "After you darling," he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

As you slide into the buttery leather seat, the scent of his cologne – a subtle blend of spice and citrus – fills your senses. You buckle your seatbelt, acutely aware of his presence beside you.

“So,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “Italian tonight? Heard they make a mean carbonara.”

“Italian’s perfect,” you reply, relieved that the awkwardness seems to be dissipating. “I’m starving.”

The drive is comfortable, punctuated by easy conversation. You catch up on his whirlwind month – the adrenaline-fueled races, the sun-drenched beaches of his holiday. He listens intently as you recount your own, significantly less glamorous, experiences at work.

“It’s nice to just… talk,” he says, his voice softer than usual. He glances at you briefly, a fleeting smile playing on his lips. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

“It has,” you agree, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “A month is a lifetime in George Russell time.”

He chuckles. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m living five different lives at once.”

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, a charming establishment with twinkling fairy lights and the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs. George leads you to a table tucked in a cozy corner, away from the main bustle of the dining room.

“Table for two, Signore Russell?” the waiter asks, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

“That’s right,” George replies, flashing him a charming smile. “And this lovely lady is… Y/N.”

You smile at the waiter, feeling a surge of affection for George. He always remembers to introduce you, no matter how famous he gets.

As you settle into your seats, you have the familiar sensation of being utterly at ease in George's presence. You've known each other since you were both gangly teenagers with braces and questionable fashion choices.

You've seen him at his best and his worst – celebrating victories, nursing broken hearts, struggling through exam stress. He's seen you through equally tumultuous times.

The conversation flows effortlessly as you peruse the menu. You reminisce about old times – the disastrous school play where George forgot his lines, the time you accidentally set his hair on fire during a chemistry experiment, the countless late-night study sessions fuelled by copious amounts of sugary snacks.

“Remember Mr. Henderson’s history class?” you ask, laughing. “He used to fall asleep mid-sentence.”

George shakes his head, grinning. “And we’d draw moustaches on his notes. Good times, darling, good times.”

That word again. Darling. It still has the same effect on you.

As the waiter takes your order, George leans forward, his expression becoming more serious. “So, how are you, really?” he asks, his blue eyes searching yours. “How’s everything going?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how much to reveal. “I’m… okay,” you say cautiously. “Work’s been hectic, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “And personally?”

You sigh. “Honestly, it’s been a little lonely. I miss having you around.”

His gaze softens. “I miss you too,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “More than you know.”

As your meals arrived, the waiter offered a bottle of Chianti. George raised an eyebrow at you in question, and you nodded, deciding to throw caution to the wind. The wine was rich and smooth, loosening your tongue and easing the tension that still lingered beneath the surface.

"Remember that time we tried to sneak into that over-18s club?" you asked, swirling the wine in your glass.

George laughed. "And got caught immediately! Your fake ID was so bad, it said you were born in 1888."

"Hey, it was worth a shot," you retorted, grinning. "Besides, we ended up having more fun at that dodgy karaoke bar. Your rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was truly unforgettable."

The laughter flowed freely, punctuated by shared memories and inside jokes. You talked about everything and nothing, the years melting away as you rediscovered the easy camaraderie that had always defined your friendship.

"It's just… it's hard, isn't it?” you said, the smile fading slightly. “Watching you achieve all your dreams, knowing that you're living the life you always wanted. I'm happy for you, I truly am, but it also makes me question my own choices."

George reached across the table and took your hand, his touch sending a familiar shiver down your spine. "Don't," he said softly. "Don't ever think that your life is any less important or fulfilling than mine. We all have different paths to follow, different things that make us happy."

He paused, his gaze intense. "And, to be honest, sometimes I envy you. You have a sense of normalcy, a stability that I often crave. The racing world is… insane. It's all-consuming. Sometimes I wish I could just escape it all and live a normal life, like you."

You laughed, incredulous. "You? Want to be normal? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it," he said, squeezing your hand. "And you know what else? All this success, all the trophies and champagne… they mean nothing if I can't share them with the people I care about."

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable haze of wine, conversation, and shared history. As the waiter cleared the table, George suggested a walk. You readily agreed.

As you stepped out onto the bustling city street, the cool air sent a shiver down your spine. The night was alive with the hum of traffic and the murmur of conversations spilling from open doorways.

Neon signs cast a colourful glow on the wet pavement, reflecting in the puddles like scattered jewels.

"Do we know where we're going, or are we just wandering?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

George simply grinned, that familiar, charming grin that had always made your stomach flutter a little. "Don't worry, trust me."

Trust George? You always had. You'd known him since the awkward days of secondary school, a lifetime ago. He was a constant, a familiar comfort in your life. You started walking, falling into step beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you. He talked about the upcoming Formula 1 season, the pressure, the anticipation, the relentless training. He spoke of the new car, the tweaks, the improvements they were hoping for. His passion was infectious, even to someone like you, who only understood the basics of motorsport.

Then, you found yourself venting about your own work. Another day, another unreasonable client, another project that felt soul-crushingly pointless. "Honestly, George," you sighed, "I think I'm going to lose my mind if I have to write another article about the top ten cat breeds for apartment living. My creative soul is dying a slow and painful death."

He chuckled, squeezing your hand gently. "You know, you could always quit. You're talented, you could do anything you want. Write that novel you've been talking about for years. Open that quirky little bookstore you always dreamed of. Life's too short to be writing about Persian fluffballs."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Multi-Millionaire Racing Driver. Someone has to pay the bills."

"Hey," he protested playfully, "I'd happily support you. Think of it as an investment in the arts."

"Very generous," you teased. "Maybe I should just marry you for your money."

He stopped walking, turning to face you, his expression suddenly serious. "Don't say that, even as a joke." He paused, then added softly, "I wouldn't want you to marry me for the wrong reasons."

The intensity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. You quickly looked away, a sudden wave of nervousness washing over you. "I was just kidding, obviously."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and resumed walking. The comfortable rhythm of your conversation was slightly disrupted, replaced by a strange, unspoken tension. You both walked in silence for a little bit.

After some time, you noticed that the sounds of the city were fading, replaced by the gentle roar of the ocean. The air smelled of salt and seaweed.

"Where are we going?" you asked, curiosity piqued.

He just smiled mysteriously. "Almost there."

Finally, he stopped. You were standing on a deserted stretch of beach, the waves crashing softly against the shore. In the distance, you could see the faint glow of the city lights reflecting on the water. And then you saw them.

Balloons. Dozens of them, bobbing gently in the night breeze. They were inflated with helium, their strings tied to small weights that kept them from floating away. And emblazoned across the balloons, in large, cheerful letters, were the words: "WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You must have stumbled upon someone else's surprise, you thought. It was a sweet gesture, incredibly romantic. You started to turn to George, ready to apologize for intruding on someone's special moment.

"George, I think someone is asking some…" The words died in your throat as you saw what he was holding. A bouquet of your favorite flowers, lilies and roses, their delicate petals illuminated by the faint moonlight.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp. What? This couldn't be…

George looked incredibly nervous, his usually confident demeanor replaced by a vulnerability you'd rarely seen. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching the flowers tightly.

He took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice slightly shaky. "Darling," he said, and the sound of that single word sent a shiver down your spine. Out of all the things George had said to you over the years, there was something about "darling" that was uniquely special. It felt warm, intimate, and utterly disarming.

"Darling, from the moment I was paired with you in year nine to do that disastrous science experiment," he continued, a small smile playing on his lips, "I knew you were going to be a special person in my life. I just didn't know how special until a few months ago. Will you be my special person and be my girlfriend?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You couldn't believe this was happening. You and George? After all these years? It felt like something out of a movie, too perfect to be real.

"Yes, George," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Relief washed over his face, and the biggest grin you'd ever seen spread across his features. He carefully placed the bouquet on the sand, then stepped towards you, his eyes shining with happiness.

He reached out, cupping your face in his hands. "Really? Yes?"

You nodded, unable to speak. The tears were flowing freely now, but they were tears of joy, of disbelief, of pure, unadulterated happiness.

He lowered his head and gently kissed you. It was a soft, sweet kiss, filled with tenderness and affection. It was a kiss you had dreamed about countless times, a kiss you never thought would actually happen.

When he pulled away, he was grinning from ear to ear. "I can't believe it," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You actually said yes."

"Of course, I said yes," you replied, laughing through your tears. "What took you so long?"

He chuckled, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I was terrified," he admitted. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship. You're one of the most important people in my life, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

You hugged him tighter, burying your face in his shoulder. "You could never lose me, George. I've been secretly in love with you since that disastrous science experiment in year nine."

He laughed, squeezing you even closer. "So, all this time…"

"All this time," you confirmed, pulling back to look at him. "Now, about those balloons…"

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, whispered confessions, and stolen kisses under the moonlight. You walked along the beach, hand in hand, talking about the future, about your hopes and dreams, about all the possibilities that lay ahead.

Later, as you sat wrapped in his arms, watching the sunrise paint the sky in hues of pink and orange, you finally found the courage to tease him.

"You had me scared for a second there," you laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

"Why?" George asked worriedly, his arms tightening around you.

"Your speech sounded like a proposal," you said, your voice light and teasing.

George grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, you're going to be a fiancée soon enough."

You gasped, playfully shoving him. "George! Don't even joke about that!"

He laughed, pulling you closer. "I'm not joking, darling. I know we've only just started dating, but I know what I want. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Your heart fluttered. "You're crazy," you whispered, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you.

"Crazy about you," he corrected, kissing your forehead. "Now, tell me, what kind of ring do you like? Just so I have an idea," he winked at you

You playfully roll your eyes, burying your face in his shoulder. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

"Am I?" George playfully nips at your ear. "Maybe. But a guy can dream, can't he?"

The first rays of sunlight kiss your skin, a soft warmth that mirrors the feeling in your heart. You are finally with George, the man you have loved for so long.

And as you look up at him, at the love shining in his eyes, you know that this is just the beginning of your beautiful life together. . .

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mirohlayo · 8 months ago

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F1 DRIVERS AND YOU (their crush)

KISSING THEIR CHEEKS

( include piastri, norris, leclerc, sainz, hamilton, russel, verstappen & ricciardo )

warning : none just fluff

note : little nod to max's 4th championship win, congrats to him, sooo proud !!

─ OSCAR PIASTRI

I know for sure boy was blushing so so hard. But it's absolutely adorable and cute. Oscar is very patient with you, and even though he dreams of being able to touch you in a more than friendly way, of being able to at least have the right to a little kiss, he restrains himself and tries not to act under his impulses. . However, when you decided to quickly kiss him on the cheek, out of nowhere, he actually felt himself melting from the inside. His cheeks have never blushed so much, and his heart has never beaten so quickly.

─ LANDO NORRIS

Ugh, you guys can barely hold eye contact, but he's already so in love. So mad in love even. Despite the fact that you are still shy, especially him, that you struggle to make eye contact without blushing afterwards, Lando can't help but ask for more. Just a little extra. So, when he walked you to your doorstep, he immediately asked you if he could have even a mini kiss. Your lips naturally landed on his cheek, brushing against it, almost like a ghost kiss. And when you pulled back oh... He was already touching the place where your lips rested, cheeks as pink as yours.

─ CHARLES LECLERC

This was absolutely surprising to Charles. But he would love to be able to feel that feeling again. When your lips pressed naturally against his cheek, your hands framing his face perfectly. He didn't move for at least a good two minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. If it was real. He was so shocked that he didn't see you lean in again to place another sweet kiss. He blinked a few times, and you could only giggle silently. Oh, it was the best day of his without a doubt. And if he could live it again, he wouldn't hesitate for a single second before saying yes.

─ CARLOS SAINZ

He only had eyes for you. And he loved seeing you smile, and making you happy. So from time to time he spoils you, and although you don't like it when he buys so many things for you, you always end up thanking him warmly because after all, it's adorable. You always hugged him, hugging him a little tighter each time, but this time it was different. You wanted a change from hugs, so with a surge of courage and love you gently kissed his cheek to thank him. He was dizzy, almost on the verge of passing out. He couldn't hold back a shy smile, and above all he couldn't settle for a hug from now on.

─ LEWIS HAMILTON

He waited there patiently, sitting in a corner of the garage before getting in his car. You were a few feet away from him, watching the mechanics adjust the final modifications to the car. He couldn't help but admire you. And stare at your lips. God, he would give anything to be able to feel them against his skin. And as he was about to get in the car, he stopped when he felt your arm rest on his forearm. And without knowing how, your lips crashed onto his cheek in a quick kiss. His best smile appeared on his face, as he tried to hide his blush by putting on his helmet. Finally, his wish came true, right?

─ GEORGE RUSSEL

He can't stop replaying the scene in his head. He already found you so perfect, so beautiful and incredibly intelligent. It wasn't just a crush anymore, it was George, a simp for you. But already his heart was speeding up just by looking at you, he really thought it was going to stop beating when you gently kissed him on his cheeks. It was pure, sweet and... terribly affectionate. He tried to appear as normal as possible, but inside he was a mess. His whole body was telling him to kiss you and tell you everything he has in his heart right now. And he's sure that day will come soon, because there's no way another day will pass without a kiss from you.

─ MAX VERSTAPPEN

As the race draws to a close, Max is finally a 4th time F1 world champion. And getting out of his car, as he proudly waves his arm to greet the crowd, only one thing is on his mind. You, you and only you. So it was natural that he found you among the crowd, looking at you as if only you existed in the world. His hair was still damp, his face still covered in drops of sweat, but that absolutely didn't stop you from pressing your soft lips against his cheek, for a long time. Passionately. And oh, that sweet gesture was better than any championship. His eyes spoke for themselves.

─ DANIEL RICCIARDIO

He will never, ever stop teasing you about the kiss you gave him. Quite simply because he loves seeing you smile and laugh, but above all because he secretly wants you to repeat this gesture over and over again, for eternity. Honestly, you wouldn't even have to ask him for permission as he will already be ready to receive another kiss from you on the cheek. It was by far the most beautiful experience of his life, and oh, his heart always asks for more when he sees you. So, he hopes to feel your lips on his skin again, even if it costs him to tease you all day long.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri x reader #lando norris x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #george russel x reader #max verstappen x reader #daniel riccardo x reader

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imthebadguyyy · 1 year ago

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I Can Do It With A Broken Heart

pairing : f1 drivers x reader fandom : f1 synopsis : the grid is there to watch you flourish with a broken heart. warnings : angst and insane amounts of platonic fluff

I can read your mind, "she's having the time of her life", there in her glittering prime.

The press conference room was buzzing with excitement. Cameras flashed, microphones were adjusted, and reporters shuffled in their seats, eager to ask their questions. You sat at the table, the only female driver on the grid, proudly representing Mercedes. Beside you were Lewis Hamilton and George Russell, both offering reassuring smiles as they prepared for the barrage of questions.

The session began with the usual inquiries about strategies, car performance, and race predictions. You answered confidently, drawing on your experiences and expertise. The lights refracted sequined stars off your silhouette every night, making it seem like you were having the time of your life, there in your glittering prime.

But then, a reporter in the back stood up, his tone sharp and probing. "I can read your mind," he began, a smirk playing on his lips. "She's having the time of her life," he quoted, a mocking tone in his voice. "But given the recent incidents, do you think you're emotionally strong enough to handle the pressures of Formula 1, especially as a female driver? Some might say you're struggling to keep up."

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. You took a deep breath, feeling a mix of anger and hurt. How dare he question your strength, your dedication? You squared your shoulders, looking the reporter straight in the eye.

"I can show you lies," you said, your voice steady and strong. "One, two, three, four. You don't get to tell me about sad," you continued, your gaze unwavering. "I've faced challenges and pressures just like everyone else on this grid. My gender doesn't make me weaker or less capable. If anything, it makes me stronger."

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension palpable. But then, Lewis leaned forward, his expression fierce. "We all face immense pressure in this sport," he said, his voice calm but firm. "And she's proven time and again that she belongs here. Her strength and resilience are unmatched."

George nodded in agreement. "She's one of the best drivers I've ever had the privilege to race alongside. Her gender has nothing to do with her capabilities. She's here on merit, just like the rest of us."

Sebastian Vettel, sitting a few seats down, chimed in as well. "Respect is crucial in this sport. We support each other, and we stand by her. She's earned her place on this grid, and nothing can take that away from her."

Valtteri Bottas added his voice to the mix. "We all have our struggles, but it's how we handle them that defines us. And she's handled everything with grace and determination."

Checo Perez, who was at the press conference as well, spoke up. "It's easy to criticize from the outside. But we know what it takes to be here, and she has it all. She's not just a great driver; she's an inspiration."

The support from your fellow drivers warmed your heart. You felt a surge of gratitude and pride. They saw you for who you were—a talented driver, a fierce competitor, and a valuable member of the F1 community.

The reporter, realizing he had crossed a line, shifted uncomfortably and mumbled an apology. The press conference moved on, but the impact of that moment stayed with you. It was a reminder of the solidarity and respect that existed among the drivers, a testament to the bond you shared.

After the press conference, as you walked back to the paddock, Lewis put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "You're stronger than any of them know," he said with a smile.

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of confidence. "Thanks, Lewis. And thanks to all of you," you said, looking around at your fellow drivers. "I couldn't do this without your support."

As you prepared for the next race, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you had a team of incredible people standing by your side. And that made all the difference.

'cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit

The race had been intense, a whirlwind of speed and strategy. You pushed your Mercedes to its limits, navigating the twists and turns with precision and skill. As the only female driver on the grid, you had a point to prove, and today, you were doing just that.

But then, in the final laps, an incident occurred. Another driver made a reckless move, causing you to swerve and lose valuable time. Despite the setback, you fought your way back up, crossing the finish line in third place. The cheers from the crowd were deafening as you made your way to the podium, your heart pounding with a mix of triumph and exhaustion.

Standing on the podium, you felt a surge of pride. You had earned this. But as the ceremony began, an official approached, a somber look on his face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but you've been given a penalty for the incident on the track. You've lost your podium place."

Your heart sank, but you quickly composed yourself. 'Cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit, you reminded yourself. The decision was unfair, a blatant disregard for the fact that you were the victim of the incident. But instead of letting it break you, you chose to rise above it.

With a defiant smile, you raised your trophy high, celebrating as if nothing had happened. The crowd roared in approval, sensing your silent rebellion against the FIA. You waved to your fans, your expression one of unwavering confidence and determination. You were here to stay, and no unfair penalty could take that away from you.

Lewis Hamilton, standing beside you, exchanged a glance of admiration and support. He knew the situation was unjust, but he also knew you were strong enough to handle it. As you all sprayed champagne, the message was clear: you wouldn't let anyone diminish your achievements.

After the ceremony, as you walked back to the paddock, Lewis was waiting for you. He pulled you into a warm hug, holding you tightly. "You were incredible out there," he whispered, his voice full of warmth and pride. "I'm so proud of you."

You hugged him back, drawing strength from his support. "Thanks, Lewis. It means a lot coming from you."

He pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes with genuine affection. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You've got the heart of a champion, and no unfair penalty can change that."

Oscar Piastri, who had finished second, gave you a nod of respect as he approached. "That was a tough break," he said quietly. "But you handled it with more class than most could."

You smiled at Oscar, appreciating his support. "Thanks, Oscar. It’s moments like these that show what we're made of."

As you walked away, Lewis kept his arm around your shoulders, a silent but powerful gesture of solidarity. "Remember," he said softly, "we're a team. And we're all here for you."

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of confidence and camaraderie. "I know. And it makes all the difference."

As you prepared for the next race, you knew that the road ahead would be filled with challenges. But with your resilience, the support of your team, and your unwavering determination, you were ready to face whatever came your way. And that made all the difference.

babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it" and I did

The season had been a rollercoaster, filled with highs and lows, but you had handled it with grace and determination. As the only female driver on the grid, you constantly faced scrutiny and doubt from the pundits who seemed to neglect your achievements. Every podium finish, every hard-fought point, was downplayed or overshadowed by your male counterparts.

Despite this, you kept your head high. One particular pundit, known for his sarcasm, had once sneered, "You just have to fake it 'til you make it, right?" His dismissive comment stung, but you channeled that frustration into every race, using it as fuel to prove your worth.

Then came the breakthrough. Four consecutive wins. It was a streak that left everyone in awe, and there was no denying your dominance on the track. Each victory was sweeter than the last, a testament to your skill and resilience. But what you relished most was the silence from the pundits who had so often dismissed you.

After your fourth straight win, you stood on the podium, the crowd roaring in approval. You soaked in the moment, knowing you had earned every bit of it. As you descended the podium, your eyes locked onto the group of pundits, including the one who had made that sarcastic remark.

With a confident stride, you walked straight up to them. The surprise on their faces was evident as you approached. You could feel the tension, the unspoken acknowledgment of your triumph hanging in the air.

"You remember that comment you made?" you asked, your voice clear and unwavering. "About faking it until you make it?" You let the words hang for a moment, letting the weight of your achievements settle in. "Well, I did just that. And look where it got me."

Lando Norris, standing nearby, gave you an encouraging nod, his eyes filled with pride. Carlos Sainz, too, offered a smile of respect and admiration. They had witnessed your journey, your struggles, and your victories, and they knew how much this moment meant.

The pundits, momentarily speechless, nodded in acknowledgment. You didn't need their praise or recognition anymore. You had shown the world what you were capable of, and that was enough.

As you walked away, you felt a surge of satisfaction and confidence. The road ahead would still have its challenges, but you knew you could face them with the same strength and grace that had brought you this far. And with every race, you would continue to prove that you belonged at the very top of the sport.

Lando joined you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "You handled that perfectly," he said, his voice full of admiration.

Carlos came up on your other side, grinning. "They won't underestimate you again."

You smiled, feeling the camaraderie and support from your teammates. "Thanks, guys. It means a lot."

As you prepared for the next race, you knew that the future was bright. You had the talent, the determination, and the support to achieve anything you set your mind to.

lights, camera, bitch smile, even when you wanna die

The Monaco Grand Prix weekend was in full swing, and the glamorous event was bustling with high-profile guests, flashing cameras, and a sea of paparazzi. You, the only female driver on the grid, were attending a high-profile gala, and while the event was supposed to be a celebration, it quickly turned into a showcase of unwelcome comments.

You walked into the venue, dressed in a stunning outfit that was both elegant and bold. However, instead of admiring glances, you were met with snide remarks and superficial comments about your appearance. People were whispering about your body, your outfit, and your presence, making jabs and sarcastic remarks about your place in the spotlight.

“Lights, camera, bitch smile,” you thought to yourself, trying to maintain your composure. Even when you felt like the criticism was overwhelming, you knew you had to keep up a brave front.

Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton, who were both at the event, noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere surrounding you. They were determined to support you and stand by your side.

As you mingled through the crowd, a particularly obnoxious guest made a loud comment, “Nice outfit, but are you sure you’re not just here to be a pretty face?”

The remark stung, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you turned to the person with a sarcastic smile. “Oh, absolutely. I’m just here to make up the numbers. But hey, if looking good and putting up with this nonsense is part of the job, I guess I’m killing it.”

The crowd fell silent, taken aback by your sharp retort. Charles, standing nearby, stepped in with a smile that was equal parts supportive and mischievous. “You know, I think she’s doing a lot more than just looking good. It’s impressive how she handles this kind of stuff.”

Lewis, also by your side, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and I’ve seen her drive circles around the competition. I’d say she’s got more than enough talent to match that smile.”

The remarks were met with a stunned silence from the onlookers. The shift in tone was palpable, and the crowd seemed to recognize that they had crossed a line. You gave Charles and Lewis a grateful smile, appreciating their support.

As the night went on, you continued to navigate the event with a blend of poise and sarcasm. The comments faded into the background as you enjoyed the company of those who genuinely respected you.

Charles, as you were leaving the event, put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “You handled that like a pro,” he said, his tone warm and sincere.

Lewis joined in, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little bit of sass to set things right.”

You smiled, feeling a renewed sense of confidence and camaraderie. “Thanks, guys. I’ve learned that sometimes, you just have to give as good as you get.”

As you left the gala, you knew that the road ahead would still have its challenges. But with the support of your friends and the strength you had shown, you felt ready to face whatever came your way.

im so depressed i act like it's my birthday everyday

The breakup had been brutal. Your boyfriend, a famous tennis player, had ended things in the most public and humiliating way possible. Since then, he’d been making snide comments about you in interviews, trying to tarnish your reputation. Despite the heartache, you continued to show up and perform on the F1 circuit, determined not to let his words break you.

"I'm so depressed, I act like it's my birthday every day," you thought bitterly, putting on a brave face for the cameras and the fans. The Monaco Grand Prix was approaching, and as always, the media was in a frenzy. You had a press conference lined up, and you knew that questions about your ex were inevitable.

You took your seat at the press conference, flanked by Lewis Hamilton, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, and Max Verstappen. The room was buzzing with anticipation as the questions started to roll in. It wasn’t long before one of the reporters brought up your ex-boyfriend’s recent comments.

