and without fail, she was always the one to initiate.

he loved that part of her. that desire that seared through her veins. the way her voice trembled as she asserted her needs. the flicker of a flame in her stare, framed by those eyelashes that left him weak.

whether it was 6:36 a.m. or 10:12 p.m., he was down for it. as long as she received that sweet, sweet, euphoria.

after all, sebastian vettel was never one to tell his woman no.

not when his woman was a grammy nominated, world renowned, triple platinum indie artist.

well, she loathed that label. despised every aspect of it.

you see, his love bug didn't really like being placed in a box. she mentioned to him that it felt like a cage, where she couldn't express herself freely. she preferred to remain ambiguous, crafting melodies to fit whatever was her on mind that day.

sometimes it was anger, furious ballads with heavy synth instrumentals and distorted shouts. often times it was the whisper of melancholy, laced with a nostalgia that you couldn't quite place.

like walking through your childhood home, fingertips running along your bedding, recollecting that nothing will ever be the same again.

yet, it was her voice that really tugged at his heart.

if she was a siren, he was a sailor, entranced and allured by her call.

and fuck, was he ready to risk it all.

it's the rustling of sheets that pull him out of his slumber, cool air slithering up his legs.

blearily, a hand rubs his left eye, the words rumbling from the base of his throat, thick with exhaustion.

"going to write, bug?"

she hums, her weight shifting so that the bed dips.

"mhm. i won't be long. i just had this dream and i need to get it out before i lose it."

that was one boundary he never crossed.

if she wanted her solitude, then he let her have it.

after all, he couldn't bring himself to disturb her creative process.

however, the warmth of her palm as it connects with his neck signals that maybe she didn't want to go downstairs alone.

her touch is light, tender as fingertips trail along his jaw, trailing over his lips, descending down to his chin.

between his thighs, he feels the rush of blood as it pumps through his veins.

"careful," he murmurs, the word dripped with his accent, "you may not get much writing done if you keep that up."

"what if i wanted you to come with?" lips graze his earlobe, breath fanning against tousled rays of sunlight, "come down with me, lover boy."

it doesn't take much for him to wake up after that.

donning a faded t-shirt and sweats, he pads down the stairs, noting the sway of her hips with every step, cotton pants hanging loosely, inky lines of her tattoos barely visible.

in her grasp is her journal, the leather binding torn and tattered, corners of loose pages poking through. her hair is thrown up, just enough so that it is out of her face as she writes.

in the low light, he catches the birth mark behind her ear, jaw clenching.

fuck, was he riled up.

she tended to have that effect on him.

often.

her spell was so powerful that even the slightest glimpse of her dazzling grin had his knees buckling. the tiniest whisper of his voice had him spiraling, clutching his chest to contain his rampant heart. and when she experimented with fashion? there were some days in the garage that he had to remind himself where he was.

sometimes it was so bad that kimi threatened to blindfold him so that he didn't make those "disgusting goo goo eyes."

of course, sebastian would tease that it would amp him up even more.

the door knob clicks, notifying sebastian that they made it to the recording studio. it was a simple setup in the basement of her home: microphone stand, bass, and various percussion instruments strewn about. her keyboard was tucked away in the corner, amps lined up neatly beside it.

the booth and production were separated by a layer of drywall, constructed by her father himself. there