“Your ex has been quite vocal about your breakup, making some rather harsh remarks. How do you respond to that?”

You took a deep breath, feeling the familiar sting of his words. But instead of letting it show, you decided to turn the tables with a sarcastic comment. “Well, he’s clearly got a lot of time on his hands now that he’s not busy winning matches. Maybe he should consider a career in stand-up comedy.”

The room erupted in a mix of gasps and chuckles. Before you could say more, Lewis jumped in, his expression serious. “He’s too stupid for his own good if he thinks he can undermine her. She’s shown more strength and class than he ever will.”

Charles nodded in agreement. “He let a gem slip out of his fingers. His loss is the racing world’s gain.”

Carlos added, his voice full of warmth, “She’s got more talent and heart than he could ever understand. We’re lucky to have her here.”

Max leaned into his mic, a rare smile on his face. “And let’s be honest, she’s the one who’s truly winning. Both on and off the track.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at their support. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”

The bond between you all was palpable. The camaraderie and mutual respect you shared were evident, and the crowd could see it. The reporters seemed taken aback by the united front, realizing they wouldn’t get the reaction they’d hoped for.

As the press conference continued, the focus shifted back to racing, and you felt a sense of relief. You answered questions about your performance, your strategy for the upcoming race, and your goals for the season. With each answer, you felt stronger, more confident.

After the press conference, the guys surrounded you, offering words of encouragement and support. Lewis gave you a reassuring pat on the back. “You handled that perfectly. Don’t let anyone get to you.”

Charles grinned, his eyes full of mischief. “Yeah, and if he keeps talking, we’ll take care of it.”

Carlos laughed. “I don’t think he stands a chance against all of us.”

Max added, his tone sincere, “You’ve got us. We’re in this together.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of their friendship and support. “Thanks, everyone. It means a lot.”

As you prepared for the next race, you knew that with the support of your friends and the strength you had shown, you could face whatever came your way.

i cry a lot but I am so productive, it's an art

The morning of the race, you found yourself hiding in the bathroom, tears streaming down your face. The pressure of the season, the recent breakup, and the constant scrutiny had finally taken their toll. You sat on the floor, head in your hands, sobbing uncontrollably. "I cry a lot but I am so productive, it's an art," you thought bitterly, trying to pull yourself together.

Outside, the sounds of the paddock were a blur, but the faint knock on the bathroom door was unmistakable. "Hey, you okay in there?" It was Lewis's voice, filled with concern.

You tried to steady your breathing, wiping your tears. "Yeah, I'm fine," you lied, your voice trembling.

The door creaked open slightly, and Charles's worried face appeared. "We heard you crying. Do you want to talk, Speedy?"

Carlos and Max were right behind him, their expressions mirroring Charles's worry. "You don't have to do this alone, Champ," Carlos said softly.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you broke down again. "It's just... everything. The pressure, the breakup, the constant comments... I can't handle it."

Lewis stepped inside, kneeling next to you. "We're here for you, Superstar. You’re stronger than you know."

Max nodded, his usually stern face softened with empathy. "You don’t have to be perfect all the time, Ace. It's okay to have moments like this."

Oscar, who had just arrived, added, "And after all this, we know you’ll go out there and show everyone what you're made of, Rocket."

Their words, their presence, it all felt overwhelming in the best way. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "Thank you, guys. I just... I need to get through today."

Lewis helped you up, giving you a reassuring hug. "And you will, Star. We believe in you."

With their support, you made your way to the grid. The race ahead seemed daunting, but you channeled all your emotions into your performance. Lap after lap, you pushed yourself to the limit, determined to prove to yourself and everyone else that you could rise above it all.

When the checkered flag waved, you had done it. You won the race. The crowd erupted in cheers, but all you could think about was the breakdown you had just hours before. As you climbed onto the podium, flanked by Max and Oscar, you felt a mix of triumph and relief.

During the podium ceremony, the emotions threatened to overwhelm you again, but you managed to keep a brave face. When it was your turn to speak, you decided to lighten the mood. "I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art," you said with a smile. The crowd laughed, appreciating your honesty and humor.

Max and Oscar both hugged you tightly, their support evident. "You did amazing, Lightning," Max whispered.

Oscar added, "We’re so proud of you, Champ."

The three of you stood there, arms around each other, a united front against the world. The bond you shared was clear, and for a moment, all the pain and pressure seemed to fade away.

As you looked out at the cheering crowd, you knew that the road ahead would still have its challenges. But with the support of your friends and the strength you had shown today, you felt ready to face whatever came your way. And for now, that was enough.

i was grinning like I'm winning i was hitting my marks, cuz I can do it with a broken heart!

The final race of the season was here, and Abu Dhabi was buzzing with anticipation. You stood on the starting grid, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. The breakup, the constant pressure, and the emotional toll of the season had been overwhelming, but you had kept pushing forward.

As the race began, you found your rhythm. Lap after lap, you were grinning like you were winning, hitting your marks perfectly. The focus, the drive, the determination—it all came together. "I can do it with a broken heart," you thought, channeling all your pain into every turn, every straight, every maneuver.

When the checkered flag waved, it was you crossing the line first. The roar of the crowd was deafening as you realized you had just won the World Championship. Tears of joy and relief streamed down your face as you brought your car to a stop. You had done it. Despite everything, you had achieved your dream.

Climbing out of your car, you were immediately swarmed by your team, who lifted you high in the air, cheering your name. Amid the chaos, you saw Lewis and Charles running towards you, their faces lit up with pride and excitement.

As you stood on the podium, the reality of your accomplishment sinking in, you took the microphone for your victory speech. "This season has been the toughest of my life," you began, your voice wavering with emotion. "I’ve been through hell and back. Heartbreak, pressure, and so many nights where I didn’t think I could keep going. But I did. Because I’m stronger than my fears, stronger than my pain."

You paused, looking out at the sea of faces cheering for you. "To everyone who ever doubted me, who said I couldn't make it—look at me now! I was grinning like I was winning, hitting my marks... because I can do it with a broken heart!"

The crowd erupted in applause, and Lewis and Charles were the loudest, hollering and cheering for you. They rushed onto the podium, drowning you in hugs, their pride and love for you evident in their eyes.

Lewis pulled you into a tight embrace. "You did it, Superstar! I knew you could!"

Charles joined in, wrapping his arms around both of you. "You’re incredible, Speedy! We’re so proud of you!

The three of you stood there, holding each other as the celebration continued around you. The bond you shared was unbreakable, forged through countless races, challenges, and triumphs.

As the champagne flowed and the confetti rained down, you felt a sense of peace and fulfillment. Despite the broken heart, you had achieved your greatest dream. And with Lewis and Charles by your side, you knew you could face anything the future held.

This moment, this victory, was yours. And it was sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

try and come for my job

The afterparty in Abu Dhabi was in full swing. The entire paddock was buzzing with excitement after the thrilling end to the season, and tonight was all about celebration. You had just won the World Championship, and the energy was electric.

Dressed in a dark pink glittery dress, you let yourself get swept up in the festivities. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and everyone was ready to let loose after a long, grueling season. Your team was gathered around you, along with many of the other drivers, all celebrating your incredible achievement.

As the night went on, the mood became more jubilant. Someone handed you a shot, and you raised it high, feeling a surge of adrenaline and joy. The crowd around you cheered as you climbed up onto a tabletop, ready to make a statement.

Holding the shot glass in one hand, you looked around at the sea of faces, all eyes on you. You grinned mischievously, feeling a boldness take over. "Try and come for my job!" you shouted, downing the shot in one go.

The room erupted in cheers and laughter. Lewis and Charles were right there, cheering the loudest, their faces beaming with pride. The moment was captured on video by several people, and within minutes, it was already going viral on social media.

You continued to dance on the tabletop, feeling the music pulse through you. The crowd chanted your name, the energy infectious. Lewis and Charles joined you, clambering up onto the table and dancing alongside you, their arms around your shoulders.

Lewis leaned in close, his voice filled with laughter. "You’re unstoppable, Superstar!"

Charles, grinning from ear to ear, added, "No one’s taking your job, Speedy! You’re the best!"

Max and Oscar were below, cheering and laughing, capturing the moment on their phones. Carlos handed you another drink, shaking his head in amazement. "You’re a legend, Rocket!"

As the night went on, the party showed no signs of slowing down. You felt an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and love from everyone around you. The hardships and struggles of the season melted away in the light of this celebration.

Later, as you finally climbed down from the table, breathless and exhilarated, Lewis and Charles stayed close, their support unwavering. "We’ve got your back, no matter what," Lewis said, his tone sincere.

Charles nodded, his eyes filled with admiration. "You’re a champion in every sense of the word. Never forget that."

You smiled, feeling the warmth of their words. "Thanks, guys. I couldn’t have done it without you."

The night continued, filled with laughter, dancing, and countless toasts to your success. The viral video of you downing a shot and declaring your dominance spread like wildfire, capturing the essence of your fearless, unstoppable spirit.

As the party finally wound down, you knew that this was just the beginning. With your friends and teammates by your side, you were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And for now, you were content to bask in the joy of this unforgettable night.

a/n : ahhh I've been waiting for this one!! happy reading 🩷 and as always, comments likes reblogs feedback etc is always appreciated 🤍

TAGS

f1 : @ivegotparticulartaste @moon-enthusiast @superlegend216 @theonly1outof-a-billion

ttpd series - @ateezseonghwanot @khaylin27 @imgondeletedis @jj-ever-lovely-jewel @stylestastic

charles : - @chanshintien @eternalharry @janeholt @magicalcowboyarbiter @oneafterdark @leclerc13 @moon-enthusiast @crlsummer @superlegend216 @electrobutterfly @formula1mount @f1lover20 @livsters @inkfable @ssararuffoni

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pierregazly · 2 years ago

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all of you ꨄ george russell

george russell x fem!reader

warnings: smut (18+ only), unprotected sex, slight dom!george, ass slapping, typical smut warnings. mentions of anxiety, hateful comments, self-conscious thoughts [4.2k wc]

in which george has to prove to his girlfriend she's the most precious person to him and the only one for him (aka pure filth)

The comments didn’t happen often, as least not as often as they used to.

He had told you from the start what may happen, the things people would likely say, the looks people would give; you could never deny that he forewarned you as much as he possibly could about the inevitable. The inescapable unkindness and negativity that came from people who didn’t even know you, people who had never met you, and would likely never meet either of you.

They were ruthless.

At times, the comments were laughable, the extent that strangers would go to attempt to put you down. The humour in them could only be seen for so long when they continued to come, what seemed like a never-ending stream of notifications clogging up your phone as you tried to ignore the comment after comment, message after message.

It was easy to try and convince yourself that it happened to everyone. You saw the damage it did to certain relationships, the way girls would question if they were enough for their famous partners, the way accounts would go private days after their boyfriend’s introduced them to the world.

Even with that in mind, it was hard not to feel as if every rude comment, every ignorant message, every untrue word was coming from an unspeakable truth that George himself actually thought.

That’s how you found yourself here. Wrapped up in the blankets of your shared bed, your phone thrown lazily on the side table next to your head. The rabbit hole of scrolling had been too enticing, yet again. One comment led to ten, that led to thirty and then eventually you found yourself so deep in a Twitter thread about your relationship that you couldn’t pull yourself out of until it was over.

George had only been gone for half-an-hour when you found yourself scrolling through everything. It was impossible to do it when he was home, your physical and emotional reactions to everything you read a clear indicator of what you were doing.

He was a good boyfriend, a great one, even. Kind, loving, attentive to all your wants and needs, he tried to do everything in his power to protect you from the messages and words he regularly heard about from other drivers on the grid.

But he couldn’t be there every second of every day. You definitely didn’t want him to be, either. You didn’t want him to see the sadness in your eyes when your phone was carelessly thrown onto the table, the subconscious scratching of your forearm as you tried to calm yourself down, the way your eyes would search down your skin for any imperfections, anything that would convince George that you weren’t enough for him, that you weren’t perfect enough to be the girlfriend of a Formula 1 driver.

Your thoughts were rudely interrupted when you heard the front door of your apartment open and then close shut. Looking at the clock, the numbers looked back at you as a soft groan fell from your lips.

You had spent the last 3 hours going through an array of emotions, not even realizing how much time was surging past. George had told you three times what time he would be home, even going out of his way to text it to you just to make sure you remember.

The bedroom door opened, the soft light from the hallway flowing into the darkened room prompting you to curl tighter into the blankets held in your fists.

“You’re still in bed, my love? It’s going on two in the afternoon, darling,” George murmured into your ear as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your forehead, his lips peppering down your cheek as you swatted at him jokily.

The concern emitting from him was evident when he pulled back from your skin, lightly pushing on your shoulder so that he could look you in the eyes. You held back the sigh as you looked up at him, your lower lip finding its way between your teeth as his thumb moved to glide down your jawline.

“What’s wrong? Why do you look so sad? Have you been crying?”

The questions shot out of George’s mouth instantaneously, his hand cupping your face as he sat down on the bed next to your curled up body. He was always so bloody attentive. You hated it. But you loved him.

Shrugging your shoulders, your teeth continued to gnaw on your bottom lip as you attempted to keep the quivering at bay. You didn’t want to tell him what you were doing before he got home, you couldn’t tell him. He’d be upset at you for doing it again, inevitably frustrated that you continued to go back and hurt yourself this way.

“Talk to me, sweet girl. Something’s wrong, I can see it. I can’t read your mind, though. Not yet at least,” he ended his sentence with a wink, trying to prompt at least a giggle from your quivering lips.

Closing your eyes as you felt his thumb continue to glide across your cheekbone, “I just… I saw some things, online. Like, not nice things, and it just kind of bothered me, I guess. I don’t know. It’s not a big deal, don’t worry.”

George’s reaction time was too quick for your attempt to turn your body to face away from him, his arm instantly encircling you and trapping you from moving. What seemed like annoyance was present on his face, his lips pursued, his nose scrunched, and a slight red hue sliding down his cheeks.

“What kind of things did you see online? Comments again? Messages?”

He was annoyed, it was obvious now. His voice had taken on that tone he gets after every bad race, angry with a bit of slight frustration at the circumstances.

“Just comments about me again, on one of those wives and girlfriends Instagram and Twitter accounts. You know how it is… It’s not a big deal, I shouldn’t have even been scrolling down them, I know,” you couldn’t look him in the eye as you mumbled through your sentence, the quiver in your lip becoming more obvious as you continued through your words.

Something that sounded like a groan and a growl mixed came from George’s throat, his hand that was cupping your cheek forcing you to look up at him. The tears glistening in your eyes instantly made any reprimand he was about to give dissipate, his concern for you taking over.

“What kind of stuff, sweet girl?”

Shrugging again, your words came out soft and sad, “About how I’m not good enough for you, how it would make more sense if you were still with Nick’s sister. Stuff about how obvious it is the other girlfriends don’t like me, how I’m probably such a stressor for you and that’s why you haven’t been doing well lately.”

Your voice choked off at the end. Your hand reached down to scratch at your forearm, the subconscious coping mechanism to keep the tears at bay being prevented when George intercepted your hand with his unoccupied one, interlacing your fingers.

It was hard to decipher the emotion that was floating in the Brit’s eyes as they looked down into your own. He didn’t give you much time to examine them before he was pushing his head into the column of skin where your neck and shoulders met, his hand that was previously cupping your cheek moving so that it was gently playing with the accessible strands of your hair.

The light peppering of open-mouthed kisses on the exposed skin of your neck had you sighing again, George’s body moving so that it moulded around your own. His head moved up so that it was pressed beside yours, his lips pressing gentle kisses across your cheeks and nose.

“I wish you wouldn’t read those things; I don’t like you submitting yourself to that kind of emotional torture. It’s not fair to you, and it’s surely not fair to me.”

You couldn’t stop the sad sound that bumbled out of your throat at his words, but before you could get an actual word out, he continued.

“It’s not fair that I can’t stop you from feeling like this, or from seeing the comments or getting the messages. I know you didn’t sign up for this, when we started dating, you didn’t ask to be treated the way you are by strangers and see things that are so unfathomably untrue about yourself.”

Humming at his words, all you did was nod your head sadly as you looked at him, “I guess, yeah. I did it to myself, I don’t even know how I ended up on one of those accounts again.”

“Let me prove that everything they’re saying is wrong.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement, that fell from his lips as he pulled back to look down at you. A fire was ignited in his eyes, his hand that was in your hair moving to caress lightly down your side.

“You don’t need to prove anything, Georgie. It’s okay, I’ll get over it.”

Shaking his head adamantly, his hand moved back up to cup your cheek as his eyes bore into your own, “Please let me prove that they’re wrong, that you’re the most perfect person for me, let me prove how I feel about you every single time I look at you; or think about you.”

His head moved down, his lips hovering over yours as soft breaths fell from your open mouth. All it took was a soft agreement from you before his lips descended, all the passion and love he could give pouring into the kiss. His tongue gently prodded at your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter as you opened your lips slightly, allowing for your tongues to battle against each other for dominance.

George nipped at your bottom lip, his teeth pulling it back slightly as his head moved up to look down at you, the hunger and adoration present in his eyes. You couldn’t help the small whimper that fell from your lips at the way he was looking at you.

The noise prompted him to push his head back into your neck, sucking, kissing, biting, licking, whatever he could do to prompt little noises out of you, he was doing. His hands, previously placed lovingly on different parts of your face were pressing into your hips, gliding up and down the skin under your shirt.

As his hands pushed up the shirt, the ministrations from his lips and mouth continued their path down, his teeth gently nipping at the skin of your bare stomach. The grin was evident on the lips that were currently pressed to skin above your ribs as his hands finally reached their destination.

He gently plucked and pinched the rosy bud of your nipple, his unoccupied hand pushing the hem of your shirt all the way up to your neck so his eyes could get a look at what was hidden below.

“You know, sometimes after a bad race I think about these pretty things. I think about how beautiful they look when you’re fresh out of the shower, glistening, so hard and perky, basically begging me to wrap my lips around one of them and suck.”

George emphasized his final word by doing exactly what he had said, wrapping his lips around the rosy bud of your nipple, his teeth lightly scrapping against the skin as a small moan erupted from your lips. His hand gently kneaded the other, plucking and pulling on it. You couldn’t contain the lower half of your body as you pushed up into his thigh that had found itself between your legs, an easy object to press your core into for a sense of relief.

He alternated between both, now very hard, nipples, always emphasizing that he couldn’t leave one for too long as it just wasn’t fair.

“I think about how they’re going to look in my face, as you bounce up and down my cock, making the most pretty of sounds. It makes me have to pull up the photos of you sometimes when I’m in my driver’s room, makes me wish you were there with me, so I could bend you over the couch and make you feel as good as you always make me feel.”

Another whimper fell from your lips at his words, the room spinning around you as you tried to process everything he was saying. You could feel the sweat starting to bead on your forehead, the heat of your body’s pressed against each other causing you to push at the sweater that was still covering his chest. He took the hint, pulling back to shove it and the shirts underneath off, as you did the same with your own top.

Your hands immediately went to his abdomen, running across the hard muscle that was present there. He was just so beautiful; how did you deserve someone as amazing as this?

It was like he could sense your thoughts, his hands reaching down to pull your own off his body, moving them so they were trapped above your head.

“None of that, sweet girl. This isn’t about me, this is about me proving how you are the one for me, how the only stress you could ever cause me is if I made you cum hard enough, or if I made you cum enough times.”

Your hands remained trapped by one of his larger ones, his lips moving back to gently kiss and suck at the now-fully exposed skin of your stomach. He was inching closer and closer to where your body was craving him most, the heat of your core obvious to him when his unoccupied hand moved down to rub your most sensitive part through the panties that still covered your core.

The small moans continued to fall from your lips, practically begging for him to do more, to pull your panties to the side and touch you exactly where you were craving him, where you needed him. Except, he refused. George continued to pepper kisses across your stomach, occasionally far enough down that his chin was touching the fabric of your panties, but never close enough to where you were practically begging for his mouth.

Finally, his hand pulled your panties to the side, his reaction to your soaking core a mystery as an individual finger gently glided through the wetness. Bucking your hips up towards his hand, begging for any release was useless, the hand that was previously trapping your own above your head had moved to hold your hips down, a small smirk prominent on his face.

“Sometimes, more often than not, I think about coming home to this pretty pussy. I think about how you’re going to taste on my tongue, the pretty sounds that are going to fall from your lips as I glide my tongue through all of this waiting here for me. I think about you sitting on my face, your hands gripping our headboard as you ride my tongue, moaning my name as you take your own pleasure for yourself. I think about the sounds it makes when I finger you at the same time, how you gush all over my fingers and tongue. It drives me wild, baby.”

He was driving you wild. George was not usually one for dirty talk, was not usually one to articulate what he was doing or wanted to do. This… this was new.

The finger that was previously gliding through the wetness of your core gently prodded at the entrance, his eyes meeting yours as he pushed the single digit inside of you. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, your lips opening in a silent moan.

George didn’t give you time to process before he was ducking his head, press an open-mouthed kiss to your inner-right thigh, then your inner-left, then the smooth skin beside your entrance. His finger was joined by another, the digits pumping into you, hitting the spots inside you that always made you cry out for him.

His tongue finally pressed lightly against the hood of your clit, the tip dragging against the bundle of nerves as your hips attempted to push up closer to his face. You hadn’t even realized his hand was still holding your hips down, a small groan of frustration leaving your lips at the realization.

He continued to lightly drag the tip against the bundle of nerves as his fingers stimulated the spots inside of you that you could never reach with your own fingers, it was so much and so little all at once. George knew your body like it was his own, knew what would drive you insane, how much teasing you could take, how much pressure and stimulation you could and couldn’t take, he knew exactly what would have you begging for him.

“George… baby please, please I need more.”

The humming that erupted from his throat against your clit launched a load moan to fall from your lips, the stimulation almost too much as you cried out. You could practically feel the grin on his lips as he finally flattened his tongue against your core, lapping up the wetness that was falling from your entrance every time his fingers pressed into you.

The sounds, the feeling, the groans, and grunts that fell from George’s lips as he pressed his own pelvis into the bed, his hips trying to find a little reprieve for the tent you were sure was present in his trousers; it was all too much.

Your core was seizing up, your previously empty hands had found themselves gripping the locks of George’s hair, pushing, and pulling his head in whatever direction they thought he was needed in. The feeling in your stomach was starting to grow as George’s tongue continued to lap at your clit, occasionally exchanging his tongue for his fingers to gather up more of your juices before they pushed back inside of you, loud moans falling from your lips each time.

Barely getting the chance to warn him as your legs started to tremble, your hips attempting to arch up, trying to push yourself closer to his face, his tongue, whatever you could. The euphoric feeling washed over you as you cried out, the orgasm ripping through your body. Your mind wandered as George’s fingers and tongue slowed down, gently licking you through your first orgasm of the night. You finally had to push his head away, your body slick with sweat as you looked down at him hazily.

“Was that good, baby?”

Nodding your head at him, you internally moaned as you watched him push the fingers that were previously inside of you into his own mouth, licking the essence of your body from them as he moved back up your body. You could feel how hard he was, the tent in his pants pressed up against your core as he gently pressed his lips to yours.

“I think about the face you make when you cum, all the time. Especially on the planes when we’re flying back from a long week away, I think about how I can’t wait to watch your eyes roll back, to watch your hips push up and your body quiver. How you have to push me away because you get so sensitive, how your pretty body can’t handle everything I’m trying to do to it.”

Whimpering at his words, you gently bit at his bottom lip, your hand snaking down in-between the both of you to pop the button on his trousers. He took the initiative to shimmy his pants down his legs, letting them fall to the floor before he instantly ground his core into your own; simultaneous moans falling from both of your lips.

“Gonna let me fuck you now, pretty girl? Let me make love to you, show you how you’re the only one I wanna do this with? How you’re the only one for me, period?”

Nodding your head eagerly at his words, he pressed his lips against yours again, continuing to press his core into your own as he ground down again. The only thing covering the both of you was his briefs and your soaked panties, your nails scratched down his back as his cloth-covered cock pressed against a particularly sensitive spot.

The Brit rolled off you to tug his briefs down, pulling your panties down your legs immediately afterwards. A frown marked your lips as you waited for him to get back on the bed, a smirk from him the only response.

“I want you on top, sweet girl. I wanna see every part of this beautiful body as I fuck up into you,” flopping down on the bed, he grabbed at your hips, his strength easily rolling your body over.

Situating yourself on top of him, you gently began to grind yourself against his member, the juices from your core making him slide through your folds easily. You groaned as the tip of his cock pressed against your clit every time you moved your body, George’s hands falling to your hips as he helped your body move.

It didn’t take long before your entrance was sliding down on his cock, the stretch as blissful as always. Your nails scrapped down his chest, your body getting used to his size, your eyelids half closed as you looked down into his eyes.

The only thing you could see was pure adoration, and lust. A smirk notched itself on his cheeks, one hand moving to your back to pull your chest down, so it was touching his, his lips attaching to your own as he began to push his hips up into you.

You tried to meet every thrust, the feeling of his member sliding in and out of you as he pushed up into you causing you to moan into his mouth. He took advantage of your mouth being open, his tongue finding its way inside to press against yours.

A squeal dropped from your lips, pulling you away from the kiss when his large hand connected with the cheek of your ass, an inevitable handprint likely forming as he grinned up at you. He did it again, lightly rubbing against the spot he hit as he continued to fuck up into you.

You pressed your chest back against his, your lips finding their way to his neck as your bodies moved in sync. His hands were now gripping your hips as he used his lower-body strength to thrust up into you, the speed and roughness of it all prompting sounds of pleasure to fall from both of your lips.

With the angle, your clit was pressed directly against him, the stimulation of his hips moving causing you to cry out. You could feel the euphoria coming back, the feeling of him drilling his hips into yours, his member sliding in and out of your soaking core, the press of his pelvis against your clit, it was all becoming too much.

George’s hips started to stutter, a good indication that he was about to cum as well. He pressed up into you, hard, a loud groan falling from his lips as he pulsated inside of you, emptying himself in your core as you leaked out around his cock.

He was breathing heavy as his hips fell, one hand lightly running down your spine as you tried to catch your breath against his shoulder. You could barely process how you were feeling right now, the words he had spoken during it all coming back to you as you tried to wrap your head around everything he had said.

Pulling back to look down at him, he smiled up at you, his hand going to cup the side of your cheek prompting you to subconsciously lean into it. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Which part, darling?”

“All of it, all the things you said like… during all that.”

A smug grin spread across his face at your words, prompting you to roll your eyes at whatever remark was about to fall from your boyfriend’s lips.

“You mean all the things I said while I was trying to make you soak my face?”

Groaning at his words, you slapped his chest at the vulgarity of them, the feeling from before not clouding your judgement any longer.

“I meant everything I said, my love. You mean the world to me, I don’t care what strangers on social media have to say about you, or about who I should be dating or what ‘make’s sense’. You’re all I want, you and this cute tush,” patting your ass in conjunction with his words, you smiled softly at him.

A quick peck to his lips was your only response, the smile remaining on your face as you took in his words.

this was pretty much just me having no self control lol, i havent written smut in ages so i apologize if it's a little rough. i hope everyone enjoyed!!

taglist

@leclercdream @myescapefromthislife @princessria127 @iloveyou3000morgan @love4lando @asfaraslifegets @decseptapril @somanyfandomsbruh @fangirl125reader @imagandom @motorsp0rt @jspitwall @sarahedwards16 @glitterf1 @christianpulisic10 @carlandonorri-s @smoothopz @eugene-emt-roe @epitios @ihrtdan

if your name is scratched out it wouldn't let me tag you. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

#george russell #george russell x reader #george russell smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 smut #george russell x you #formula 1 x reader #george russell imagine #formula 1 #smut #gr63 #george russell fluff #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #my writing

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beiasluv · 2 years ago

Text

forbidden fruit pt.2 | charles leclerc

part 1

a/n: i wrote last part at like midnight, apologies for any typos 💀 enjoyy 🤍

‘y/n l/n and charles leclerc. forbidden love, rival or lovers?’

front line mercedes driver, l/n, and the ferrari driver, leclerc, had been seen having a conversation together before the grand prix in italy…

“y/n, question for you please.”

the conference room. same old same old. lewis, you, and george were seated together in front of thousands of lenses, ready to pick each and every length of your skin just to get a piece of information they could sell to the media.

it was the day before the big race in italy, the media was catching their eyes closely at all the drivers - especially you know which two.

“..yes?”

“about the incident after the qualifying round, what had happened with charles?”

the clicking of the pens and the scratching of the notebooks were starting to get you any minute. clearing your throat you grabbed the mic closer to your mouth,

“i’m sure charles meant no harm..we’re racers..erm…rivalry isn’t the furthest thing from us.”

“are you dating charles, y/n?”

alarms were set off in your mind. it would be a crime if george and lewis couldn’t hear them. you were nothing with charles leclerc. he’s the reddest flag of all. really. you were nothing.

"we," clearing your throat and grabbing your mic closer to your dry lips. "we're not talking on any terms."

smile, y/n. smile for the cameras.

"what are your thoughts on the ferrari team this season? any comments?"

the journalist raised his hands through the crowd, his pen almost fell off his lap from the enthusiasm.

"it was always a challenge to race with any team on the track, ferrari included," you nodded. "the ferrari has a strong car, they are one of the many tough contenders. obviously, every team wishes to win...and so does mercedes," glancing a tight smile at the interviewer who took the answer down the notebook. perhaps a little bit too messy for your driver's head to decipher.

"how about when leclerc saved you? any additional comment?"

"i.."

you caught lewis shifting in his seat; his hands started to calm up together in front of the mic, seated between the three drivers and the whole internet. you could only pray your zoning out was missed by the media and you know who.

if only you could express your infinite pain of being the only female in the male-dominant sport, no paper could ever hold just a nick of the feminine rage pregnant inside you.

how come the only question you got asked was about 'charles,' 'men,' 'dating' and never the sophisticated 'performance car racing' or the ones filled with personalities?

george russell, for the record, your biggest shipper, even chipped in. he pushed the mic closer to his face and looked dead into the camera - if looks could kill - "please, this is a mercedes drivers' briefing."

the tension is sky-high, or you could say: rocket-sky-high. george settled back in his seat as you threw him a quick thankful smile. only god knows what the media is going to make up this time.

'george to the rescue'? bullshit.

"lewis, over here please."

"y/n, leclerc's getting aggressive. be careful for an overtake-"

"copy-"

the adrenaline is rushing, flowing, and doing whatever the heck it can in your bloodstream. pushing the pedal as hard as your baby could possibly could, the wind rushed against your face. if it wasn't for the helmet you had on, your face would've been cut like it were a thousand knives thrown at you.

looking to your right you see the infamous red ferrari again, surging with the wind and springing out against the green grass beside the track.

"leave space! you fucking-" you muttered as your fingers tick all the necessary buttons of the formula 1 car in order to keep your position above the ferrari. "what the fuck is he doing!"

praying the car tires could take a bit more, you applied as much pressure you felt comfortable on your baby for the first place behind the checkered end line. you glanced at the body behind the mask of the helmet as you continued to push and pray, push and pray.

if only you knew the ferrari was reciprocating the act.

what was important was you finishing above leclerc - mercedes finishing above ferrari, of course.

"leclerc! y/n! leclerc! who's going to win?! would he complete the overtake?!"

holding on to your steering wheel for your dear life, you saw something of a maroon color rushing to your side. perhaps it was the speed of the car that distorted your vision or was it something in your cheeks?

shut up-

"leclerc! leclerc! leclerc! ferrari have gained another victory home! ladies and gentlemen, charles leclerc!"

"fuck!"

the cracking sound from your radio chimed in your ears - at the worst time possible - "y/n! 0.02 second behind leclerc! P2!"

yeah, thanks. thanks for rubbing it in your face that leclerc had beaten you once again.

"..thanks," slowing your car down against the wind, you came to a halt after the race line; obviously at a considerable distance behind the red ferrari. climbing out and plastering on a fake smile for the media and your beloved fans.

the monégasques national anthem was blasted through the speaker throughout the whole podium. any fan knew this song belonged to any of the leclerc and ferrari, for now.

holding your hands in the comfort of in front of you, you tried to remain calm throughout the whole song. nevertheless, your heartbeat was beating fast for the obvious reason after the race.

the shit-eating grin was plastered on the driver standing on P1. can you even blame him? congratulations, you had beaten your rival for the longest time and were placed on P1 while wearing your infamous red suit.

while you were wearing your notorious mercedes's fire suit on your waist, just like all the drivers on the grid (and charles), you grabbed the champagne bottle as the others did so.

"good one, leclerc.”

you sprayed the champagne straight onto the monégasques’s back, maybe it was a little intentional that you shook the bottle a little harder for more pressure of the liquor.

no hard feelings, of course. you only knew his hair was soaked under the cap on his head and the tingling of the bubbles down his neck.

how unfortunate.

charles smirked back as he aimed his half-empty champagne bottle at you, "it's still not a date."

what.?

seeing you in your stunned state, he lowered the bottle to an acceptable level. leclerc cleared his throat and wiped the foam of champagne off his upper lips and chin; looking back with the biggest annoying grin on his face, "congrats on the podium. next race?"

oh, how you wish you could smack his grin off his mother fucking face again. rubbing it into your face.

the media..the media. breathe in, breathe out.

"will do, 16."

"congratulations on P2,"

toto patted your back as he entered the mercedes's headquarters. how lovely it is to see his drivers bundled up in his room, once again, after a race 'gone wrong.'

"what is it this time," he sighed as he lowered himself to his chair, not ready to be resigning the team principal position for a therapist for his driver.

the room was your comfort zone, safe to say. the picture of toto's kid, susie, and all of his essentials to complete the job for a team principal. crashing into his room with george wasn't an abnormal thing in your team, nor was it the first time of your career with him.

"they kept asking if you're dating charles, huh?" toto grinned as he faked wipe his mouth for the dramatic effect.

"i'm sick of it-"

the environment of the room shifted - for the better, surprisingly. also. did you mention the fact that this room felt more like a therapy session than a team principal's room?

and. wikipedia got it wrong, it was: toto wolff, team principal and CEO of mercedes, and a part-time therapist.

perfect.

"i'm sure we've put on a great fight," toto nodded towards you, the unspoken tension of the media was killing you inside out.

"i'm sick of the media, toto-"

george shifted next to you on the black sofa, "who knows, they're just trying to write a story out of nothing."

"it'll be the death of me if I have to continuously declare my love life on the internet," resting your head back on the back of the couch you did.

the coldness in the room was cleared by a bit as george snaked his arm around the back of the couch, he whispered into your ear, "you don't have a thing for charles..do you?"

"i hate you."

"night, toto. night, george."

bidding toto and george goodbyes, you grabbed your bag from the floor and beeline for the exit door.

the hotel bed is calling your name like a mantra at this point. the race was mentally and physically exhausting, what could be better than a nice, warm bath and a soft bed waiting for you?

the sky was pitch black, darker than your deepest thoughts in solitary, but the pitch was never dark. thanks to the eyes-scorching light to illuminate the track during the night races.

“sup lando..sup daniel”

“good race, l/n.”

walking past a couple of drivers, quick and friendly nods were exchanged as you head for the garage for your beloved mercedes.

and for the love of god, the eyes of the ferrari next to your mercedes were ignited.

how could this get even better?

making your way into the garage, you tried to be as quiet as you possibly could. digging in your purse for the key was a painful ride to ride.

'ah, found it.'

your fingertip dug into the muscle memory as you press the button you hoped was coded with 'unlock.'

fuck.

how gracious of mercedes to make the unlocking sound so loud. so loud that it caught the attention of the ferrari driver. so loud that leclerc's neck flicked towards the sound of your car and you swore you could feel his grin growing.

the second slowed down by a quarter as you seized the handle for the door and swung your bag and body inside the car. perhaps it was not fast enough for the P1 winner today as he made his way next to your car before you could even shut the door. ignoring his steps as he teasingly walked over to his ferrari and played with the key in his hand.

"you put up a great fight for the first place," he grinned. "next time.." he opened his ferrari,

“eyes on the track, l/n.”

"how-...don't you worry about it, leclerc," you scoffed, hiding the beating of your heart. fucking hell- stop beating so fast-

raising his eyebrows in one quick, swift motion, he entered his ferrari, "of course." the driver was fully engulfed by the shadows of the vertical door, but his eyes were still looking into yours, "nice drive today."

"you too."

your phone screen screamed it was 2 in the morning, but who cares? the tiktok on your phone was a little more entertaining than seeing charles off the track - okay, maybe a lot less - but the thing so addicting about tiktok was a life mystery for you.

curling up to your side, your phone was plugged into the wall next to your bed, your hand starting to get numb from holding your phone for too long.

asmr. f1 edit. asmr. f1 edit. asmr. f1 edit. you were going to go mad. for the love of anyone, if you see one more edit of charles leclerc on your fyp, you are going to throw your phone out-

honestly, you wouldn't lie that you enjoy an edit of yours once in a while, but hell, charles leclerc..fucking leclerc...who told him that he can look so fucking fine after a horrible race from the ferrari?

you were almost tempted to slam your phone on the nightstand and get some sleep for the night. also. who cares if you wake up late tomorrow?

knock..knock

"oh, come on," you cursed. the audacity to knock at 2 in the morning?

you swung yourself off the comfort of your hotel bed and tiptoed towards the door of your room. your pajama short and oversized t did not help with providing the necessary warmth.

peaking through the cat-eye, you saw the last thing you were expecting.

charles leclerc, in the flesh. he was leaning one of his arms on your door as he was about to raise his hand for another knock.

"gasly! open the door-"

"have a problem, leclerc?"

gosh, you wished you could take a pic of how terrified he looked. shit. was he looking at the unbearable state of yours, or what? short shorts, oversized t, and your hair-

"y/n- i'm-"

squinting your eyes, you adjusted to the light of the hallway, "gasly's not here."

silence engulfed the air between you like a buffet. he continued to stare blankly at you. gosh- could he stop with his dark, green, eyes- fuck. "…leclerc?"

was it the tension or your ears going deaf - you weren't sure - that made you couldn't even hear his - probably lame - excuse of why he knocked at your door at 2 in the fucking morning.

what did matter was the blabbering of his mouth traveled through one ear and straight to the other, just like an f1 car, speeding on any straight path-

"-i think i'm fucking in love with you"

"charles...don't."

charles stopped - his breathing, his steps, his brain, and whatever he could be conscious of. you started - started leaning onto the door, started clutching the other hand to the door blocking the other half of your heart from his.

"what d'you mean 'don't'?" leclerc's mouth was gaped, letting the least amount of air in to keep his heart beating - for you.

retracting your hand, and the door, away from him; you still found his hand in the comfort of over yours, the one that you held onto the door to not fall onto the wooden floor of your hotel room.

every breath you took was a sharp nick on your lungs, but you've managed to heaped out, "i'm sorry, charles-" just in time before your lungs would betray you.

"why?...why?...please-"

"why? -really? why?"

finally regaining the willpower to look back at him, and not cry, you were greeted with his reddened eyes, "what the fuck do you want with me-?"

"you- you could go around and tell me all these nice things in front of my face and- and god knows what you've been calling me behind my back-"

his grip on your hands tightened as he opened his mouth again, but you cut him short- "it drives me crazy- fucking crazy that you act all so nice to me when we've fought our whole lives against each other."

"...what ever happened to all of your loathing glares when i'm on the podium?"

who cares what the sleeping people, ghosts, or whoever the fuck on this floor hears. you were done with cradling your heart as far away as you could from the pitch. it was stupid. fucking humiliating, at least, that you've found yourself back - back at the start.

all the effort to fight for your place on the grid as the only female driver and all of your effort to carry your dignity above all the scandals came crashing down just for a second of your selfish desires. was it so bad to want love from someone who really cares for you all your life?

dancing, kissing, crying, loving. was it so hard to deny when it is literally in front of your fucking face? under the reddest flag of all.

you wished and prayed every day that the races would be over soon so you could stop seeing his shit-eating grin, his eyes, his remarks, his cologne filling the air whenever he walked past.

charles stood in silence, unmoving, as if the time had stopped. if only you knew he was trying- trying to find the right word to express this weird sensation in his brain, his chest, his fucking heart. they all just ended up tangled in italian, frech, and english. mon amour. my life-

"..is that how you really think of me-" he felt slightly betrayed by his wrong tone, but even more by your thoughts.

"you think- y/n- you think i'm just trying to tick you off the podium?"

"..are you?" wiping the tears that betrayed you and escaped from the comfort of your eyes. "look- look at all the headlines- 'mercedes and ferrari.' is this really the- the condition you want to love under?"

"i'll love you under any condition i want," he breathed shakily as he continued to hold the door of your room open. who cares about the ruffled sheet you left or your phone uncharged by the bed?

"there's nothing between us-"

"you have a girlfriend for fuck's sake!"

"it's a PR relationship! and who cares what the media thinks? i'm not doing ferrari any good by confessing my heart raw to you-"

"you think mercedes is getting anything out of this but rumors? i've fought the press for all my fucking life from the scandals inside the pit-"

"this isn't about mercedes, and this isn't about the goddamn media-”

charles ran his hand through his messed up hair, "and I would have thought you knew that..."

"maybe- maybe i don't. maybe i'm too scared to love again. maybe i'm too scared of what would happen if we ended on a bad note. maybe i'm a coward for not wanting to open my heart for you.

-maybe i'm stupid...for you"

"you're not stupid," he said- decreasing the gap between you two, trying his hardest not to reach to wipe your tears.

"we won't work out," you sighed. "we'll focus on our drives, we'll fight, you'll leave."

"please," charles grabbed your waist and pulled you in, once again - you gave in. "i'll make it work."

all your walls came crumbling down as you broke down like a dam on his shoulder. you buried your face onto his chest and gripped his shirt until you didn't care it would crease. a mantra of apologies came out of charles's mouth that you wouldn't even waste an energy to decipher.

his hands found their natural comfort in your lower back, rubbing in lines of traces and tracks you'd spend the rest of your life trying to decipher.

tucking a piece of your hair behind, he kissed all of your tears away. his mustache which had grown since the karting days grazed your skin like they were made for each other. his cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling too much like an idiot in front of your hotel room..106.

you were still gripping his shirt hard, as he closed the space between your lips and his. it seemed like all of your walls were crushed to the point of no returning; towering over you, he pressed his body against yours like there was no more- like the last lap of the race.

the level of oxygen in your lungs was starting to set off an alarm in your head, but you didn't care. you were kissing the reddest flag of all in the grid and you were not regretting anything.

pulling away for air, he smiled against your lips; sending a wave of breath onto your chin.

"you have a lot to explain to toto."

"i'll have my ways..."

oh my goodnesss. if you like it, please do whatever you want to, I’ll appreciate it 🫶🏻

today’s a great day to take care of yourself, luvv 🤍

tag: @leclerclvr @buendiabebeta @be-your-coffee-pot @al-luvx

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dragonsyot · 1 year ago

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#surge #my art #Alex Knight #Russel Greene #Julie Scott #Sam Serpico #Russel Surge #Alex Surge #Julie Surge #Sam Surge

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formulafanfics13 · 3 days ago

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Say Please, Princess - GR63 🔥

Masterlist

Summary After a flirtatious dinner where you tease George Russell in front of the grid, he drags you back to the hotel and teaches you a brutal lesson in control. What starts as punishment quickly turns into overwhelming pleasure, as George binds your wrists, denies your orgasms, and fucks you deep enough to erase your defiance. The night ends with soft aftercare and whispered confessions, your body ruined and your heart glowing.

Warnings semi-public teasing, dom!George, punishment kink, orgasm control/denial, bondage (belt restraint), spanking, fingering, rough oral (f receiving), degradation, possessiveness, overstimulation, aftercare, praise, intense power dynamics.

You shouldn't have done it. Not in front of the others. You knew better. But you did it anyway.

Dinner had been innocent, team sponsors, VIPs, a few stiff drinks and polished smiles. George looked like he always did at these things: dangerously composed, suit pressed within an inch of its life, jaw sharp enough to slice glass. He'd barely looked at you during the entire meal. Barely touched your leg under the table. Barely given you anything.

So you pushed. Small things, at first. A deliberate giggle when Charles poured your wine. A too-long thank you when Lando complimented your dress. Leaning across George to reach the bread basket, brushing your chest against his arm like you didn't notice.

But you knew he noticed. You knew because of the way his jaw clenched. The slight twitch of his fingers against his water glass. The fact that he didn't say a word the entire ride back to the hotel.

He held your lower back in the elevator, palm heavy and possessive. Silent. Dangerous. The moment the suite door closed behind you, the air changed.

You turned to speak, but George was already there, hand gripping your jaw, backing you against the wall in one smooth step. The door clicked shut behind him like a verdict. "You think that was funny?"

Your stomach flipped. Heat surged to your throat. "What-?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. "Don't play innocent now. You wanted attention. Now you've got it."

You squirmed under his grip, not to escape, just to feel. He always touched you like he knew exactly where to hold, how tightly to squeeze without leaving marks you couldn't hide.

"I was just being friendly," you said, feigning wide-eyed sweetness.

George laughed, low, dark, utterly joyless. "You don't want to know what I do to girls who play dumb."

You swallowed hard. "Maybe I do."

That was it. He spun you around, pressing your front to the wall, his body pinning you from behind. One hand tangled in your hair, the other trailing down the front of your dress, finding your thigh and hiking the fabric up. "Take your clothes off."

You obeyed. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting the straps fall one by one, keeping your back to him until you were naked, flushed, and trembling under the heat of his stare.

He stepped closer. His hand dragged from your shoulder down your spine. "You forget who you belong to?"

"No."

He pressed his lips to your neck, soft, hot, punishing. "Then why were you acting like a little slut at dinner?"

You gasped. "I wasn't-"

"Lying doesn't look good on you, princess."

You whimpered. He turned you to face him. "On the bed. Hands above your head. Don't move unless I tell you."

You crawled backwards onto the mattress, lying flat, wrists resting against the pillows like a sacrifice. George unbuttoned his shirt slowly, methodically, each movement precise. His eyes never left yours. "You're going to apologise," he said, slipping his belt free. "With your mouth. With your body. With every single fucking noise I drag out of you."

He used the belt to bind your wrists, anchoring them to the headboard. You gasped at the pressure, not painful, but firm. Inescapable.

"You want to be helpless, don't you?" he murmured, crawling over you.

"I want you," you whispered.

He smiled. "You'll regret that." His mouth descended on yours, biting, hot, teeth scraping your bottom lip until you moaned. His hands dragged down your ribs, thumbs brushing your nipples, then sliding between your legs with clinical purpose.

"So wet already," he said, voice like broken silk. "From being told off? Or from knowing what I'm about to do to you?"

You couldn't answer. He slapped the inside of your thigh, not hard, just enough to sting. "Use your words."

"Both," you gasped. "I like when you're mad."

His laugh was a growl.

"You won't by the end of this."

He bent down and licked a stripe up your cunt, so slow it felt like a threat. You cried out, thighs straining against his grip. He took his time — tongue circling, teasing, never giving enough. One finger pushed inside you, then two, curling just right.

You came embarrassingly fast. He didn't stop. You begged, voice wrecked. "George, I can't."

"Oh, but you can." He licked you through it, another orgasm building sharp behind the first. Your body arched off the mattress, hands still bound above you, useless and trembling. "Say you're sorry," he murmured, lips brushing your clit.

"I'm sorry," you gasped. "Fuck, I'm sorry-"

"Not good enough." He added a third finger. You screamed. "Try again."

"I'm sorry I teased you," you sobbed. "I wanted you to snap- I wanted this-"

He looked up at you, eyes dark with fire. "Now you've got it."

He pulled away. You whimpered at the loss. He undid his trousers slowly, pushing them down along with his briefs, cock heavy and flushed and already leaking. He stroked himself once, watching the way your eyes widened. "Say please."

You hesitated, just for a second.

Another slap to your thigh. Harder this time. "Say it."

"Please, George. Please fuck me. Please-"

He slammed into you in one punishing thrust. You cried out, back arching, legs trembling. He stilled, fully inside, cock pulsing against your walls. "You're so fucking tight when you're scared."

"I'm not scared," you whispered, defiant.

He grinned, feral. "You should be."

He fucked you like a lesson. Not fast, deep. Controlled. Dominating every inch of you, forcing moans out of your throat with every stroke. He gripped your bound wrists and used the leverage to pull your hips harder against his.

"Is this what you wanted at dinner?" he panted. "Me fucking you so hard you forget your own name?"

"Yes- yes- God, yes-"

He reached between you and pressed your clit again, relentless. "You'll come when I tell you."

You sobbed.

"I mean it," he said, voice shaking now. "Hold it."

You did. Barely. Your whole body was vibrating, skin flushed, thighs soaked.

Then, finally, his voice dropped. "Now."

You came so hard it blacked out the edges of your vision. He fucked you through it, not stopping, not easing up. He chased his own high, fucking you with ragged breath until he pulled out and spilled across your stomach with a growl, hips jerking, hand braced beside your head.

Silence. Your wrists trembled in the restraint. Your chest heaved. He untied you slowly, carefully. Kissed your wrists. Rubbed your arms. Gathered you into his lap like you were something delicate again. And then he whispered into your neck, gentle now. Soft. Real. "You drive me fucking insane."

You smiled. Weakly. "Worth it."

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 fluff #f1 smut #gr63 #gr63 x you #gr63 x reader #gr63 fic #gr63 smut #george russel x reader #george russel imagine #george russell #george russell smut

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lestappen3 · 10 months ago

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Crashing Down | Part 1

pairing: Max Verstappen x Wolff!Reader x Lando Norris

word count: +/- 2300

plot: Where reader had a terrible crash two years ago, Lando broke up with her, Toto is back into his scheming ways and Max is just there.

note: I haven't used this account in years, but I genuinely missed writing and thought this was a great way of coming back. I have this entire story planned out, but I am not sure if it's good enough. Please let me know if you're interested.

part 2

masterlist

It was 2024. The new racing season was about to begin, with the yearly reminder that you were forced to stand on the sidelines. The roaring engines of the current generation of Formula 1 cars echoed through the Mercedes garage you were currently settled in.

This sound once fueled your entire driving force, and you first discovered this passion when you visited the racing ground with your parents as a child. It must have been twenty years ago. You were around five or six years old. Since that moment, the sound of engines has been a constant presence in your life.

Anticipation and excitement surged through your body as you lowered yourself for the first time in the car of your biggest idol, Lewis Hamilton. Then, the adrenaline rush followed. It was a moment of realisation as if you had found the path you were destined to follow. This feeling was something you wanted to continue to crave after, and it, racing, became your daily motivation. You were okay with wherever you raced, the important matter was that you were in the car, and the engine roared as loud as possible. The sound became a bittersweet reminder of your unfulfilled dreams as time passed. Instead of contemplating your next race and how you could receive a podium finish or, ideally, take home the trophy, you were consumed by persistent thoughts of missed opportunities and countless “what ifs”.

Your fingers brushed against the faded scar on your upper right leg. It was a hot day, so the scar was visible to everyone. It wasn’t pretty, but you rather had the visual reminder of that terrible Sunday afternoon than the mental one that hunted you daily. It’d still hurt, the ache being a reminder of the crash that had taken everything from you. Your life afterwards instantly became a stark contrast to the life you once lived, and the sport you loved dearly had slipped through your fingers.

As life progressed, with or without your approval, you continued to be a part of the Mercedes crew, but everything changed. Everyone moved on. Your father had to assign someone else your seat. George Russell was your replacement. Initially, it’d hurt to see him wearing your suit, your helmet, and have him sitting in your car. Dinners at home were silent. Your parents were afraid to hurt your feelings by talking about how well George was adjusting next to Lewis. It was a thought that occupied your dreams, but you were better, at least a little better, and you decided you were ready to move on. Perhaps not as a racing driver, but you couldn’t let go of the motorsport entirely. At least not yet.

You stood at the edge of the Mercedes garage, watching as the pit crew worked on their preparations for the weekend’s race. The crew hasn’t changed much since you last were in the garage. Many familiar faces of engineers, mechanics and staff greeted, hugged, and welcomed you back. But you could sense the stress and tension through the smiling faces. Everyone was working more hours than intended to have the best car possible for the first race of the season. Everyone was equally important, including you, whether you were a racing driver or not.

As you stood at the edge of your father’s garage, your gaze drifted across the other side of the grid, landing on the orange-coloured banner of McLarens’ garage. Coincidentally, it was when Lando Norris decided to display his newly found confidence. His arm hugged his helmet tight as he was in the middle of a conversation with a few members of his team. Next to him stood his current girlfriend, watching him like he was the brightest sun.

A pang hit your chest. It was as if someone stabbed you with a knife and then twisted it. Again, and again, and again. You hadn’t expected Lando to replace you as well. The crash had driven a wedge between you, something neither of you knew how to fix. Fear, pain, trauma, and Lando’s career further strained the distance between you. And you both just let it happen. It wasn’t either of your faults. It felt like it was something that was entirely out of your hands. Eventually, the love that was once there was replaced with memories and excoriating silence.

It was hard, yes. But the fact Lando moved on after two weeks was cruel. On the bright side, the pain of your broken heart numbed the pain of your injuries.

Unconsciously, you were twisting the ring on your finger. Honestly, you hadn’t expected to still feel like a drowned, sad baby bunny after two years of not setting foot on the grid. Seeing him, seeing how he’d moved on, was painful, but hearing how the media knew was something else entirely. Your relationship wasn’t a secret, per se. You just never announced it, but people noticed the secret glances and the time you spent together when you weren’t preparing for a race. He never shared anything about you, and you just accepted it. Funnily enough, you still would.

Your father’s voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. Brooding was something you did every day after your crash, and you were thankful your father helped you when you got caught in too deep.

“Hey,” he called, walking towards you.

“I wanted to ask if you wanted to join the strategy meeting in fifteen minutes.”

You nodded, “Sure, of course.” Toto paused. He was a considerate team principal but an even more worried father. Since you had asked to join the 2024 season, he had been unsure if it was the best for you. Toto gave you a long look. “Are you alright?”

“I enjoyed plotting strategies to outsmart the other drivers, not just outrace them,” you said with a soft smile.

You noticed your father’s smile turn to a worrying frown. You knew he didn’t want to push you. If it were up to him, you were still at home, watching everything from a TV screen, but he also knew it was in his daughter’s blood to be a part of this world, just as much as it was in his. You had the same fire and the same relentless drive to succeed, especially when it came to motorsport.

As father and daughter made their way to the Mercedes motorhome, the world of Formula 1 came to life. Photographers snapped shots of drivers and team members, while the media and fans went into vulture mode as soon as a driver, or someone who looked like one, walked by them. You became indifferent to the whole ordeal after your second race weekend. The grid was the place you had grown up in, after all.

You felt the flash from one of the photographers’ cameras as you walked through the grid. A little smile started to grow on your face. You were not behind the wheel anymore, not one of the twenty drivers everyone talked about, but it was still the only place that felt like home.

Your mind wandered once more, revisiting your days as a racing driver. You had been good, no, not just good, one of the best. However, everyone makes mistakes, and you were no exception. A single misjudgment had cost you everything. The crash had been brutal and a terrifying reminder of the thin line between life and death in the world of motorsport. Fortunately, you had survived, but your career was not as fortunate. Now, all that remained was walking the paddock as Toto’s daughter, attending meetings, and most frustratingly were the pitying looks from those who stole a glimpse of you.

You had almost reached the Mercedes motorhome as you heard a familiar voice rang out. “Wait!”

You turned around to see the current world champion, Max Verstappen, approaching in his usual attire. His confident stroll, with his head held high and a slight smile playing on his lips, carried him effortlessly through the grid. He had always been like that, confident, walking with a certain amount of presence that made it impossible not to notice him. Whether he was the reigning champion or not, he had this essence.

But Max Verstappen was more than just the fiery Red Bull Racing driver, at least to you. He was one of your closest friends and the rock who had been there for you when the world came tumbling down.

“Are you ready for a weekend of chaos?” Max asked, grinning as he stopped in front of you, leaning casually against the stanchion of the motorhome.

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “As ready as ever. How about you?”

Max shrugged. “You know me. I thrive on chaos.” His eyes flashed mischievously, hinting at his love for excitement.

The friendship between the two of you had always been stable. It was built on a shared understanding of being born into a family of motorsport fanatics, mutual respect and the everlasting feeling of stepping in a Formula 1 car simultaneously for the first time in your career.

On top of that, Max never saw you as weak, fragile or broken after your accident. He never showed you pity but instead gave you space or an embrace when you grieved everything you had lost.

He smiled, but there was something softer in his gaze when he looked at you. “You know, it’s good to see you out here again. I know it’s not the same, but…”

You swallowed a breath you didn’t know you held and nodded. You understood what Max tried to say even if he didn’t finish his sentence. He was right. It wasn’t the same. It never would be. But being here, the place you used to call home, mended a piece of you you had been missing for the past two years.

Before Max could say more, Toto cleared his throat behind them. “The meeting is going to start soon. We need to go.”

Max straightened and pushed himself off, offering a nod to Toto. “Good luck this weekend.”

Toto smiled politely in return. “You too, Max.”

As Max strolled towards his team’s motorhome, Toto turned to you. “There’s something important I want to discuss about Max,” he exclaimed.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by your father’s sudden change in tone. “What about him?”

“We need him at Mercedes.”

His words lingered in the air, and you blinked, caught off guard by your father’s directness. “Are you attempting to steal Max?” you uttered in a hushed tone.

“He’s the best driver on the grid. We need him for the future.”

Your father’s words took you aback. You had always believed you were destined to be the future of Mercedes, and there was no need for a Max or even a George. But you also couldn’t blame your father, or anyone for that matter. Lost in your thoughts, you realised you had been staring at your father in disbelief as he revealed his plan to take the brown-haired boy away from his supposed forever home.

“I didn’t expect to be involved in some kind of scheme,” you hushed, processing his words.

Toto nodded in understanding, but that didn’t stop him from letting go of the idea of adding the three-time world champion to his roster of drivers. “He trusts you. You have been racing together ever since you were little kids. You have a connection with him that no one else does. If anyone can get him to consider joining Mercedes, it’s you.”

You laughed at him, not believing what your father was saying. Lewis deciding to leave was a little drastic, but this…

He wasn’t wrong though. You and Max were close. But asking him to leave the place that he considered home? He said he wasn’t sure he would ever go. Red Bull was to Max what Mercedes was to you. His loyalty to the team and to Helmut Marko was like family.

“You’re asking a lot, dad,” you whispered, your mind racing with all the possible scenarios. Max could agree, and your anxious time on the grid would be much less, but he could also be enraged at the idea, being so offended by the thought you used him as a pawn to better your father’s team. Perhaps he would leave altogether? How were you supposed to survive this shit show then?

Your father’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “I know, pea, but the sport is always moving forward. We have to think two or three years ahead. I have to think about the future of Mercedes. And Max-”

He thought about his following couple of words carefully.

“Max is the future.”

You glanced back towards where Max went off to, the Red Bull motorhome, where he stood and chatted with a couple of crew members. You sighed, running your hand through your hair. Your father was right, and you hated it. George was good. But Max and George, and with your current expectations for your car in two years? Mercedes could be unstoppable.

But thinking about your father’s plan created a knot in your stomach. You didn’t want to lose him, you weren’t sure if he could be mad, or worse… And then there was Lando…

You pushed your thoughts aside, forcing yourself to stumble back into reality. You have to decide what your future holds. Was it your happiness? Mercedes? Max? Lando? It felt like your head was about to explode.

“I’ll talk to him,” you finally said, your voice the most steady it had been today.

Toto gave you a smile of appreciation. “Thank you, but it’s not going to be easy. We need to be careful. Max isn’t going to be an easy sell, but if anyone can change his mind, it’s my daughter.”

You were unsure whether that was a compliment or a burden. You also weren’t sure if it was a good decision.

This was just the beginning of something much bigger, on and off the track.

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

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bradshawed · 6 months ago

Text

NEWTON'S LAWS, PROLOGUE

main & series masterlist !

introducing... the lion and his lioness prey pairing: f1!raphael cameron & reporter!reader

An apple fell from a tree and well... you know the rest. Much like Newton's apple, you fell right in his path, the lion's path, and he deemed you his prey. Silly boy. That was his first mistake.

A tale as old as time, Newton & his gravity, faceclaim: HoYeon Jung & various pinterest girls

warnings! no warnings for this prologue

prologue, chapter 1 ...

With the 2024 season coming to an end, the driver market for 2025 has been taking shape, with several big moves announced. Let's take a look at who will be driving where...

READ MORE: FIA and Formula 1 announce calendar for 2025

Red Bull Raphael Cameron – #1 Cleo Anderson – #208

Rafe Cameron has been locked in at Red Bull, with the world champion's deal running through to the end of 2028. This has not prevented speculation over a possible move elsewhere, amid rumours of interest from Ferrari. Cameron has stated, however, that he is not considering changing teams.

While Sergio Perez signed a contract extension earlier in the season to keep him at the team through to 2026, the Mexican and Red Bull subsequently reached an agreement to part ways with immediate effect following the conclusion of a tough campaign. His seat will be filled by Cleo Anderson, the first female F1 driver since Maria Teresa de Filippis, Lella Lombardi and Susie Wolff, who has impressed at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix.

EXCLUSIVE: 'The perfect match' – Anderson and new team boss Verstappen on her multi-year Red Bull deal

Ferrari Charles Leclerc – #16 John Booker Routledge – #5

Following Carlos Sainz' retirement when it was confirmed at the end of the 2022 season, rookie John B. Routledge has made the step up from F2 to F1 and has impressed many, following in the footsteps of his father and seven-time world champion.

The other spot at Ferrari will be retained by Charles Leclerc. Having raced for the Scuderia since 2019, the Monegasque has pledged his future to the squad, having signed a contract extension which will see him stay with the team for several more years.

McLaren Lando Norris – #4 Oscar Piastri – #81

As they continue their progression following a rapid surge in performance during 2023, McLaren have settled on their driver line-up for the long-term. Lando Norris – who has been racing for the team since making his F1 debut in 2019 – agreed a new “extended multi-year” contract with the squad prior to the start of 2024.

Joining him will be Oscar Piastri, with the Australian also committed to the team after signing a multi-year extension until the end of 2026.

READ MORE: ‘I want to do it with McLaren’ – F1’s newest winner Lando Norris on loyalty to his team, and taking the fight to Cameron

Mercedes Lewis Hamilton – #44 Topper Thornton – #47

Lewis Hamilton will remain with Mercedes in 2025, marking his thirteenth season racing for the team. It was confirmed in August 2023 that the Briton had signed a new two-year deal to keep him at the Silver Arrows through to the end of next season.

While the same contract was announced for George Russell, he ultimately activated a release option to allow for his move but was left without a seat in the 2025 season, announcing his retirement shortly after. His replacement will be reserve driver Topper Thornton, moving 2024 F2 driver and long-time Mercedes protégé Kimi Antonelli to the reserve driver position, with Team Principal Toto Wolff hoping to have uncovered the next Max Verstappen given the young Italian’s sparkling junior category CV.

RB Yuki Tsunoda – #22 JJ Maybank – #6

It was announced prior to the Canadian Grand Prix that Yuki Tsunoda will continue to race for RB in 2025 after the team took up an option on their agreement with the Japanese driver, marking his fifth season at the Red Bull sister outfit.

Daniel Ricciardo made way for JJ Maybank for the United States Grand Prix after an inconsistent season, becoming the 19th driver to be promoted to F1 from Red Bull's junior programme.

READ MORE: How JJ Maybank's move from pro-surfer to F1 driver played out

Williams Alex Albon – #23 Franco Colapinto – #43

Alex Albon will enter his fourth season as a Williams driver in 2025, having signed a multi-year contract extension with the team which will keep him there through to 2026.

At the end of August, Williams announced that their academy driver and F2 racer Franco Colapinto will contest the remainder of the 2024 season with the squad, replacing Logan Sargeant as Alex Albon’s team mate from the Italian Grand Prix. Following this move, Colapinto has signed a multi-year deal for the team, giving them continuity into the new year of engine regulations.

Aston Martin Fernando Alonso – #14 Lance Stroll – # 18

Fernando Alonso enjoyed an impressive start to his tenure with Aston Martin in 2023 and, while the team have struggled to maintain those results, the Spaniard has reaffirmed his belief in the project by signing a deal that will keep him at the squad until at least the end of 2026.

Lance Stroll – who has been incumbent on the line-up since joining in their Racing Point guise back in 2019 – has also been confirmed at the team for 2025 alongside Alonso, giving the team helpful continuity.

READ MORE: ‘It’s probably my last contract’ – Alonso reflects on new Aston Martin deal as he predicts ‘things are in place’ to become a ‘powerful team’

Alpine Esteban Ocon – #31 Pierre Gasly – #10

Esteban Ocon was set to leave following a five-year stint with the squad but with the volatile driver's market, Ocon signed a deal that will keep him with Alpine until at least the end of 2026.

Team mate Pierre Gasly has been re-signed to the squad on a multi-year extension. He will be joined by reserve driver Jack Doohan, who won out over other candidates to step up to F1 in 2025 - and where his development will be overseen by new Team Principle Oliver Oakes.

Haas Kevin Magnussen – #20 Nico Hulkenberg – #27

After returning to the F1 grid with Haas in 2023, Nico Hulkenberg has signed a contract extension that will see him remain with the squad until the end of 2028. It was also confirmed in July that with Kevin Magnussen's contract expiring at the close of 2024, he may be departing at the end of the current campaign, but he too signed an extension that will see him with Haas until the end of 2028.

Kick Sauber Zhou Guanyu – #24 Valtteri Bottas – #77

Zhou Guanyu and Valtteri Bottas' contracts see them with the squad until the end of the 2025, after which they will both be set to depart.

Following the San Paulo Grand Prix weekend the team confirmed that rookie Gabriel Bortoleto would be joining as the reserve driver, with the potential to move up to a full-time position in 2026.

READ MORE: Kick Sauber confirm rookie Bortoleto as reserve driver for 2025

If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know. And, if you want to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts (credits to Zya).

taglist for f=ma, @vampteeths @zya8tracks @edwardslvrr @potatodirectioner

note! credits to @zyafics for her layout, it was such a good idea to repeat the summary at the top for each chapter and to place the taglist and author's note at the end, ily and thank u for letting me use it. sorry for getting a little lazy with the article towards the end... i didn't want to miss anyone out for new readers that aren't familiar with f1 and how many teams there are, etc but equally i couldn't come up with anything new to say

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its-avalon-08 · 9 months ago

Note

Hi, could you write a story with George, where he is protective of the reader? I don’t really have much of a plot, but I would like a bit of angst and fluff. Thanks!

all my love (gr63)

✦ pairing - george russell x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, jealousy, protective george

George Russell is always fiercely protective of Y/N, whether they're in the fast-paced world of Formula 1 or just enjoying quiet moments at home. His protective nature shows in the little things—like making sure she's safe from paparazzi pushing through the crowd, or standing up to people who try to belittle her. He keeps a watchful eye on her during events, always ready to step in when someone gets too close or crosses a line. No matter how tense things might get between them, George's protective instinct never falters. To him, Y/N is everything, and he'll always go the extra mile to keep her safe and remind the world that she's his.

It was the day after a big race, and George had just secured a podium finish. The media frenzy was at its peak, with paparazzi and fans crowding every corner outside the hotel where George and Y/N were staying. Y/N had accompanied George to an event that evening, and as they walked out together, hand in hand, the mob outside seemed more aggressive than usual.

"Stay close," George whispered, his thumb gently rubbing the back of Y/N's hand.

Y/N nodded, trying to stay calm despite the growing chaos. The crowd of fans surged forward, phones held high, while photographers shouted for George's attention. The security guards tried to hold them back, but it was clear they were struggling.

Suddenly, there was a push from behind, and Y/N stumbled forward. The momentum from the crowd caused her to lose her footing, and George instinctively reached out to steady her.

"Oi! Watch it!" George shouted, his protective instincts kicking in. He tried to shield Y/N with his body as the fans kept pressing forward.

But the crowd didn’t stop. In the confusion, someone jostled George from the side, and before he could fully regain his balance, another push sent him tumbling to the ground, pulling Y/N with him. She gasped, her heart pounding in her chest as she scrambled to get up.

Out of nowhere, Lewis Hamilton, who had been nearby, immediately stepped in. His arm wrapped around Y/N, gently but firmly pulling her away from the chaos. “I got you, I got you,” he whispered, his calm demeanor doing little to hide the concern in his voice.

Y/N looked over her shoulder in panic, her eyes searching for George. “George! George, are you okay?”

George was already getting to his feet, brushing off the dust from his trousers, but there was a deep scowl on his face. He winced slightly, favoring his left leg, and his jaw clenched in frustration.

“Back off!” George shouted angrily at the crowd, his voice sharp and filled with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you lot? You just shoved her!”

The crowd stilled for a moment, clearly taken aback by his outburst. Even the security guards began pushing the people back more forcefully, creating a space between George, Y/N, and the aggressive fans.

Y/N, still in shock, held onto Lewis, her heart racing as she watched George. "George, you’re hurt…"

George limped over to her, his frustration melting into worry as soon as he saw her in Lewis’ arms. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” His voice softened instantly as he reached for her, ignoring the pain in his leg.

“I’m fine,” Y/N whispered, her eyes filled with concern for him. “But you’re not…”

“I don’t care about me,” George said fiercely, pulling her close despite his obvious discomfort. “I care about you. They shouldn’t have done that.”

Lewis gently let go of Y/N, stepping back slightly to give the couple some space. “You guys good? I can make sure they clear this area if you want.”

George nodded, his arm firmly around Y/N’s shoulders. “Thanks, mate. Just… get her inside. I’ll handle this.”

Lewis shot George a reassuring look before turning to the nearby security team, instructing them to handle the situation. Y/N glanced up at George, worry evident in her eyes as he tried to stand tall, though the pain was clear on his face.

“You shouldn’t be handling anything,” Y/N said, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine, love,” George said, his tone softening as he looked into her eyes. “I just… I lost it when I saw them push you like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Y/N shook her head, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “You don’t have to apologize. You always protect me, but I hate that you got hurt because of me.”

George held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. “I’d get hurt a hundred times over if it means keeping you safe. Nothing matters more to me than you.”

From a distance, Lewis gave them a small, supportive smile before heading back inside, leaving the couple to recover from the chaos.

As the security team finally cleared the crowd, Y/N looked up at George, her hand gently resting on his cheek. “Let’s get you inside and take care of that leg, alright?”

George smiled down at her, his protective demeanor softening. “Only if you promise to stay with me.”

Y/N smiled back, leaning up to kiss him softly. “Always.”

It was supposed to be a quiet family dinner at Y/N’s parents' house in London, but as always, the atmosphere had turned tense. George had been by Y/N’s side the entire evening, but he could sense her unease from the moment they arrived. He could see why, too. Her family, particularly her parents, had a habit of being overly critical, constantly making snide remarks that chipped away at Y/N’s confidence.

Y/N sat next to George at the long dining table, her eyes focused on her plate as her mother launched into yet another judgmental comment.

“You know, Y/N, it’s a wonder how you manage to keep up with George’s lifestyle when you’re so busy with your little business,” her mother said with a condescending smile. “I mean, it’s cute, but don’t you think it’s time to settle down and focus on something more stable?”

Her father, sitting at the head of the table, nodded in agreement. “Yes, George is a successful man in the prime of his career. Surely, you can’t expect him to be patient with you forever.”

Y/N’s grip tightened around her fork, her knuckles white as she tried to keep her emotions in check. She always had to endure these dinners, these backhanded comments that made her feel small. But it hurt even more now with George there, witnessing it all.

George could feel the tension radiating off of Y/N, and he wasn’t having any of it. He had been quiet for most of the evening, but hearing Y/N’s family tear her down, yet again, was the last straw.

Before Y/N could respond, George stood up from his seat, his expression hard and unwavering. “I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here and listen to this anymore.”

Y/N’s parents both looked up, startled by the sudden interruption. Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t appreciate the way you talk to her,” George said firmly, his voice calm but filled with a quiet intensity. He looked at Y/N’s parents with a kind of authority they hadn’t expected. “Y/N is the smartest, most capable person I’ve ever met. The way you undermine her achievements, her hard work, it’s—honestly, it’s disrespectful.”

Her father frowned. “George, we’re just being honest. She could be doing more with her life. Someone has to push her to do better.”

George’s jaw tightened, his hands gripping the back of his chair as he leaned forward slightly. “She is doing more with her life. She’s built a successful business on her own, while managing to balance everything that comes with being in a relationship with me and the crazy life I live. She’s strong, she’s incredible, and frankly, the fact that you can’t see that is disappointing.”

Y/N’s mother blinked, clearly taken aback by George’s words. “George, we’re just trying to look out for her.”

“No,” George interrupted, his voice low but firm. “You’re tearing her down, and it’s not okay. I won’t sit here and watch it happen.”

Y/N’s heart was pounding in her chest as she watched George stand up for her, his protective energy filling the room. She had never seen anyone stand up to her parents like this, and certainly not for her. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away, trying to stay composed.

Her parents sat in stunned silence as George turned to Y/N, offering her his hand. “We’re leaving.”

Y/N, still processing the moment, nodded silently and slipped her hand into his. They left the dining room without another word, the tension hanging thick in the air behind them. The moment they were outside, Y/N let out a shaky breath, her hand still gripping George’s tightly.

“George…” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.

George turned to her, his expression softening as he cupped her face in his hands. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Ever.”

Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes as she looked up at him, her heart swelling with gratitude and love. “I… I didn’t know how to say anything. I’ve put up with it for so long, I just…”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with it,” George said softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. “You’re amazing, Y/N. And I love you, just as you are. I needed them to know that.”

Without another word, Y/N surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and kissing him with all the emotion she had bottled up inside. The kiss was desperate, filled with relief, love, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. George’s arms circled around her waist, pulling her close, his hands resting on the small of her back as he deepened the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Y/N rested her forehead against his, her eyes still closed as she savored the moment. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

George pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “You never have to thank me for standing up for you. I’ll always protect you, Y/N. Always.”

Y/N smiled through the remaining tears, her heart full as she leaned into his embrace. In that moment, she knew she had found someone who would love her unconditionally, someone who would always have her back—even against the people who should have supported her the most.

It had been a long day, and tensions between Y/N and George were running high. They had argued that morning over something trivial, but as the hours passed, the silence between them had grown heavier. George was short with her, and Y/N, equally stubborn, gave him the cold shoulder. They barely spoke throughout the day, both too proud to break the silence first.

But they had plans for the evening—an invite to a club for a post-race celebration with the team. Neither of them wanted to cancel, so they dressed up and went along, even though the air between them was still tense.

Y/N wore a sleek black dress that hugged her figure perfectly, her hair cascading down her back in loose waves. She looked stunning, and George couldn’t help but steal glances at her as they walked into the club, though he said nothing. His jaw was set, his mood still sour from their earlier argument.

The club was alive with music, lights flashing as people danced and laughed. George immediately joined his team, catching up with Lewis and a few others. Y/N, still frustrated with him, decided to grab a drink and wandered towards the bar. As she stood there, sipping her cocktail and trying to shake off the lingering tension, one of the mechanics from another team slid up beside her.

"Hey there," the mechanic said, flashing a grin. "You look a bit lonely. Where's your guy?"

Y/N glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly, but she forced a polite smile. "He’s around," she said, keeping her tone neutral.

The mechanic didn’t take the hint and leaned in closer, clearly interested. “Well, if he’s leaving someone like you alone, he’s making a big mistake. How about we get out of here? I know a quieter spot down the street.”

Before Y/N could respond, she felt a familiar presence behind her. George had been keeping an eye on her from across the room and, seeing the mechanic's approach, had immediately crossed the floor. His hand slid possessively around her waist, pulling her firmly against him.

“She’s not interested,” George said coldly, his voice low and threatening as he stared down the mechanic.

The mechanic raised his hands defensively. “Hey, man, no harm done. Just talking.”

“Yeah, well, you can go talk to someone else,” George said, his jaw tight. His hold on Y/N didn’t loosen as the mechanic walked away, casting one last glance at her before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N looked up at George, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the way George’s protective side always surfaced when it came to her. His touch, his stance, the way he looked at the mechanic like he would tear him apart if he tried anything—it was all undeniably attractive, even after a full day of tension between them.

Teasingly, she raised an eyebrow. “Even when you’re pissed, you still get jealous, huh?”

George’s lips twitched, his icy mood melting just a little as he met her gaze. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his arm still firmly around her waist. “I might be pissed off, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “but you’re still mine. That hasn’t changed.”

The heat in his words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help but smile, her frustration from earlier starting to fade. “Yours, huh?” she teased, her eyes sparkling as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

George’s expression softened as he pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. “Yeah. Always.”

The argument that had been hanging between them all day suddenly felt insignificant. There, in the noise and chaos of the club, all Y/N could focus on was George—how fiercely he loved her, how protective he always was, even when they fought.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

George sighed, his thumb brushing her cheek gently. “I’m sorry too. I hate when we fight.”

“Me too,” Y/N replied, her voice soft as she leaned into his touch. “But I kind of like how protective you get when other guys try to hit on me.”

George chuckled, finally letting go of the tension from earlier. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not going to make a habit of this.”

She laughed softly, pulling him down for another kiss, this one longer and deeper. When they finally pulled apart, Y/N grinned. “Even if you’re mad, you still love me.”

George rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips as he held her close. “You have no idea.”

With his arms wrapped securely around her, the two of them forgot about the argument that had weighed them down all day. In that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were together, still each other’s, no matter what.

#george russel imagine #george russel x reader #george russell #gr63 #gr63 x reader #gr63 smau #sir lewis hamilton #formula 1 #f1 imagine #formula one #y/n #ava speaks #requests #lewis hamilton #mercedes

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butterfly-stitches · 10 months ago

Text

AMERICAN DREAMING.

[ Explicit ] // MDNI

AO3

Pairings: Russell Adler / Bell, Russell Adler / Reader Ensemble: Russell Adler, Bell (Fem!Bell), Reader

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence ☁️ Major Character Death ☁️ Memory Loss ☁️ False Memories ☁️ Brainwashing ☁️ Past Brainwashing ☁️ Identity Issues ☁️ Loss of Identity ☁️ Depression ☁️ Dissociation ☁️ Psychological Trauma ☁️ Medical Trauma ☁️ Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD ☁️ Flashbacks ☁️ Stockholm Syndrome ☁️ Hurt/Comfort ☁️ Hurt No Comfort ☁️ Sad Ending ☁️ Character Death ☁️ Older Man/Younger Woman ☁️ Parenthood ☁️ Family Dynamics ☁️ Family Bonding ☁️ Made For Each Other ☁️ Oral Sex ☁️ Penis In Vagina Sex ☁️ POV Second Person > Other Additional Tags to Be Added <

Synopsis: Life is but a dream… Fleeting, inconsequential. A stone unburdened by the snowfall of winter and snowmelt of spring. Like a river it flowed, a surging tributary of memory and memoir. Ever going, never ceasing. But to you, life was not fleeting nor inconsequential. Life was not dreamlike. To live, was to suffer. To suffer, was to live.

-----------------------------------

Chapter 1: reality, reverie.

Words: 20,020 Chapters: 1/1 Summary: In which you face reality and reverie …

Something wasn’t right.

Even in the embrace of sleep, just on the verge of consciousness, you could tell. Warm, comfortable. Cozy even, and… safe. That alone made you stir, shifting against the confines of something that held you close. Too close. Restrictive, digging into your skin. Suffocated you. Drowning, you were drowning. No, you were being dragged underneath the water. Again, you stirred. Struggled against the hold. Again and again. But to no end, as you were only being dragged down further into dark waters. Still, you fought against the restraints you couldn’t see. Freeing within yourself a sudden violence armed with teeth and claws. A trapped, aggressive beast awakened after all this time.

You fought. Fought hard, fought strong and desperately. But, it still wasn’t enough to free yourself. Further and further, like deadweight, a stone thrown into a lake, you free fall into the deep, dark depths below. Light above you, fading away in the darkness. Your lungs burned, nostrils flared. Everything in you, ached for oxygen, choking for air. Pressure built into your chest, heavier and heavier, threatening to split your ribcage open. Screams silenced by water, your mouth filling with water. Air bubbles escaped your open maw, your frantic releases of breath leaving an effervesced trail as you sunk. Buried in a watery grave, pressurized and all consuming. Death was slow. Your death was inevitable like grave soil being thrown over your coffin.

Your sight blackened but you thrashed about still, screaming and fighting in the throes of inevitable death. Then you heard it. A symphony of sounds, echoing like a whale song. Cacophonous and jarring as it reverberated in your bones and repeated in your head. An evocative vocalization that you began to understand, to recognize. It called to you, spoke a name. ‘Bell, Bell, Bell’ it said, repeating over and over like a mantra. From a voice that you knew wholeheartedly, deep down in the intertwisted threads of the tapestry of soul and flesh. Something reached for you, strong against your skin. Pulling you up and out of the water. You jolted awake. Bleary-eyed and fearful. Everything around you was but a blur of colors and shapes. A warbling in waterlogged ears, a chorus of inharmonious noise.

Your world was rendered all but a kaleidoscope of sight and sound. A clarity absent to your senses and sensibilities. But touch, though averse and scarce, was not beyond you. It was a deliberate feeling that you focused on, even as your body ached like sunken stones. Something held you down still, something tangled around your body, constricting like a boa. The hold you felt was trapping, capturing. Freedom revoked. It made you start to panic, fighting against its hold again. That viciousness returned like a cornered animal. All tooth and claw. Running on survival, guided by a pure instinctual reaction.

“Bell!”

At that name, at the voice in your ear, you immediately stilled. Chest heaving with your heavy intakes of air. There was something solid behind you, holding you tight against it. A respiring that matched your own until it synced with you. Something that was living, breathing. All blood, bone and skin just like you. A warmth emanated into you, one that you couldn’t help but indulge in. You were shivering, all shaking bones, quivering lips and sheened with cold perspiration. In the lingering feeling of being underwater. Doused in freezing water.

With a stuttering breath, you leaned back into a wide chest, the weight of burly arms around you providing you a heaviness that was more comforting than it was tenacious. Like the singing of a mother after a nightmare. It brought you back down within the gravity of reality, the weight of the world settling onto you. And you felt yourself relax. All fight leaving you as you fell limp against the person holding you. Racing hearts beat into a slow thrum. Skin pressed into skin, your shaking gone. Your sight began to clear, the instinctual takeover of your brain waning away like fog over a harbor with the onset of sunrise. Yet even then… you were still held, embraced. Allowed you the time to adjust, to process your surroundings. To recognize the illusions of dreamscape, the falsehood of truth in the face of actuality.

You were in unfamiliar surroundings. In a bright bedroom, on a bed. Early morning sun peeking through the window curtains behind you, streaked across the white wall in front of you; streams of sunlight washing over the room and onto your body. The sheets beneath you stuck to your clammy skin, your thin nightgown like a second skin. Duvet tossed away, a throw blanket tangled around your legs. The warbling in your ears, nothing but birdsong. That voice in your head, belonged to the body behind you. Who had you in their arms, limbs around your own.

You took a breath, inhaling. Smelt the familiar scent of salted skin and a faint musk. Deep like leather and aftershave. Cedarwood and bergamot; a rich smokiness that filled your lungs. Though comforting, evoking a sudden feeling of safety, such a scent was like smelling salts to your disoriented mind. You were wide awake now, though still uncertain if not confused. A sudden soft yet loud banging on wood, and you instantly recoiled, tensing up with panic. Your eyes darted to the door along the wall you faced. Fight-or-flight response started to take hold again. A firm squeeze of arms around you and you leave the trap of your mind, of your ingrained instincts, even as the banging on the door continued, voices calling on the other side.

“Bell.” The person behind you said, warm breath against your neck. A word that made you attentive, responsive. It was spoken firmly, yet gentle. You focused on the voice, the body pressed against yours. Coming down from your panic attack as you calmed down. Breathing slowed but your body still tensed by the noise, alarmed. Gradually and gingerly, you were released. The body pressed into yours moved away, the warmth at your back disappearing. In the blur of the sun, you watched as the person entered your sight, heading towards the door. A man; tall, wide-shouldered and bare-chested. Disheveled hair shimmered like gold. The expanse of a broad, muscled back tensed as he turned around.

You watched as he opened the door. Slow and careful. Using his body to block the opening from the voices on the other side as if to protect you, hide you away from prying eyes. As if the voices would burst through the door forcefully. It seemed like that rang true, was an expectation, as something did try to dart inside only to be stopped by the man. Whatever it was that wanted in, protested, verbalized their displeasure at him. But the man was adamant with his tone, assertive with his position. Yet just as gentle as his words were with you. Hushed voices, questions answered briefly, low spoken words. Too quiet for you to overhear. Whatever the man had said to them seemed to work as the voices quieted and silhouettes disappeared from the doorway and the pattering of feet sounded down the hall.

Running a hand down his face, the man closed the door, making sure to lock it. He turned, eyes glancing at your rising form before he dipped away into a side room. You heard the rush of water from a sink and less than a minute later, heavy footsteps on the carpet towards your side of the bed. You straightened up as he stood over you, something in his hand and you reacted. Scooted backwards, clawing at the sheets in an attempt to escape. Kicked out your legs as the man reached over, the beginning of a scream forming in your abraded throat.

“You need to calm down.”

But you couldn’t. Violence was all you knew, all you were. A wild animal deep down inside, hidden behind the façade of domestication and domesticity.

“Bell.”

A pet’s name, a moniker he saddled upon you. Straining at the leash to get away, you crawled further to the other side of the bed, on his side of the bed. The warmth from his body still radiating from his spot, seeping into you as your palms tightened around the sheets. He gave you a disapproving look as if you were nothing more than a misbehaving dog — his disobedient pet. One he was determined to bring back to heel. Your eyes were on him as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed, opposite of you, the mattress dipping with his weight. He held a damp towel in his hands, showing it to you. Letting you know what he had was innocuous. But you remained in your far corner, unconvinced.

You studied him from afar, watching every little movement of his. Anything to signal danger and warrant a reaction from you. He was patient nonetheless. But something in you knew that wasn’t typical, accustomed to his persistent, proactive nature. A go-getter who was on the verge of fanatical and obsessional in his pursuits. But the longer you watched him, stared at him. The more you wracked around your brain. The more you became nostalgic. A remembrance tingled in the back of your head. He was no stranger to you. No threat.

He read you easily it seemed. Called out for you again. Bell . Your name on his tongue, a gentleness, a fondness just for you. You only watched as he reached forward to you, for you. You were face-to-face now as he settled next to you. In the sun, in the warm glow of the early morning, you saw him for who he was. Who you remembered. His name was on the tip of your tongue. You searched his face; all scar-faced, square-jawed, stone-faced, and blue-eyed features of him.

“Adler.” You whispered.

He pressed the damp towel to your forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat. The sudden coolness made you flinch. You tried to move from it, but his hand went to your chin. Held it firm, keeping your head still as he tapped it along your brow.

“Adler.” You said again, more to yourself than anything.

He stopped, mouth pressed into a line as sharp eyes flicked down to you. You went slack in his grip, eyes fluttering. You pressed yourself into his body, tucking your head underneath his chin. Though he was surprised by it, Adler didn't protest. He wrapped his arms around you, your face in the crook of his neck. Taking in the smell of him greedily. Adler pulled you down with him, onto the bed. Broken memories played, too quick to grasp, too minimal comprehend but enough to give rise to some sort of response. An ache in your chest, conflicting emotions. But above all else, you clung to the arms around you. The only thing that gave you a sense of solidity, of feeling real. Your name again spoke above you, into your hair, and Adler pulled away slightly, looking down at you as he rose up, pulling you with him. With you still curled into his chest.

“You need to take your medication.”

You only pressed yourself harder into his chest, the speckling of hair there scratched against your cheek with your nuzzling.

“Bell.”

Gently, Adler pried you away. A hand on your shoulder, as he held you inches from himself. Dark blue eyes on your face. Whatever he saw there, whatever expression you showed, made his eyes narrow and his mouth twist.

“Your medication. You need to take it.”

You blinked up at him, processing what he said. From his slow unfurling palm, he revealed a capped syringe. An unknown liquid in its barrel. Your eyes widened, panic coming once again as alarms bells blared in your head. Realizing that he had hidden it underneath the towel, right underneath your nose. Like a dog’s medicine hid within a treat. Betrayal simmered, over the fear. And his face hardened at your realization.

“Focus, Bell. I need you to focus.”

Your eyes flicked to him, then back down to the syringe in his hand. Inattentive, unsure. Your mind fought against itself. Trust and mistrust, a cocktail like oil and water in your mind. His hand gripped your shoulder harder, nails into your skin as you began to pull back. Cowering from the raised hand holding your medication. Memories again, more debilitating than before. They played like a broken cassette tape in your head, experiencing them again as if renewed, reimagined. A touch of death that stained you, a resuscitation that saved you. Blood on your tongue, swollen nose seeping into your mouth — bleeding wounds.

Metal chairs, gurneys. Interrogation rooms, your reflection — bloodied and bruised — stared back at you in the dark glass. Red, white and blue. The national colors of bloodletting, of broken bones, of sorrow sown. Threats and questions. Questions you refused, threats you disregarded. Drowning, you were drowning like before. Dragged forcefully underneath dark waters, swallowing you whole. A drumming noise inside your head, a ringing in your ear. The water didn't drown it out, only amplified the overwhelming din and it only grew louder and louder inside your pounding head.

A sudden sharp pressure in your eye socket and you squirmed against the person that held you down. Your eyelid forced open as it slowly sunk into your cerebral. You grit your teeth, grinding your jaw against your molars. Then you screamed but you were soundless; mouth opened in a voiceless wail. As quickly as it came, the sensation subsided and the needle was carefully pulled from your cornea. The afflicted eye stung from the intravitreal injection. Then, a strange tranquility befell you, reined you in. Stopped your aggression. A calloused hand cupped your face softly, turning your head to the side. A worried look on his face as Adler scrutinized where the needle went into your eye, the needle just missing the blood vessels from all your movement.

His sweaty body was over you, you soon noticed. Panting down on you with uneven breaths. His other hand held your arms across your chest, his legs tangled with yours. Keeping them pinned to stop you from thrashing and kicking out at him. Adler moved away as you came to, giving you space. Letting you rise up on your own. He sat back, moving to the other side of the bed again, watching you intently from the distance he put between you two. You, yourself, took deep breaths, trying to steady your breathing and slow your rising pulse. A heavy silence waned in the bedroom, the mingled heavy breathing of both you and Adler was the only sound in the bed space. The morning sun sat higher in the sky now, shining down harder in the room, and onto you both. Noises outside the bedroom, more voices and a pattering of feet. A restlessness that beckoned you towards it. You turned towards Adler, who met your eyes. His body leaned forward, his hand reached out slow and onto your bare knee. And squeezed it.

“Bell.” Your eyes rose from his hand on your knee, to his face. Focusing on him.

The next words that he spoke, made you falter. A strange conglomerate of distant phonics, of harsh sounding syllables. A Slavic language. One that made your ears perk up, though you struggled to understand what he was saying to you. But it wasn’t foreign to you, you knew it deep down inside. You could feel the rhythm of the language. It thrummed in you, spoke to the blood that rushed into your veins. Russian . You could speak it naturally, fluently. Your mouth opened, lips dry and throat raspy. Tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Questions existing, but words were lost to you. Adler stood from the bed, walking back into the bathroom. He returned with a disposable paper cup full of water, a couple of pills in his hand.

“Pain relievers.” He explained in Russian, answering the questioning look you gave him.

You took them from him, making a show of swallowing them down as he watched you take mouthfuls of the cool water. When you drank all the water in the cup, he left to fill it up again. And you gulped it all down, your parched mouth and dry throat relieved by the drink. He took the cup from you when you were satisfied, setting it on the nightstand next to him. You both stared silently at each other, things unspoken. What transpired weighed down heavily on the both of you. Your gaze flicked down from his face, to his scarred lips, down to his chest, to his arms. Wholly taking in the sight of him. An awful realization and then sudden shamefulness overcame you as you tore your eyes away, to the hands in your lap. He scooted closer to you and you met his eyes again, admiring the blue of them. But you couldn’t help it when your eyes wandered back to the marks that littered all on his skin. Red welts and scratches, bumps and bruises forming. All by you.

“I’m sorry.” The apology was rough sounding still, Russian wobbly on your tongue.

Adler hummed. Letting your fingers trace along all the marks on his chest, around the dried blood of crescent marks of his arms when your nails had dug into them. All the way to the small bruises and finally to a bite mark on his wrist.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You told him.

“ I know .” He reassured, his chest rumbling as he let out a soft hum. Your fingers traced back up to his face, lingering over the deep trenches of a lightning strike scar, and stopping to a contusion forming on the underside of his strong jaw. Your fingertips ghosted over it in your studying.

“Haven’t gotten hit like that in a while.”

You knew it was an attempt to lighten the mood, but you couldn’t help but let it wound you. Deflated, you tried to move and pull your hand away from his jaw but his hand was quick to clasp over your own. So easily Adler enveloped it entirely, holding both against his bruising jaw. Yet you still couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Bell.”

Back to English now, as he intertwined your fingers together, moving both your hands from his jaw to his rough lips. Turning them, to kiss the back of your knuckles. But something else caught your scrying eyes, marks on your own skin. All over your arms. Scratches and welts similar to the ones on the man in front of you. All from yourself, all self-afflicted.

Silently, Adler cleaned up your scratches and cuts. You didn’t flinch as he did. Unfazed by the cold sting of the cotton ball across them. Soaked in disinfectant that he pulled from the first aid kit, retrieved from underneath the bathroom sink moments ago. You watched him care for you, inspecting each inch of skin, and tend to your wounds. So attentively, so… lovingly . That realization made something stir within you, in the confines of a twisted soul. Deep seated, deep rooted. Bile rose in your throat. Wrong, this was all wrong. It wasn’t right. Wrongness you felt underneath it all. By the way your skin crawled, the hair on your nape standing on ends, and muscles tensed up. Fight or flight instinct on overdrive.

D̷̡̫̯̪̺͚̬̥̘̭̻͈̼̐͌͒o̷̹̻͚͔͇̠̓͛̉̂͐̿̐̔̒̈́̚͜͠͝͝ ̵̨̱̬̰̰̺̝̠̐̍̀̐͐̉͒̆̾̽͂̽̏n̵̯͐̊̓̊̉͑͛̽͊̅͝ó̴͖̝͍̩͊̏ț̸̢̬̪̙̯͎̝́̃̓̒̈́͋͜͠͝ ̵̢̟͊̐̓̅͋̒͝t̸͚͐̎r̸̢̼͔̜͒̃́̃́͋̐̓̏̒̇̕ȗ̶̬̓̇̇s̶̨͙̘͇͓̗̯̓͊̾̈̂̿̎͛̏̃͛͘͘͜͜͠͝t̴̜͙̗̺̯̘͍͎͓̮̱̤̣̝̔ ̷̨̝͔̻͕͉͔͙̔͆̃̄͛̃̿̃̚̚͝A̶͔̘̟͓͙͊̋͐̆̓̕͠d̵̛̲̲̯̫͇̘̱̿̈́̂͜l̴̯̫̠͚̗̺̞̀̄̈́e̸̢̢̥̩̦͓͕̣͎͍̞̞̦̦̮̗͐̃̏̓̄̈́̚͜r̸̢̲̦̼̗͙͆͛̔̓́̅̈͊̋̕͘͘̚̚͝

Lies. Lies, all of it lies. This wasn’t real. Nothing was. You looked around, saw everything for what it was. Head pounding, memories that weren’t your own stuffed in your head. You were a shell of a woman, a discarded shed of old skin repurposed. Disturbed metamorphosis, an empty chrysalis, from where a butterfly would have emerged, unfurling its wings for flight, only to be picked open like a old wound and swallowed up. Hollowed out until all that kept you together was the name given to you and the person who gave it to you. This wasn’t you, you weren’t this… Bell. And this man in front of you who tended to you so delicately, wasn’t the savior you saw him as. Not a pure and noble heart, but had one as black as night. You didn’t know him, not truly. He was not your safety, not the gravity keeping you on your feet.

You should loathe him, you should fear him. You shouldn’t trust the man in front of you. You knew it all as true.

But love and hate always tasted the same to you.

Hadn’t it?

“Who I am?” You asked as he tended to your throat, where you had clawed and scratched at it in your sleep. Adler stopped and looked at you then. Quiet as the weight of your words settled onto him, while weighing out his own.

“Bell.” Adler soon replied, bringing your intertwined hands to his torso, over the red scratches across the expanse of his chest, right to the center. Where his heart beat against your open palm. “You’re Bell.”

Noisiness from behind the door again, shadows moving underneath the door frame, knocking on the door’s wood more rapidly in succession. More impatient. A harsh sigh left Adler’s scarred lips in response. He stood from the bed, packing away the first aid materials back into the plastic kit box. Tucked it underneath the bed frame.

“You should lay down and rest.” Adler grabbed the duvet from the floor and pulled it over your bare legs. You blinked at the action, at him. His form disappeared into another space in the bedroom then back out. A walk-in closet you realized. Staring at his back as Adler pulled a shirt over his head and headed towards the door.

“I’m dangerous.” You told him in English, Russian was suddenly sour on your tastebuds. “I can’t trust myself. I don’t know who I am.”

“Then trust me.” He said, exhaustion was clear on his careworn face. Bags underneath his eyes. But there was something there, beneath his words. An undercurrent in the baritone of his voice… something akin to defeat in his tone. A vulnerability that you recognized, a weakness mirrored within yourself. Something you both buried away within yourselves. You swallowed then, running your tongue across your teeth. You shouldn’t put your trust in him, or believe his words. Yet… and yet. Without another word, you nodded at him. You believed him.

Adler ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back. In a semblance of tidiness.

“Lay down and rest.” Adler repeated, hand on the doorknob as he gave you a once over. “I’ll wrangle the kids.”

Your head snapped to his face, eyes wide like saucers.

“ Kids ?!” You repeated as if such a word was foreign to you, even spoken in your mother tongue.

Adler gave you a look, lips pressed tight together. Knuckles whitened as his hand flexed around the turned doorknob.

“Yes. I’ll deal with them. Just… please lay down. You need to rest up.”

At your speechlessness, and with a one last longing look, Adler left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. But even as he left, you were still sitting up, staring at the door right where he had stood moments ago. You heard muffled sounds behind the door, far down in the hallway. You blinked, feeling your body start to slacken, your body heeding Adler’s words as you nestled into the covers. Right on his side of the bed. The blankets and pillows still smelt of him. A scent that, like the smoking of a beehive, calmed the thoughts swarming around in your skull. You closed your eyes, relaxing, but it wasn’t enough to slumber. The sensation of sinking, of being dragged down, down, down. Made you afraid to fully commit to sleep once more. Still you laid in bed, underneath the blankets. Basked in his warmth and smell.

But eventually, you grew restless, tossing and turning. Felt his absence deep inside. You threw the covers away from yourself, standing on shaky legs towards the bathroom. Then to the bedroom door, wrapping a silk bathrobe you grabbed on your way out around your nightgown. You stared at the door. The edges of your surroundings started to fade away around you as it stared back at you. The sensation was jarring, like freefalling. A loss of gravity. You had to move away, stepping back until you felt the bed behind you. You sat on it for a moment, letting the motion sickness and the upturning of your stomach peter out.

Facing the door once more, you took a breath and grabbed the doorknob. The door shook, rattling against its hinges from your touch as you tried to pry it open. But to no avail. Trapped, you are trapped. You pressed your hands onto the wood, pushing against it. Beneath your palms, the door creaked and then it cracked. Fissures in the wood grain, splitting open as the layers started to peel like wood shavings. Rot and corrosion bloomed by your hand, by your simple touch. Like stab wounds, from the cracks in the door a deep scarlet poured out. Stained the wood grain darker. The smell of metal in the air. And before you knew it, the wood door was gone, wasted away. But in its wake was another door. A red metal door like the ones leading to an underground bunker. It beckoned you. Whispered to you, called you in an accented voice that sounded far too familiar. A faraway memory. It said your name, your true name. One you had long forgotten. An itch in the recesses of your mind, a jolt down your spinal cord. A hesitancy in your step, in your hand that hovered over the metal door bar. Fascination or recognition, you couldn’t tell what drove you forward. You lifted the bar up with an audible click, pushing against it until it opened.

You went through, blinded by a bright light on the other side. Behind the door, you were met with a long hallway that stretched on and on. Miles upon miles. Faint laughter echoed from the end of it and you walked forward, following the sound. Just when you thought you reached the end of the hallway, it grew longer. The end was more imperceivable than before, indeterminate in its entirety. Seemingly going on and on indefinitely as you stared down the way. But still you continued onwards, voices in the distance. Although it was nothing but a maze of white walls, white tiles, and linoleum flooring.

There were wide windows all along the length of the long hall, a consistent width apart. The windows peeked into lab rooms full of medical equipment, surgical tools, flickering projectors in the ceiling, and T.V.s sat on metallic utility carts; cassette tapes stuck in their players. You stopped at one of the windows, looking inside, curious. You scanned around but like a moth to a flame, an old habit, your eyes instantly trained to the T.V. display, waiting expectantly. The streams of static on the screen flickered. A bell clanged, white noise in your ears. Fixated on the sudden flashing images, the pieces of war footage playing then it stuttered, only to rewind and start again.

A single exhale and blink of dry eyes, and you were suddenly inside the room. Strapped down to an integration chair. You tested the restraints, feeling how they cut into the circulation of your wrists and ankles. Another clamor rang out, and your body sat straight in the seat, expectant and attentive. Pavlovian conditioning — a dog that waited for their kibble. The display screen flicked on in front of you. Like staring into an endless void, on a blackhole’s event horizon, your surroundings melted away and your body jerked forward. Pulled into a fierce orbit, lunged headfirst through the playing T.V. screen. Warped into some sort of dark backroom.

Two projectors, right beside each other, both sat on small wooden tables on either side of where you stood. Their lights converged, shone nothing onto a single projector screen in front of you. There were a few show slides slotted into both of their compartments, in random order, in different spacings. All you needed to do was change the slides and the projectors would display them on the screen. You changed the slides on the projector to your left, it clicked a couple times as you rotate by the empty slots to the first inputted slide. The left slide showcased a split image, the other half missing like a photo torn into two pieces. It was hard for you to make out the image, to grasp what it showcased. You stared at it for a beat, before moving to the projector to your right. Flicked through its rotation, the first slide of it closer in slot than the left one.

Then the display was completed, the other half of the image found. Whatever it showed, whatever it was, grew clearer the longer you stared at it. Red, you saw red. Another red bunker door. You stepped forward towards the projector screen, confused just as you were intrigued. In front of it now, your body in front of the projector lights doesn’t cast a shadow onto the image or screen. As if you were non-corporeal, a ghost lost in limbo. But unlike you, the display image of the red bunker door wasn’t intangible. You reached forward and pulled the handle bar up. And it opened and you walked through it.

A sequence of fading whispers, a little girl’s giggle, while you looked around your new surroundings. Dark, damp, and dank. A cavern, like a hollowed out chest missing its heart. Stalagmites and stalactites jutted out like jagged teeth, water dripping from the ceiling above, trickling down and pooled in the eroded stone. You heard something moving in the cave, somewhere in the dark, slow and steady, like the dragging of chains across the floor. More childlike giggling from afar, and the noises got louder, more disturbing. Inhuman and innumerable. Feet shuffling onwards, a thousand marching on. Dripping liquid onto the cave floor, louder than the cave condensation. Of a removed heart, still bleeding and beating outside the body. You gathered yourself, looking around in the dark. Tried to pinpoint the sound’s source in the dark, squinting but you couldn’t even see even an inch in front of your face.

You backed away, until your foot caught something on the floor. You reached down for it, patting around the rock empty-handed until your fingers brush against something cold. It is heavy in your hands, but the feel is familiar. A pistol and an extra mag, loaded already but with the safety lock in place. You held it, old training coming back to you like clockwork. A flashlight attachment on your pistol flicked on wasn’t enough to penetrate the dark. From the shadows, eyes glowed like they do on trail cams. Predators on the hunt. You shined your flashlight to them, only to see rotten bodies. Flesh falling off the bone, gray skin – stringy and gamey. Walking dead. Rumbling roars and screams from ripped open throats. The rapid resonate of dragging limbs, peeling flesh, congealed blood splattered in globs.

They all lunged forward on decaying legs, too quick to be natural. You dropped a few of them with shots to the head and torso, they dropped like sandbags only to be trampled over by the others, their positions replaced. But they only kept coming and coming, and your pistol soon clicked, the chamber empty. You run, legs shaky on the uneven rocky surface. Deeper and deeper into the cave you went, kiting them through. Glowing eyes right behind you. You reloaded your last mag, shooting the ones leading the pack then running forward to gain distance. You went until your lungs burned, your legs aching. Until your pistol was empty, the flashlight attachment dimming out. But ahead, in the dark, a blaring light. An escape route. A bunker door, the light at the end of the tunnel.

You were sprinting to it, the once wide cave seeming to get smaller. Gradually, the surrounding cave walls narrowed around you. You had to slow, to squeeze through the gaps and holes, the sight of the bunker door in the distance are only glimpses now behind the small openings. A crowd of dead right on your trail, a misstep, a moment of being too slow, and they would catch you. You were hyperventilating now, your skin abraded and cut from squeezing yourself through the narrow gapes and crevices. But the light was closer, the bunker door just out of reach ahead of you. Your body against a stone wall, pressing against the solid form. One with no opening.

Animalistic roars echoed against the rock and stone catching up to you. Dimming light of the flashlight scanned around the wall, anything that dictated a path forward as you desperately searched around. Shining on a pile of loose stone at your feet. You wasted no time, no effort. Dropping the empty gun, low light shining to the dark behind you. You clawed on the rock formation, pushing and rolling away heavy stones. Uncaring as your fingernails were chipped and torn from the nail roots. Leaving bloody handprints behind onto the discarded stone surfaces.

Underneath the rubble, was a crawl space uncovered in the stone wall. Cramped and claustrophobic but without nowhere else to go, the undead behind you as encouragement, and you went on your belly. Squeezing yourself into the passageway. You crawled on, forcing yourself through even when the space grew smaller around you, compressing down onto your body. It became harder to breathe in such a tight space. You were panicking, breathing uneven. The crawl space constricted, like a fist around your throat. Something reached in behind you, arms extended to grab for you. A mass of rotting hands outstretched, bodies colliding as they tried to enter the small spacing all at once. They clawed and crawled, teeth gnashing against their loosening jowls behind you; fingers grasping out for you. A bear trap around your foot as multiple hands curled around one of your legs. Hauled you back, your skin scraping against the stone. You kicked out at them, fingers digging into rock for purchase. Sharp pointed stones, loosened by your movement, cut into your body as you were dragged back.

But you saw it ahead of you. A distant light, a red door – opened. And you saw him. Adler on the other side of the door. Standing, staring. Waiting for you. You called out to him, but to no avail. You were voiceless and he remained there in the doorway. The tear of fabric being ripped, cracked teeth sunk into flesh. The burst of skin breaking. Pain in your leg, shooting up your spinal cord. One of them had your leg in what remained of their mouth, as others clawed at your bare calf. You were being eaten alive, torn apart, dragged back. You fought against them still, kicking and shaking your captured leg as much as you could in the small space. You were tired, bleeding out. Still you pulled yourself through the crawlspace, eyes frontward. Towards Adler who awaited you. A final push, a final effort and you were on the other side. Your extraction within reach.

You grabbed a rock, between both hands, and down onto the undead hanging off your leg like a tick. You brought the stone down and the head caved it, split open like overripe fruit. But even then, it didn’t let you go. You brought the stone down again and again, until the head was nothing but a splatter of brains and shattered skull pieces on the stone. The hands around your leg were next, as you slammed the stone onto the rotting arms until they snapped at the elbow joint. Limbs loosened on you, as they fell to the side, lifeless. Freeing you. You crawled backwards. Yellow glowing eyes deep in the crawlspace, bodies conjoined and mutilated, forced into a single space. More arms outstretched from the other side, growls and screams in your ears.

You pushed yourself onto your feet, limping. Hobbled forward as fast as you could, adrenaline numbing the pain. You called Adler’s name, relieved, exhausted. You get closer and closer, your blood swirling into the ankle deep pool you push yourself through. On the threshold now, and the image of Adler grew fuzzy. Red, red, red. He was a maroon figure, his face was blurred. Like a glitch, a horizontal blear twisting his identity. The door slammed shut, metal mechanisms inside shifting and grinding as it locked in place. You called out to him, pounding your bloody fists against the metal. The metal handle bar unmoving as you pushed it. Rumbling roars and screams, bodies yanked themselves out from the crawlspace. Inflamed eyes in the dark. You pushed and pulled, banging on the door. Blood prints on the metal, a darker red smeared all over. Screaming, wailing. Adler, Adler, Adler . But he was never there to save you. Only to drag you down, down, down. Deeper in hell and to keep you there. Laughter, laughter all around you. The undead were laughing at you, cackling like hyenas in the deep of night.

You pushed the bar up once more, desperate and frantic. Underneath your fingers, the door starts rusting, metal oxidizing. Painting peeled away. Door handle rusted in place. Still you pushed, all your might, all your effort. Flakes of verdigris crumbled, falling like ash on your skin. The handle squealed, corroded metal grinding against each other, as the mechanisms are forced to move. The metal handle snapped in your hand, but the door creaked open; Not fully but with a sliver of opening. The bash of your shoulder against the bunker door and it moved gradually, hanging off of its hinges, the bottom of the door scraping against the doorstop. The dead scrambled to you, limbs missing, slower than before.

But you made enough of an opening to squeeze yourself through it and you push yourself through. Falling onto your hands and knees onto the other side. You looked up to see a stipple ceiling. Sun on your face, plush carpet against your palms. No pain in your leg, no scrapes on your body. Elbows and knees unscathed. Shoulder not dislocated from your battering against metal. You looked behind you only to see a wooden door ajar and a bedroom behind you. A girl’s laugh in the distance filled your ears.

But it felt real. All of it felt real. Too real, to be nothing but night horrors.

“Mommy?”

A small voice down the hall and you snapped your head to it. A small child at the end of the hallway stared at you. Face dipped in shadow, features obscured. You were frozen, still on your knees. Head pounding, confused. But something inside you tugged at the title. A mother’s love, a mother’s embrace. A mother’s sacrifice. The child scurried down the hallway towards you and you recoiled. A phantom pain in your leg and you reached down for a weapon at your side that wasn’t there. The child jumped to a stop, looking down at you with big, blue eyes as you tensed up.

“Mommy, why are you on the floor?”

Silent and still, you were emotionless, motionless. An uneasiness that made your body stiffen. Your mouth opened but you couldn’t speak. The child watched you curiously, attention waning as they balanced on the balls of their feet. Soon the child joined you, kneeling down. From the way they smiled, the child thought it was a game.

“You can’t be on the floor, silly.” The child chastised and you only stared at them. Grubby hands outstretched.

You expected them to claw you, to rip open your skin. But they only grabbed your wrist. With all their strength, they tug on your hand, trying to help you up. It took you a moment to process it as anything but a threat to you. Gradually, you stood up as the child helped. Who thought it was because of them that you were able to get up. You didn't pull your hand away, even as the child intertwined their own. You let them lead you down the hall, the smell of food wafting ahead of you both. The child took you into the living room. You recognized the blonde man in the kitchen next to the living area. Who stirred something on the stovetop, whatever it was that he was cooking, smelt delicious despite your nausea.

“I found her!”

The child announced, letting your hand go and bouncing like a bunny to Adler. The child tugged at his shirt, pointing to you with a toothy grin. Adler’s head snapped towards you hovering in the threshold of the hall. A pointed look aimed straight at you, sharp eyes narrowed, and mouth pressed tight. Another face appeared, bounding from the living room. Another child. Taller, older than the first. They smiled at you, shyer. But went to you nonetheless, hugging your waist. Eyelashes framed over blue eyes, staring up at you.

“Now we can go have a picnic!” The youngest exclaimed, beaming up at the man in the kitchen. Obviously too excited to be contained as they hopped up and down. Using the countertops for stability.

Adler patted the child’s head, stopping his jumping up and down with a firm hand. Eyes still on you. “Not today. Your mother’s sick, she needs to rest.”

There was a command there. A jab at you that made your skin prickle.

“But you promised.” The child whined on. The oldest around your waist made a disappointed sound too. “You said we can go.”

“I know I did. But not today, kiddo. We can go next time.”

Both children sulked, huffing and awing at Adler. But Adler didn’t relent, absolute with his decision. He walked forward, his shoulders tensed. A few steps and he was stood in front of you. His attention went to the oldest at your hip.

“Come on.” He jutted his chin to the side, a gesture for them to move away. “Let your mom go. She needs to go back to bed.”

You didn’t know what overcame you as your arm wrapped around the child’s body, protectively. Keeping them in place, close to you as you took a step forward. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Adler. He stared at you, eyes flitting down to your hand clutching to the child’s pajama shirt. You had trouble reading what he was feeling, what he was thinking. Yet Adler had always been like that, you thought. Difficult to read, to predict and to understand. Like you.

“We should go.” You finally said, your voice shaky and raspy. A clearing of your throat and you steeled your spine. “Let’s go have a picnic, Adler.”

The children audibly agreed. You released the oldest that clung to you as they moved and joined the youngest at Adler’s side, who was tugging on his shirt, begging and pleading. He was displeased, you could tell. But you challenged him nonetheless, eyes meeting his own. A chorus of: ‘Please, dad!’, ‘Can we go!’, ‘Mom says we can.’ ‘You promised we could go.’ chanted out in the tension between you both. And eventually Adler let out a deep sigh, shoulders heaving as he did.

“Alright.” He agreed. That defeated tone returned but it was quickly gone as the children cheered happily, clinging onto him now.

You watched them, a sudden emotion fluttering your heart at the sight. Of Adler’s small smile, though strained, it was genuine. Of the children… your children. Their happiness you felt as your own. The early morning forgotten, the wounds, the memories, the hallucinations, the night terrors. The ringing inside your own head. Your suffering, your pain, your detachment from the world.

It was all worth it for this.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the oldest grabbed your hand again. Clasping the smaller hand back, you walked to Adler whose attention went back to you. He let out a huff, an annoyed sound. But he leaned down, pressing a small kiss to your forehead. A sudden softness on his hardened features. The smell of something burning, rising smoke in the kitchen made Adler quickly duck to the stovetop towards the simmering pan. You were led by your hand again to the dining room, that was connected right to the kitchen. You sat down, watching the child run off to the living room to join the youngest sitting on the sofa. Your gaze shifted. To the television. A sudden feeling as you focused on the screen. White noise, your sight wavering.

Something clunked down next to your arm and you blinked up at Adler leaning against the tabletop. A fresh cup of tea next to you, a coffee of his own in his hand — a dark bitter brew. No sugar, no cream.

You smiled your thanks, eyes back to the children. But Adler’s eyes were on you.

“Saturday cartoons.” Your head turned to him right as he took a sip from his steaming mug. “They wanted to watch them. I can turn it off and cover the T.V. if it’s bothering you again.”

Your eyes fluttered at that, giving a quick look back to the living room then back to him. “No, it’s ok. Let them enjoy it. I'll live.”

But he was unconvinced. Lines on his face, more prominent. Those ending words of yours made his frown deepened.

“I’m fine.”

But you didn’t know if you were trying to reassure him or yourself.

He shook his head at you. “No, you aren’t, Bell. You’re not fine.”

Something inside ached. For him, for you.

But before more could be said, Adler left into the kitchen. His back to you. Alone now, you sat there wordlessly. Taking slow sips of your tea. It helped you think. Its warmth spread throughout your body, reinvigorating you with a comforting feeling. Your wary eyes looked around as you finished the rest of your tea. Training was still an instinct as you took mental notes of the windows and doors, places to hide, places to bunker down, ways to escape, choke points and objects to use as defense. You wondered if Adler did the same.

But you were not alone for long, not lost in your own head. Soon Adler served breakfast, a simple meal of eggs, bacon and toast. He seated the children, though they protested. Wanting to eat in the living room so they could watch their cartoons. Only to be upset when Adler shook his head no. He served you a plate, your eggs made the way you liked; an additional bowl of sliced fruit on the side. Along with a cup of warmed bone broth in case you couldn’t stomach the solid food. The kids were quiet as they ate, heads turned to the television across the way. Like them, you and Adler ate quietly as well. Both lost in your own thoughts.

You ate as much as you could handle, taking a few bites here and there of your food. But mostly you nibbled on your toast. It helped your nausea, abating the queasiness you felt. When the children were done eating, they gathered their dishes, rushing to put them in the kitchen sink. Before racing into the living room and onto the sofa just as a new cartoon show began. You pushed your plate away towards Adler. He grimaced at it, at the food you barely touched. Yet wordlessly took your plate, adding your breakfast to his own to finish. You sat there quietly, forcing yourself to drink the broth. It was enough of an effort to ease Adler’s disgruntlement.

But mostly, your attention was to the children. Your children; yours and Adler’s. Who had eyes just like the man sat next to you, reading a newspaper. A deep dark blue. Their faces, a blur in your withered memories. Their names you didn’t remember. But that pull, that motherly instinct in the back of your head was all that you needed to know. There was a time you think, some time ago where such a life. Such a domestic thing was not meant for you. Surrounded by death and secrecy, a pact of self-sacrifice. Of yourself and others. By your own hand, the world’s strings pulled taunt like nooses. Such a life was never for you. But you wondered if you had wanted such a life. Had you yearned for it still? Or did you accept it, for a cause. Or had you never wanted it in the first place? A family. You tried to recall but no answer came to you. As Adler grabbed both of your dishes, taking them to the kitchen to start cleaning up. You walked to the living room. Hiding in the shadow of the archway as you watched your children. The oldest sat on the sofa while the youngest was on the rug in front of the television. Playing with a toy as they watched, the same one as one of the characters of the show.

You avoided looking too long at the screen, an old habit you’re struggling to fight off especially now. Whispering bells in your head again, tolling in a soft breeze. You found yourself moving on your own accord. Walking into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. You were at the far end of it, tucked away in the corner. Distance put between your oldest and yourself. Observing closer, wanting to be closer despite yourself. But still cautious. Your vicinity wasn’t as ignored as you hoped, as your oldest moved closer to you. And your youngest began to show you their toys, the ones from the cartoon they’re watching. Your youngest chatted on, giving you all the details of the show and the characters. Pointing them out on the screen. Your oldest at your side, listening along, and adding more details. And you listened intently, engaged, intrigued. Your heart ached.

A feeling at the back of your neck and goosebumps rise on your arms. You grew stiff, turning around to catch Adler watching you from afar, leaning in the archway. Closely. Too closely. As if you were dangerous, a muzzled mutt. But you were, weren’t you? So volatile, so impulsive. Even you couldn’t control yourself. It was only a matter of time before you lashed out again. A commercial break that caught your attention as your oldest wanted you to look at a toy product – some sort of puzzle cube with multicolored squares on each side. But when you turned back to the archway, Adler was gone. You tried not to be on edge, that wrong feeling returning once more.

Something was draped over you, something soft in your lap. A throw blanket. You run your fingers through the soft wool as Adler interjected himself between you and your oldest. Forced apart from your side, they expressed their complaint, but eventually acquiesced as he made room for them to lay against him. The other arm was thrown around you, pulling you close to his side. You inhaled his scent, conflicting feelings subsided and you went lax against him. The rest of the morning was spent like this, all of you in the living room. Your face pressed into his shoulder when looking at the television grew too much for you to bear. Focusing instead on the sounds of his breathing, of the smell of him. All of him against you. Until it was just you and him in the living room.

Eventually, the kids had run off somewhere when Adler changed the channel and flicked on the news. But soon they grew impatient as the afternoon came. Asking when you all were leaving for a picnic. Adler brushed them off, using your dozing off as an excuse to delay and obfuscate. But when you stirred, looking up at him from his chest. You gave Adler a pointed look of your own. It was enough to get him on his feet, knees audibly creaking. And you followed suit. The kids rushed to their rooms, getting dressed to go. You went to get ready too, into something casual and light. A sundress you decided on, your favorite one you think. A pretty long cotton. Didn’t Adler get this for you? You pulled it over your body, smoothing the wrinkles out in the fabric, and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. A stranger stared back at you. Sickly looking. Hollow-eyed with a haunted look, hair frizzy and brittle. Life drained from your face; wan and ghastly.

Shell-shocked.

Feelings of repugnance. Of sadness and of disbelief.

Was that truly who you were? That person who was staring straight back at you, was you?

Warmth at your back as a body stood behind you, into your back. Fingers went to your shoulder, brushing against your collarbone and pulled a loose strap of your dress up. Your eyes lifted upward to meet Adler’s in the mirror. Watched him bend down, mouth going to your neck. You bared it out to him, instinctively turning your head to the side. Marred lips traced up along your jugular vein — slowly and steadily. Sharp blue eyes kept your gaze in the reflection as he did. A small act, yet you were already worked up. Breathing hard, heart beating in your chest. A death grip on either side of the porcelain sink. Adler stopped behind your jaw, right on the thrumming pulse there.

“Ready?” He asked, voice husky. Lips still on your neck.

You nodded, breathless and speechless. He took a step back from you, giving you a nod. Your eyes were still on his in the mirror.

“C’mon.”

You ran your tongue across your lips deliberately as Adler watched. Turned fully around to face him. Taking in the sight of the man in front of you. Light sandy brown hair brushed down and groomed to the side. Always stylish, always well-coordinated. Even in leisure clothing. You followed him out of the bedroom. A cardigan sweater in your arms. The kids were waiting by the front door. Your oldest was holding folded quilts and a straw picnic basket, and the youngest was with an armful of toys. You tried to help carry supplies, plastic wrapped food, drinks, anything you all needed. But Adler was quick to stop you. You both agreed to let you at least hold the picnic basket. While your oldest helped Adler with packing the cooler.

You shielded your eyes from the sun outside, a burst of white light that blinded you as you stepped out of the house. The day was warm and mellow with a cool breeze like a soft sigh. It made your sundress flutter, a relief against your heated skin. You stared out at a suburban neighborhood full of large family homes, green lawns, and white picket fences – the all American Dream. It was almost nauseous, the manufactured appearance. People were out and about: walking dogs, mowing their lawns, sitting on their porches talking to each other as their kids played outside. You kept your eyes downcast, not wanting to garner any attention or be greeted by overly friendly neighbors. But you could feel their unsubtle eyes on you.

In the driveway sat a vintage muscle car. Adler’s most prized possession, besides yourself. You headed to the sedan parked further down the driveway where your youngest child waited next to it, talking to a neighborhood kid riding their bike. Boasted about the picnic you were going to have. It wasn't long until your oldest appeared then Adler afterwards. A cooler in one hand, car keys and his iconic shades in the other; a portable radio tucked underneath one of his arms. It seemed Adler had the same idea as you, kept his gaze away and not making any eye contact with the neighbors.

You sat in the passenger seat while the kids and him packed some stuff in the trunk. So quickly that it wasn’t surprising that an efficient man like Adler would teach your children to be as well. Before long, you were all on the road. Assured beforehand that the drive wasn’t too long. You stared out the window to the blurring shapes of the surroundings passing by. Music in your ear, filled the silence inside the car. A song that Adler particularly liked started and he turned the volume dial up. Gary Wright’s “Really Wanna Know You” played louder from the car speaker. He rested a hand on your knee, rubbing it soothingly. The other wrapped around the steering wheel. You took a peek at him from the passenger seat. The interior of the car reflected on his sunglasses. Noticed him mouthing the lyrics.

Adler pulled the car into a municipal park. Surprisingly vast and full of greenery — trees, shrubs, fields of long grass and plants. Picnic tables underneath the shades of towering pines and oaks. Benches were set along the sidewalks. Hiking trails that lead further in the park grounds. A playground was at the forefront of it, surrounded by a pit of play sand. Your children were restive, overly excited just by the sight of it. But were made to stay and help unload the car before they could go run off and play. With a nod from Adler, like missiles, they beelined straight to the playground. Adler carried the cooler, radio, and disposable dishes. You, on the other hand, had just the picnic basket in the crook of your elbow and the quilts. You followed Adler towards a picnic table across the way, in the shade of an overarching American basswood – a lush crown of heart-shaped leaves swayed with the subtle breeze. It was more private, situated just on the edge of the treeline yet it was still near eyesight of the playground.

But you and your family weren’t the only ones there enjoying the nice weekend. People were there walking the trails. Other parents sat on the benches near the playground, other families on other benches. Kids in Various age ranges were also on the playground; running and tumbling in the grass. And your children made friends instantly. You kept a watchful eye on them, on others in your peripheral. Aware of the strangers, of any possible threat or hazard. All while Adler fiddled with his radio – pitches of high and low frequency static emitting with his tinkering. Until he grew annoyed, slamming a fist on top of it until it juddered with music. You scoffed at him, eyes still focused on your children on the playground, playing tag with other kids.

“Ok?” Adler settled down next to you with a long, weary sigh.

You nodded at him, pulling your cardigan sweater over yourself and leaned closer. Knees touching, his body heat transferring into you. The radio was a nice thrum in the background as you enjoyed the sight and smell of the surrounding nature. It was a salve to your broken mind, a tortured heart. You both stared straight ahead towards the playground.

“Are you mad?”

Your question was softened, spoken as you exhaled an uneven breath.

He was quiet for a moment.

“No.” Adler rubbed the underside of his jaw where the bruise blossomed. “I’m not mad, Bell.”

You felt him relax next to you, shoulders dropping as he leaned his weight into you. There was nothing more to say. Nothing more for him or you to add. With that, a silence befell between you both, in each other’s company. Guilt and shame came and went, soon replaced by a stifling numbness. You focused externally instead. Adler next you, the soft breeze against your face. The tumbling of the canopy above you. Another one of Adler’s favorites playing from the crackly radio on the picnic table. The laughter of children in the park; yours amongst them. All of it; the pace of the world around you.

But such tranquility was only temporary as your children ran towards the picnic table. Out of breath and sweating, gulping down cold bottles of cola from the cooler. Before running off again like energetic puppies. It was a pattern. Going to play then coming back to get refreshments before returning to the playground again. By the third time, you expected them to be too tired to play anymore. But you underestimated their energy. The youngest tugged at your arm while the oldest did the same to Adler, wanting both of you to get up and join them. Adler was the first to give in, luckily for you. Letting the kids drag him up and away from the picnic table; his sunglasses handed to you for safekeeping. Though by the look Adler gave you as he was taken away, it was deliberate. Letting you have the time to rest and relax, saving you from their clutches. Although your kids definitely tried.

So you sat back and resumed your relaxation. Watched Adler play with the children, chasing them around as they screamed and laughed. A warm feeling spread throughout your body, a feeling you didn’t want to think too much about. One that was too bittersweet for you. Then a strange thought, a bewildering realization as you started to ponder more on it. Of your childhood. One that you didn’t remember, couldn’t remember. Even if you tried. It was a time lost to you. A blank space in the gray matter of your brain. To remember was to stare in murky water. At a muddled reflection. You wondered if you were the same as a young girl. A wild child without a care in the world. That drove your parents crazy. Or if you were a quiet child. Shy and sweet – your parent’s pride and joy.

Did you have siblings? Cousins and grandparents? Were they alive? Dead or excommunicated? Were you excommunicated? Did you even have a family?

That query made you queasy, made you startled.

What did you remember?

Not very much. Always forgetful, always unstable. Always lost in your own head. Gathering the pieces of your shattered mind until your fingers bled. Putting them together to make a mosaic. A tattered paper collage that made a semblance of a begotten past. All you really knew was the here and now. All you knew was Adler and the bits and pieces of your long history together. Camaraderie, kinship; Enduring war together. Bled together. Fought together. Together , always together. Then a relationship beyond warfare. Beyond bloodshed and despair. A soul, once long lost and far forgotten. He was your world, your everything. The reason you were here breathing still. Still living, and still a part of a world that was so cruel and unforgiving. Despite all your reservations.

Did Adler feel the same towards you? Were you his purpose now? His everything? Like he was to you? Did both of your children occupy the same space in his heart as you think it did yours?

A man like him was not easily readable; reticent as he was. But his actions spoke volumes. From the picnic table underneath the span of the basswood, where you watched your family, there you felt it. An understanding between the uncertainty of past and the certainty of the present. Memories like sand between your fingers. No matter your identity crisis, memory issues or brain trauma, Adler was there. Now and always. Like he had been throughout your deployment together, during your clandestine operations. You were his shadow. His protégé. Two sides of the same coin. Eyes that always found each other in a battlefield. Always accounted for each other afterwards. Shared rations, shared canteens. The stench of cigarettes as you smoked side-by-side. A mutual respect. A symbiotic bond.

It was always ever you two — Bell and Adler. Adler and Bell.

Always had been.

Even now as he and your children walked back to the picnic table as the afternoon sun came and went; giving way to the early hours of the evening. As the sky exploded in watercolors of yellow, orange and pink. You stood up, smiling. It was a small upturn of your mouth. A strange, unpracticed facial motion. But with such a sight as the man you held dear and both of your beautiful children together, you couldn’t help but want to smile. And snap out of your torment and conflicts. Even if it was only temporary, just for now. You approached Adler, the children at either side of you both. Hair out of place. His dark polo was drenched at the collar and underarms, khaki jeans stained from wet grass. And you couldn’t help the fleeting feeling of wanting to taste the salt of his skin. You shared a look with him, unspoken communication between you both. A wordless exchange just like on a battlefield.

You ushered all three of them to the picnic table. All exhausted, breathless, and sweaty. And unsurprisingly starving. You pulled all the plastic wrapped food from the cooler and the bags on the table. Setting up the family picnic, a simple one. But one nonetheless. Everyone was practically salivating as they watched you set it up. A platter of sandwiches, chips, potato salad, pasta salad, sliced seasonal fruit, deviled eggs, and lemonade. Cola and water in the cooler. And with your go ahead, all three immediately dug in; your children had to be corrected more than once from their table manners. Even you served yourself a plate of food. In the corner of your eye, the hint of a smile on Adler’s marred lips. Sparse for him just as it was for you. By the time you finished eating, so had everyone else. Even the peach cobbler, Adler’s favorite, remained untouched. A treat for later you imagined.

Reinvigorated and re-energized by their meal, you and Adler watched in surprise as your children went to go play again. Most of the families there had left beforehand, but there were a few still there; the remaining children on the playground too.

Adler let out a sigh next to you, arms across his wide chest. “I’m getting too old for this.”

You leaned towards him, staring up from where you lay against his shoulder, and laughed. In the setting sun, he was a god to you. Hardened face dipped in half-shadow. The searing hue of the sunset highlighted the other side; scars, skin, and all. Made his eyes that much brighter, his hair like aureate silk. But at this angle, you also could see the years on him. Of his time on the field that whittled him down: a battle-hardened veteran, a calculated agent. A red-blooded American patriot through and through. Wrinkles and lines on the planes of his face, crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes. A slight grizzling in his golden mane as you brushed your fingers through it.

Still good looking as ever, still in shape.

Aged like a fine wine.

“You’re practically dust, old man.”

A hearty chuckle rumbled through you, deep from within Adler’s chest.

“Don’t get me started on you, kid .”

An old nickname that made you stare up at him and playfully glare at the side of his face. Your nose crinkled and face grimaced before huffing and nestled back against him.

As the sun started to disappear in the horizon, in the shadow of dusk, you and Adler began to pack everything away and clean up. You called for your children, rounded them up while Adler put things in the car. Not even a few feet down the road, and the youngest and oldest were already asleep in the backseat. The ride home was pleasant, a companionable silence between you both, listening to the lowered radio. Cruising to the blues. Sunglasses perched on Adler’s face despite the dark. You found yourself starting to doze off, your head leaned against your arm on the car door. Until a hand on your shoulder shook you. You jumped a bit, blinked rapidly at the blurry face in front of you.

“Bell, c’mon.”

Rubbing at your eyes, you stretched a bit before getting out of the passenger seat. The youngest, still asleep, was slung over Adler’s shoulder while the oldest groggily slid out of the backseat. Tasked with putting away the food and drinks while Adler put your kids to bed, you grabbed the rest of the food and the cooler, leaving the rest of the stuff in the car to be put away tomorrow. The day had come and gone. Faster than you anticipated. The entirety of it weighed down on you. The strain of it held in your shoulders, in your neck. You opted to take a much needed shower. Hot water pelted against your body, washing yourself of the stress and weariness and down into the drain.

The duration of your shower was longer than you thought. Making even Adler worried as he knocked on the bathroom door to make sure you were still breathing. By the time you got out, the entire bathroom was filled with steam. The humidity made you lightheaded. You expected Adler to already be in bed but you were surprised to find your bedroom empty and the bed untouched. You padded across the carpet, towel wrapped around your body towards your dresser. The curtains blew open with a sudden breeze, making you shiver. The balcony door was slightly ajar. Let in the night air inside and the smell of pungent smoke. You dressed yourself swiftly into just another nightgown and walked towards the balcony. There, leaning against the wood guardrail, was an outline of a tall, imposing figure. The flicker of a small ember where a lit cigarette rested between thick fingers.

“Thought you wanted to quit?”

You joined the shadow on the balcony. Arms around yourself as you looked up at a dark night, the moon eclipsed by passing clouds. The flickering light of the cigarette reflected in his sepia lenses.

“Hm… I said that?”

You rubbed at your bare arms as a cold wind blew against your skin. Hair still damp, your nightgown was helpless against the chill. And you moved closer, seeking his body heat. “Something of the sort.”

Adler inhaled, the cigarette burning brighter with his deep intake. Then exhaled.

“Can’t shake off old habits.”

You hummed at him, plucking the cigarette from his fingers just before he could take another hit of it. Adler turned to you, curious and interested. Watched you take a long drag. Saw your own reflection in his sunglass lens from the bedroom light behind you. Instantly, the addictive taste of nicotine filled your mouth, a rush of dopamine straight to the brain. You let out a soft sigh, smoke curling out of your lips. As you savored the taste of it on your tongue.

With an effortless motion, Adler retrieved the cigarette that was taken from him. And puffed at the end of it. “Thought I weaned you off of cigarettes.”

“You did. Doesn’t mean the cravings ever stop.”

He passed you the cigarette again. “Hm, guess so.”

You both stayed like that. The comfortable silence of the night. Smoking in each other’s company. Reminded you of the times in Vietnam after a long, hard day. Adler let you finish the rest of the cigarette, disappearing into the bedroom, wanting to take a shower to wash the day off too. Adler didn’t leave you much, having smoked most of the cigarette. But you weren’t picky, grateful for his scraps like a starved dog. When it was finished, you snubbed the rest of it against the railing. Uncaring for the stain of soot and ash on the white paint. Then discarded it in an ashtray on a coastal glass side table in the far corner. Where your potted plant sat on top next to it. Leaves yellowed and withering, but saved. But not by your nurturing care that was for certain. You realized that your revitalized plant had just been watered, by Adler no doubt. You went inside, locking the balcony door and nestled yourself into the bed covers. But you couldn’t fall asleep. Something in your chest prevented you, like the beat of your heart was too much for you to bear. Your mind was disquiet, running rampant. The older man was the centerfold of it all.

Adler didn’t take as long of a shower as you had. He walked out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. Hair darkened from his shower and brushed back. His upper body was on full display in the glow of the table lamp, stray water droplets rolling down the expanse of his chest, down to his abdomen. Adler disappeared into the walk-in closet. Coming out a minute later, dressed in loose fitting pajama pants and a plain T-shirt.

He flicked the lamp off, plunging the bedroom into sudden darkness. You felt the mattress dip as he got under the duvet and settled on his side of the bed.

Adler wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. You burrowed your face into his chest. Head tucked underneath his chin. The smell of his body wash and the fresh scent of detergent from his shirt filled your nose. Your body relaxed against him. Feeling him do the same against you. Your lips pressed to his cheek, a goodnight kiss he thought. Until your lips strayed to the bruise on his jaw then dipped down to his neck. Where you found his pulse, running your tongue against it slowly. Feeling it began to quicken underneath. His body tensed against yours. Arms tightened around you, fingers digging into your waist.

“Go to sleep, Bell.”

A low, sleep-ridden voice said above you. It was a warning. A chastisement. A command he expected you to follow. But you were in no mood to listen, let alone close your eyes and go to sleep. You swallowed, moving away from Adler’s neck. Then back up to his face and ghosted your lips over Adler’s. He stirred, body still tensed, but laid unmoving.

“ Bell .”

Another warning. Spoken like a growl right before the bite. But you were determined, undeterred.

Your hand went to his face, thumbing softly at his scars. “Adler.”

He leaned into your touch. Stubbled and scarred cheek against the plush of your hand.

“ Please .”

You didn’t need to ask twice.

He was hesitant at first, worried. Fingers pressed into your skin, keeping a gap between you two. Warm breath fanned against your face. But you guided his head down to yours, brushing your lips together with his. It was a chaste kiss. Lips against each other for a fleeting moment before separating again. Where tongues just barely brushed, barely stroked into each other's mouth. Before you both braved another then another. Until such restraint was forgotten in light of unbridled passion. A crash of mouths, a hungriness between you both. Blood rushed throughout your bodies. Hearts racing, heat rising. The hint of smoke on his tongue.

Just as quickly, you both pulled away from each other. Panting, out of breath. Lips swollen. And all you and Adler could do was stare at each other. Wide-eyed and mouths agape. But the standstill didn’t last long. Adler was the first to close the gap again. Arms around your waist pulled you flush against him, your fingers in his hair. Lips locked to yours in a searing kiss. Siphoning the air from your lungs. You gasped for breath as Adler angled his head, pulling you into a deeper kiss. All tongue and teeth. His desperation matching your own.

You moved forward, Adler chasing after your lips when you pulled away. And quickly straddled him. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you still. Dilated eyes met dilated eyes as you stared down at the older man from above. He was a mess underneath you already: hair disheveled, skin flushed, the rapid rise and fall of his chest under your palms. Marred lips bruised from the aggressiveness of you both. You couldn’t help but admire the beautiful sight below you. To have such a man like Adler at your mercy. Looking up at you so eagerly. So hungry for more.

But in your admiration you let your guard down. And Adler had full intention to take advantage of that. He shifted, quicker than you anticipated, and before you knew it you were on your back. Him over you, caging you against the mattress with his frame. A slight upturn of his lips at your surprised gasp before you were swallowed into another kiss – softer and slower this time. But just as devouring. You squirmed against his hold. Felt him shift again, a knee hooking underneath your leg and pushing it aside as he leaned forward, body pressed down onto you.

Adler left your mouth, lips across your jaw before dipping down. Lips to the pulse underneath your jaw like you had done to him. His teeth tracing it as it throbbed against his tongue before he bit down – leaving the indentation of teeth in his wake. The morning came back to you, standing in front of the mirror. Watching Adler against your throat. You wished you could see him now like you did then, as he kissed down the column of your neck, tongue trailing all along your jugular. Nipping at your collarbone towards your chest. Nipples poking through the material of your nightgown.

Hands at your hips that held you still hiked your nightgown up, bunching it at your abdomen before it is pulled over your head and tossed on the floor. Bared to him now. He admired you for a long moment, piercing gaze taking your nakedness in, all along your goosebumped skin. He pulled his shirt over his head. Then Adler pressed his lips between your breasts, ever slow and ever steady. Ignoring your whimpers, your impatience. Heeded his own need to savor you. To evince your worth. His mouth left a scorching path down your abdomen. All across the scars and marks that littered your body, new and old. To the recent bruises, scratches and cuts. On the florets of old gunshot wounds on your torso and midriff that still felt freshly healed and much too tender against Adler’s scarred lips and light stubble.

His head descended down, down, down . Your fingers threaded through his mane of hair, feeling his warm breath above your hips. Calloused hands against your thighs, the one he hooked with his leg was thrown over his shoulder. His body settled between your legs. Already so wet. His mouth kissed up the one over his shoulder. From your thigh all the way up to your ankle. Then back down in a trail of wet kisses. You watched, heavy-lidded, your eyes meeting Adler’s. As he buried his face between your spread legs. You choked a gasp, tugging at his hair. Your thighs wrapped around his head, hips automatically bucked against his face. As Adler eased you open with his tongue slowly. Kissing, sucking, licking, lapping. Your hips lifted up from the bed, legs taunt, but he held you down. Using his arms wrapped around your waist to stop your squirming and the width of shoulders to pry your legs open even wider.

Adler was merciless with his tongue. Swirling around the most sensitive part of you. Sending jolts of electricity shooting up your spine, right up to your foggy brain. Added onto the heated pressure that was building in your core. You were already making a mess, dripping down your thighs onto the sheets. Your breathing only grew more uneven, more quicker. Chokes and moans fell from your lips, encouraging the man between your legs. Adler leaned on his side, moving an arm from underneath your waist only to go back and resume to his assail on you. He pressed a thick digit into you slowly, between the lapping of his tongue. Until he was up to the knuckle. Though you moaned at the feeling, you wished he filled you with something else. Adler pumped the finger into you, curling it against your tight, slick walls. Then, after a few moments, added a second. His fingers were calloused but clever. It didn’t take long before you were keening off the bed. Mouth agape, hands clenched around the sheets, hearing the sounds Adler was making between your legs. You were already close, right at the summit. But it wasn’t surprising, adroit and ambidextrous as he was.

Your fingers shot to his hair again, pulling as the pressure in your core grew more and more. Your thighs squeezed against his head, legs shaking, hips rolling against the movements of his tongue and pumping of his fingers into you. But Adler didn’t relent. He was never a man who could. You were close. So, so, so close. Right on the edge, fire coaxed underneath your skin. Heart bursting, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. Focused solely on the pleasure Adler was giving you. You begged and pleaded, sighed his name in broken breaths. Russell, Russell, Russell. Until your breathing stuttered, breathless as you began to quiver. Like the snap of string, the unspooling of thread, your orgasm crashed over you. Hard and unexpected. Pulled you down underneath the depths, slamming you against the ocean floor.

Mouth opened in a silent cry, body rose, hips rolling, fluttering around Adler’s fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as Adler talked you through it. All the emotions, all your pain and suffering, all your fears and insensibility surged forward. A hurricane of mixed, conflicted feelings. Then all at once, it was gone. And you felt… you felt. You didn’t feel much of anything. You didn’t know what to feel. At peace? Unburdened? In limbo? It wasn’t numbness or detachment. But something you couldn’t quite name nor explain. In its wake, as you came down from your orgasm, all you could do was stare up at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath. Tears were still falling from your eyes from an unknown cause. Hands intertwined with yours, grounded you as you laid there motionless.

Carefully, Adler moved away from between your legs, kissing lazily against your salty skin. Up to your collarbone and neck, then a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. He laid beside you, not holding you, but there just so you could feel the tangibility of him. Of the warmth of him next to you. Skin against skin, heart beating in the ribcage next to yours.

“Bell.”

Your name was whispered in the crook of your neck. Your hands intertwined with his once more. You blinked, shaking through the fog in your mind. Turned your head, eyes meeting Adler’s as he stared at you worriedly. His eyes still dilated, his face drenched with your wet slick. Watched him as he licked his lips. You leaned forward, kissing Adler again. Tasting yourself on his lips. His hand cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss. He pulled away from you, kissing away the tear streaks on your face. Your arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer until he hovered over you. Adler was tense again, searching your face.

But you wasted no time, fingers following along his happy trail, tugging at the waistline of his pajama pants. Adler was quick to get the message. Still hesitated, still worried that it was too much for you. Convinced only by your gentle kiss and your pleading eyes. He helped you tug away his clothing, relieving the tightness there. He was rock hard; heavy, ruddy, and curved. You couldn’t help but ogle, licking your lips. Wanted to run your tongue on the underside of it, along a thick vein. Reciprocating, giving him the same pleasure he gave you. But you were both too eager. Your arms were still thrown over his neck, keeping him still as Adler settled between your legs again. Wished he would hurry up already. But the man had other plans. Osculated along the inside of your thigh again, all the way up to your ankle like before.

“Adler.” Your voice was hoarse, growing frustrated at his delay.

He ignored you however, still taking his sweet time. Sucking on the skin until he left welts and marks all over. Then did the same to your other thigh. Only stopped when he was satisfied. You pulled him closer, feeling him finally prod against you. Adler hissed low and you winced as he entered you. Still oversensitive, still overwhelmed. Still unused to the size of him. He pressed himself into you leisurely — inch by inch. Much too tight to take him in all at once, but you took as much of him as you could.

Adler stopped, feeling you squeeze around him in a vice grip.

“Bell.” He hissed through his teeth, “I need you to relax for me.”

You heard the strain in his velvet voice, felt the tensity of him above you. You took a slow breath, trying to get your body to relax. It worked somewhat, Adler eased up. But you could feel him throb inside you. Surprised by his restraint. He searched your face. Pulled out of you carefully, then drew his muscular thighs closer for leverage and sunk his fists into the mattress on either side of your head. Your hands on his shoulders gripped tight as Adler enfolded over you. A measured thrust and you both threw your heads back. He rocked his hips slowly, grunting as you clung to him. Legs wrapped around his hips, whimpering and keening. His face in the crook of your neck. Teeth on the underside of your jaw. His pacing was relentless, persistent. Not too slow, not too fast, but steady. Unwavering, as he fucked you into the mattress. But you wanted more. You wanted his brutality, that calculated violence. The agony and misery. You wanted him to ruin you.

He already had.

You were in a muddled state already. Cried out his name as Adler sunk deeper into you. Having been fucked wider to take all of him now. A hum of approval low in Adler’s throat, pleased by how well you took him. Like you were made for him. And only for him. Falling on his forearms, his body pressed on top of you. Flattened by his weight, caged by him. Large, calloused hand over your mouth, to muffle the noises you made; cries, whines and moans. His other ventured down, between your legs, where you were both connected. Felt him cup you, deft fingers rubbed against you. You tugged at his hair, sweat sheening on you both. Adler growled in your ear as you constricted around him again, writhing underneath him. Overstimulated. Your eyes closed shut. It was too much, it was all too much.

Adler panted above you, jaw clenched. Your name spat through clenched teeth. But you were too lost in the feeling of him pistoning in and out of you, your toes curling, breathing unstable. Bed frame wobbling under you both. Adler removed the hand from your mouth, shot out to the headboard. His other hand left from between your legs, grabbing your jaw. Pulled it forward to face him, forcing you to open your eyes and meet his own. Your mouth opened wide, wanting to cry out. But Adler shoved his fingers into your mouth. Fingers glistened from your sticky slick, curling inside your cheek. Making you taste yourself again. You wrapped your lips around his fingers, sucking them clean. The only sounds you could make now was incoherent babbling. As Russian filth was whispered in your ear.

Close. You were both so close.

Together, always together.

Adler pulled his fingers from your mouth, throwing your legs over his wide shoulders. Placed his hands on your hips in a bruising grip; knew it would leave prints afterwards. He was even deeper now that you thought possible. Still kept that steady pace of his. You pulled him into a messy kiss; all tongue and swollen lips. As the foundation of your orgasm grew stronger and more powerful. You broke the kiss as you felt it building higher and higher. Ready to all come crashing down. Adler could feel it too by the way

you tightened around him. It only encouraged him. His pace grew faster, enough to make you arch up from the bed. Your nails clawed at his back. Mouth agape in a silent scream. Then it crashed over you. Harder than your first. More violent and intense. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You fluttered around Adler, gushing over both your thighs. And it wasn’t long before he followed suit. A guttural groan deep from within his chest and a hard thrust into you. Then another and another, rocking your body forward, making the headboard slam the plaster. As he spilled himself inside you. Groaning and growling, his head thrown back. Exposing the column of his throat and the bites you left there.

“Fuck. FUCK.”

Then a few final thrusts and he collapsed on top of you. Panting, kissing along your neck. As you both came back down like falling feathers. You both laid there like that, in each other’s arms. Trying to catch your breath. Eventually, Adler rolled off of you, pulling himself out as you winced. You could feel him start to spill out of you already, mixing with your slick on your thighs. You had the mind to take your fingers and push it back inside you where it belonged, and by the way Adler watched in deep thought, he shared the same idea. But instead, the older man grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor and cleaned you up. Tossing it away when he was done. Adler pulled you close, your head to his sweaty chest as you let out a drawled out sigh. Ear to his rapid heartbeat, cheek nuzzling against his coiled chest hair. His arms wrapped around you, his legs intertwined with yours. Skin against skin, souls bared to each other.

“Sleep, Bell.”

His hands rubbed at your back softly. As he kissed your forehead and let out a deep sigh. Already falling asleep. Your eyes felt heavy. You were exhausted and satisfied. You were starting to ache everywhere; knew that you would feel it all in the morning. Adler fell asleep before you, soft snoring into your hair. His deep breathing lulled you. And for once, sleep came to you easily…

And yet…

Yet…

Something wasn’t right.

Even in the embrace of sleep, just on the verge of consciousness, you could tell. Cold, uncomfortable. Unbearable even, and… unsafe. It made you stir, shifting against the confines of something that held you close. Too close. Restrictive, digging deep into your skin. Suffocated you. Drowning, you were drowning again. Being dragged down underneath dark torrents. But there was no sudden violence to save you, no inner animalistic urge to weaponize. You were pacified, a limp body lost in the depths. A corpse sinking to the endless bottom.

You couldn’t fight. Couldn’t fight hard, couldn’t fight strong or desperately. Nothing was enough to free yourself, nothing would ever be. You were a deadweight, a stone thrown into a lake. Free falling into the deep, dark depths below. Light above you, fading away from you. Everything in you, ached for oxygen. Your lungs burned, nostrils flared – choking for air. Pressure built into your chest like wet concrete. You opened your mouth to scream, but your cries were silenced by the water, your mouth filling with it. Frantic releases of breath left an effervesced trail as you sunk. Down, down. Further and further. Buried in a watery grave, pressurized and all consuming. Death was slow. Your death was inevitable like grave soil being thrown over your coffin. There was no more fighting the throes of inevitable death. No screaming and no mercy.

Your sight blackened until all you saw was red. Red, red, red . The color of wounds, the color of bloodsport. The color of hellfire. Then you heard it. A symphony of sounds, an echo like a whale song. Cacophonous and jarring. It reverberated in your bones and repeated in your head. An evocation that you began to understand, to recognize. It called to you, spoke a name. ‘Bell, Bell, Bell’ it said, repeating over and over like a mantra. From a voice that you knew wholeheartedly, deep down in the intertwisted threads of the tapestry of soul, bones and flesh. An echo, a whisper in the nothingness.

“Bell, we've got a job to do.”

We’ve got a job to do.

W̸̡̾e̸̙̽’̷̮̅v̷͎͝ë̶̥́ ̸̳̈́g̸̓ͅō̸͎t̶͎͆ ̷͚͘a̵͍̔ ̴̘̈j̵̦̈́o̴̮̊b̵̥́ ̸̖́t̶̢̓o̵͔͌ ̴̢̀d̵̻̕o̵̲̎.̸̞͝

A trip down memory lane. A series of memories: the smell of napalm and gunpowder. Sweat stinging the eyes, the taste of blood and mud in the mouth. Mazes of wire and explosives. Booby traps, land mines. VC rats scurrying in escape tunnels. The flash of the muzzles. The clink of bloodstained dog tags as they were yanked off of dead soldiers. Shadows between the trees; VietCong hiding in plain sight. Gunfire, a helicopter crash. Burning remnants of it stuck in a canopy. Thrown in a firefight in a paddy field. A voice, a narrator to the palimpsest of your own narrative. A tour guide through your own head; the devil on your shoulder. Old ruins, a fork in the road. Across a river, a rope bridge. A tunnel. A burning village. Then a red door. Always one at the end. You cannot escape it.

You walked through the door. A bright light blinded your sight. The sounds of a tropical jungle, palm leaves and elephant grass brushed against your skin. An oppressing heat. A long, white hallway that stretched on and on. Miles upon miles upon miles. Imperceivable, indeterminate. An endless iteration, a feedback loop. White walls and one way windows. Lab rooms full of medical equipment, surgical tools, projectors, and flickering television screens.

Purgatory .

White noise in your ears. In the distance, a bell swings. But there’s no ring.

Your surroundings started to crumble, decaying right in front of you. The walls cracked, the foundation split. The windows shattered. Falling, it was all collapsing in, from the ceiling to the floor. And all onto you. You sprinted through, running down the deteriorating hallway endlessly. A voice in your head again; another red door in front of your face. Through it again as always. And there in the middle of endless darkness was a long metal table. You knew what to do even with a broken mind; took a seat at the head of the table. Right where you knew you belonged. Faces, faces all around. Other people in the room, sitting around the table too. And a towering man with silver, slicked back hair and a thick mustache. He looked at you, talked to you in an accented voice that sounded far too familiar. Too familial . He said a name, your true name; Your real name. One you had long forgotten. You blinked at him as the man spoke, words like a distant echo. It reverberated in your head. Resurfaced memories. Of a plan. One you helped contrive.

‘Nukes. Europe. Detonation. Safety of Solovetsky.’

Solovetsky .

From the safety of Solovetsky.

Something reached for you, someone. You started to wake. Your body ached all over. Your left eye throbbed. Your sight burned – white, white. Too bright. Bright lights above you. Bleary-eyed; eyes seeing and unseeing, like a camera lens trying to find focus. Your surroundings were nothing but a blur. A warbling in waterlogged ears, a chorus of inharmonious noise.

Sepia shades in the dark, a looming figure crept out from the shadows.

“Bell, no more fucking around.”

You tried to sit up. But you’re restrained to a metal gurney. Forced to lay down on your back. There was relief there, seeing Adler. Affection and admiration, relief. Underneath all your confusion, all your dubiety. The fogginess in your head, the conflicting emotions that bubbled in the cauldron of your sensibility. He wasn’t alone in the dark room. But your eyes always looked to him. Only him. Pinpointed him wherever and whenever. Adler grabbed you roughly, a hard grip on a tactile vest you were wearing. Forced your upper body up from the gurney, the thick strap around your chest that held you down, cut into your ribs and stomach.

“What did Perseus say? Where is he?”

You stared at Adler. It was all you could do. Alarm sirens in your head at the way he looked down at you, acted towards you. Like you were nothing to him. There was no subtle softness on the rough features of his face. No crinkling of his crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes as he looked down at you. You weren’t in the bedroom like you expected, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Wrapped in his embrace, your children sleeping in.

Children.

Where are your children at?

Your gaze darted around, eyes bulging with a sudden panic. But all you saw was Adler. Your tongue was like lead, heavy and stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your jaw ached like you’ve been grinding your molars together. Despite it, you tried to speak. Throat dry and scratchy.

Where are your children? Are they safe? Where are you?

Who are you, really?

Disoriented, Adler assured you. You were just disorientated. Help is what you needed. But it wasn’t just your own, Adler needed it as well. An exchange, you both needed to help each other.

Bullshit. It was all bullshit.

Adler wasn’t pleased with you.

“‘Bullshit’ is what your whole life will amount to if you don’t come clean. Tell us where Perseus is!”

Adler was unrecognizable in that moment, not the man you remembered. One you held dear to your heart. This wasn’t him, was it? This wasn’t the Adler you knew and cherished. He wouldn't subject you to this. Adler would never do this. Wouldn’t he? This man wore his face, spoke his words. But he wasn’t Adler. You blinked up at him, this wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. You tested the restraints, feeling how they cut into the circulation of your wrists and ankles. And his grip on you only tightened, fist flexed around the rough textile of your tactile vest. Your head throbbed. You felt your chest tighten with the constricting compression of pain. Emotional turmoil churned inside you. This fake Adler, this impersonator was the cause of your pain, of your suffering. The puppeteer behind the scenes. A conjuring of your worst fears.

What did this man do to you?

“We gave you a second chance when you were shit out of luck. Now we just want some assistance in return.”

He dropped you with a harsh push, and you fell back onto the gurney. A second chance. Tit for tat; quid pro quo. Someone held up a blue folder; a dossier soiled with a dried bloody handprint.

Then you remembered. Remembered it all.

A quick succession of memory; Betrayed. Bleeding out in the back of your hummer on an airfield. Blood stained dossier in your lap. Melting metal and burning rubber – a gas leak. The wreckage of a plane on fire in the far distance. Dying, you were dying. Left for dead. But these people, this man with the face of Adler. They’re perfidious. Manipulating you, you were nothing but entertainment to them. Like picking a scab and watching it bleed over and over again.

Lying. He’s lying. He put all that shit in your head.

“The CIA reinvented you, Bell.”

Reinvented you; built you back up. Fragments of your consciousness, stained-glass windows. Shards of you too sharp to fully put back together. You were just a golden joinery of flesh and bone. Nothing but haphazardly put-together. A shell of a person. A conflict of your own self. Memories that weren’t your own stuffed in your damaged brain. Menticide, MK-Ultra. A fabrication, a falsification. Of identity, of background, of bonds. They used you and your expertise. Used you for their own bidding. Adler used you, pretended your ties together.

But this was all a trick. It was all in your head, a torment specified for you. Your children were real, they were safe back home. And this man, he wasn’t truly Adler; Adler would never do such a thing to you. You've been through so much together, done so much together.

Together, always together.

It was a macabre joke, all a sadistic game. They were toying with you.

These people were sick. Sick in the head, more than you.

“Are your hands clean, Bell?”

Were they clean? Cleansed of wrongdoings like Adler said? Weren’t you a sinner, just like them?

Purgatory.

This was purgatory. Consequences, punishment. What you deserved for sins that stained your soul. For a past, a personhood you cannot remember. A false identity given and granted by them, for you. A trick, a false reassurance. Integration, interrogation. Interrogated? You were interrogated? No, it was a confessional. An admission. One you fought, one you refused. You weren’t a sinner like them. Like they claimed you were. Purgatory.

This purgatory was all in your head. A delusion.

Fuck this. Fuck them.

“I don’t think so. You’re still holding back on us, and we are going it out of you.”

Again, ‘Adler’ seized hold of you. Hand curled into a fist around your tactical vest. With the other the older man grabbed your jaw, rough fingers digging into your skin. He forced your head to the side. Face-to-face with him now.

He leaned down closer.

“We have a job to do.”

Your brain went blank, something within you triggered. Like a switch. Enchanted, hypnotized, mesmerized. Stuck in a trance. You instantly relaxed. Eyes to those behind his shades. Waited for his direction, for his command. A dog at his heel.

He released you slowly, stepping back from you.

“The trigger phrase kept you in line but it didn’t give us everything we needed. Your innermost secrets were always locked behind a door.”

The red door. Always an obstacle in your way. A gateway through the labyrinthine corridors of a shattered psyche, the ruins of broken mind. For which all paths converged and led back to him. Back to Adler. Like a northern star; a flame in the dark. He was always the one to reel you in, to ground you. A planet caught in his gravity. But this trick, this manipulation tactic was not untrue. This brutal man that stood over you was not a figment of your imagination, no matter how much you blinked. Nor was he a trickster or an impersonator. This man was Adler. And what you both had… your complicated and complex relationship. It was never real. None of it was. Your past together, even your future together. Your children… none of it was real. Pain deep in your chest, coiling around your heart like thorn vines. The mother inside wailed and sobbed, grieving for what you never had in the first place.

You watched him as he talked on. Words he was saying to you, seeped into your head. You probably hate them right now, he said. Hate, you should hate. It was the only understanding you needed; nothing of the stakes, of a threat of nuclear fallout, of the death of millions off the face of the earth. A realization. One that you couldn’t fully heal from. A pain that broke your rhythm. A flow of agonizing hurt washed over you, a remembrance of a ghostly past and a once tangible future. This was purgatory. Not one manifested by your woes and fears, or created by your own head or designed for you. It was a byproduct, a fact of life. To live, was to suffer. To suffer, was to live.

It had all been a dream, a fantasy. Hopeful wishing in light of your suffering. The only source of strength and hope you could cling onto. You shared no life with him. No allegiance, or connection. You didn’t know him, not truly. He was not your safety, not the gravity keeping you on your feet. Your world crumbled, unfurling at the seams. Between the subtle shading and the absence of light laid the nuance of illusion. Of the lie fed to you, of the life spun for you, of the personhood falsified unto you. You should loathe him, you should fear him. You shouldn’t trust the man in front of you. You knew it all as true.

“This is your chance to define who you really are, Bell.”

But love and hate had always tasted the same to you.

Remember?

“Where is Perseus?” Adler asked you, expectantly.

The voice of that tall silver-haired man in that dark room, in your ear once more. Whisperings in your head. Truth on the tip of your tongue.

From the safety of Solovetsky.

….Solovetsky.

“Solovetsky. It’s the Solovetsky Monastery.” You told him.

Adler repeated the word. “Solovetsky.”

He sent whoever was there out of the room, appointed tasks in preparation for what’s to come. You watched as he untied your restraints around your wrists and legs. Undid the one around your chest. Without hesitation.

“You made the right choice, Bell.”

Truly? Had you truly chosen correctly?

Adler clasped your hand, helped you up from the gurney. The heat of his palm seeping through your fingerless gloves. The hand on your shoulder, steadied you as you stood on wobbly legs.

“You’re still one of us.”

One of us.

It was bittersweet beneath it all.

All the conflicting emotions, the pain and fear, the grieving for a life you never shared together. The memories that weren’t yours, but Adler’s. In that, you at least shared. But despite it all. You did what you always had done. Even now. You put your trust in him. Followed him dutifully. Heeded his words. It was all you knew. All you knew how to do. Whether it was implanted into you or learned over time. His ambition, his will; your purpose. A fatal flaw. Following him to the ends of the world, to hell on earth by his side. As the cards of fate were shuffled and played.

Even now after the all-out assault on Solovetsky, the foiling of Perseus' plan. You were found and rescued from underneath all the debris: rubble, concrete and metal sheets. Rebars stuck out of the remnants of the monastery like broken bones. Voices on the other side. A figure between the dust and smoke, fires burning around you. Adler appeared in front of you, and you couldn’t help the sigh of relief at the sight of him. He extended an arm out to you there on the ground.

“Take my hand, Bell.” He said.

And you did.

Reached out for him. Let him pull you back on your feet as you steadied yourself. Listened to his triumphant speech afterwards. Of the evil you helped stop. Without your knowledge at first, then with it afterwards.

“This is how wars are won, Bell.”

You couldn’t help the chill that ran down your spinal cord as he spoke directly to you. Goosebumps rose. Felt like ants marching one by one, up and down your skin. It was a declaration of devotion. Not to you, never to you. But to his country. For the safekeeping and welfare of the Western world and its idealisms. You were nothing but a means to an end. A stepping stone in the cobble path. Just another pawn on the chess board sacrificed for the checkmate. The early morning broke through the clouds of smoke. The fires still burned bright against the waning dusk, even throughout the incoming dawn. Soon the leeching light of the fires was but a memory. Fleeced clouds roamed through the pastorals of a calm sky, subsiding away, and freeing the sun from its subjugation. The sun rose, blooming against an azure sky, unfurling its golden tendrils, to bare its fierce face once again. Apprehension prickled along the back of your neck, the hairs there stood at end. You couldn’t shake off the feeling and that fight or flight instinct was becoming very hard to ignore.

Yet, you still followed right behind Adler as he led you up a hill. Towards a cliff that overlooked the Arctic sea. He was a few paces ahead but still looked back towards you to make sure you were still following. As if you would bolt in a split second when he turned his back and wasn’t looking. The smell of brine became stronger as you reached the top of the cliff. Carried on the cold winds, the exhale of wintry dread. Of death’s call. The taste of salt was a sharp bitterness on your tongue, making your mouth prune and your thirst more fierce. You watched him take a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the cool scent of the sea. Adler leaned a leg on top of a rock and peered over the edge. He lit up a cigarette, taking a drag of it, and stared out to the sea.

You stood only a couple feet away, just observing him. Wallowed in uncertainty, in the unknown. In the aftermath of the truth revealed. The dealer’s hand had already been dealt, but you didn’t know what it read. What it entailed when it came to you. The roar of crashing waves battered against the jagged rock of the cliffside in your ears. Filled the silence between you both. But it wasn’t enough to drown the endless stream of thoughts in your headspace.

Adler turned towards you. Cool and impassive. Wholly inscrutable to you.

“Arctic air. Clears the head, doesn’t it.”

An ice breaker, something to cut through the tension between you both. Then came his praise, and something inside fawned at his words. A simple acknowledgement that was everything to you.

“I just want you to know that this little thing that’s happened with you and me. It was always for the greater good.”

Adler flicked his cigarette away. Your eyes watched him waste it, as it fell down into the sea. More praise from him. You were a hero, he told you. That dreaded nickname tumbling from his lips again. Kid . More talk about being a hero. Heroism, sacrifice. Sacrifice of the self, of others. Sacrifice. You were the sacrificial lamb, another pawn on the chess board sacrificed for the checkmate. For the greater good. Why would it turn out any different? You served your purpose. You were no longer useful.

It would always end this way, with your death at the very culmination. You were just another loose end that needed to be dealt with.

“... it was never personal.”

You habitually wobbled on the precipice of life and death. Between luck of the draw and the short end of the stick. Firm-footed at its edge at the very last second. Death had been elusive to you once. A mercy neither given nor received. But now, you saw the margins of error permitted in between. You barely felt the bullet as it struck through your chest. Scarlet bloomed beneath your fingertips, stained your skin like overripe raspberries. Shedding liquid dripped onto the ground in splatters. A contrast of color that was vibrant against the mellow pigmentation. There it burgeoned under the sun, roses and scarlet sage. Sarcodes and carnations. Bouquets and garlands, a gathering of plucked lifeblood. Your knees buckled as your body went slack and you collapsed to the ground. Clutching at your lower chest, you grimaced at the excruciating pain of a deep-seeded wound. The bitter taste of a sob was on your tongue. But you swallowed it down, let it simmer out as the coppery taste overpowered both the bitterness and the saltiness in your mouth.

You could only lie there on the dirt, bleeding and exhausted. Supine in your own pool of blood, your eyes to the sky. Watched the seagulls glide in and out of your vision carried by the oceanic winds and the clouds floating above you. Blood swarmed in your mouth. Your respiration stuttered, uneven and wheezing with every breath rattling your ribcage. Dirt and gravel shifted as heavy footsteps approached you, stopping inches away from where you lay. You turned your head, letting it loll to the side. Wanting to look out to the horizon in the distance. The boots in front of your face moved. Feet planted next to your head instead, giving you a clear view of the sight over the cliffside. He was quiet as he stood next to you, looking out the horizon like you were. But you felt his eyes glance down at you every so often. Waiting for your last breath.

There was a strange comfort there with him by your side. As a bedside presence, as company as death creeped in. Nobody wanted to die all alone. And at least a man such as Adler had the decency to stay. But underneath the solace, there was a hard truth. The realization that he only wanted to make sure that you died. That all loose ends were gone.

You knew as well as he did that death would eventually come. He had aimed for a quick kill, a merciless end to not prolong your suffering. But your fast draw of your pistol from your side as you mirrored his action. Moved just slightly with your unholster as you stared down each other’s gun barrels. But it was enough for him to miss his mark. Only for the shot to hit your chest instead of your head where Adler initially aimed. Now you would suffer, your own doing you supposed. Self-afflicted in a last ditch effort to live. Or rather take him down with you. Together, to the depths of hell. Tit for tat; quid pro quo.

The sound of metal clicking above you of an adjustment of a pistol. You took as much of a stable breath as you could, expecting another gunshot to come. To quicken your death, take you out of your misery like putting down a dog. All to finish what was already started. But no shot rang out, instead the pistol was holstered to his side and buckled around his thigh. You were not worth the waste of another bullet it seemed. You felt his eyes stray from the horizon, down to you. You heard him let out a deep, weary sigh. After your bloodied coughs sent blood droplets onto the ground next to his boots. Your chest heaved and you gasped out aloud for air, like you were being submerged. Head pushed underneath the frothy surface. Drowning in your own blood. Your body had accepted death, but your soul refused to rest; psychosomatic prodromes. A restlessness that couldn’t be overcome.

Fighting still, even in your death throes.

“Sleep, Bell.”

A whisper on the wind, a ghostly graze along your cheek of a feigned loving touch. One last command, one last instruction.

Whether you knew it or not, unconsciously or consciously, you heeded those words. Your eyes fluttered close like butterfly wings as you started to go limp, letting go of it all. The horizon began to fade in your blurring sight. And soon after, you lost all feeling. The cold winds against your skin, the sounds of lapping waves and the taste of brine and blood — they were nothing to you now. Clutched in the cold grip of death. Where a frostbite numbness overcame you like you were plunged in a tub of ice. Doused in freezing water. Senseless and insensible. Capitulated. Your life was beyond you now. Below, where the cliffside stretched down towards the sea. To the ebb and flow of turbulent waters.

Blue. Dark blue.

The color of Adler’s eyes. One of his favorite genres that played on the radio. The complexion of a corpse. The quadrangle that held fifty stars on the national flag. The color of solitude so cold. The expanse of water as it swallowed you whole. Body tossed over the edge, lost to the sea. Paths intertwined now to be untangled for good.

Here, on this heroic day, you dreamed a dream.

In your brain’s oscillations of replayed memories, a last recall of life events just before death.Of a life not merited. Of a life lost to you. One that was never yours to take. You lived a false life in a world that was falser still. Enraptured by the being of your damaged brain. Deluded, deceived. How it comforted you with vivid illusions of the intangible of your own life in the haziness of hoary dreamscapes. Influenced by your capture, shaped by the man you should loathe. But instead who you found comfort in. You only made it easier for them to erase you, for him to manipulate you. The beginning and the end; the end to your beginning.

The ‘what-ifs’ and ‘should-haves’ all but questions gone unanswered. A mirage in a desert, right before reality set in when you looked too close, got too close. The sounds of your children laughing, their arms around your waist. Clinging, attached to the hip. Their cries to you when they had nightmares. And your consolation afterwards. Adler in the doorway. Watching, always watching you. Sharp eyes that found yours. In the gap of the evidence board when you were out of line of sight. He kept you close. Right under his thumb. The feel of Adler next to you, on you, inside you. Flesh to flesh, skin on skin. Lips to yours. Scars shown, souls bared. Fates so intertwined, so interlaced with each other, that neither of you knew where you ended and he began. But such deep ties needed to be severed. For his own good more than yours.

And here, on such a heroic day, the complexity of the mind was incomparable to the simplicity of the heart.

Beloathed, behated, betrayed, yet still beloved; dearly in life as in death. Heartbroken, heartsick. Disheartened. A heart that beat against contused ribs. Flames of love buried beneath ash and cinder which laid still your tender heart. But there were no asphodel fields to bury you. No tombs to house your remains. You had no headstone, no eulogy, no mourners to mourn you. No church bells in the distance. Only you, to mourn and grieve for what you never had. You would be the unspoken, the redaction. Another lost and forgotten file in the archives. No one would ever know. You would never be known or remembered. Removed from all historical accounts. Blacked out, scratched out of the records.

To Adler, you were a temporary asset. To Perseus, you were a traitorous rat. And to you? Who were you in the eyes of yourself? You thought you knew once. Even when your memories were but sand grains in the cusp of your palms. Although you felt more ghost than human, watching as the world went on without you. You were nothing but an echo of a heartbeat from a long dead heart. Where life was not for you. Never was for you. Such life was beyond you now. Where the planes of reality and dreams had collided. You were never anything more than what you needed to be. What you needed yourself to believe yourself to be. For such a life, for a family. For Adler by your side, was only conjured by a midst of madness. A madness you had thought another found beautiful. But it only made you a liability. Your brain trauma, your memory loss, your identity crisis; it was the only guarantees you knew about yourself. A byproduct of a supposed life of soldiering and espionage. Self-sacrifice. The same thing that Adler drilled into your head. It had always been for the greater good. He prepared you for this. For your eventual end. So here, it was reaped and sowed.

Here, on this heroic day, there remained only a revered silence.

For a dead dreamer and a sullied dream.

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A/N:

Critique welcomed and encouraged as long as it is constructive and polite (don't be rude/mean pretty please ◡̈ ).

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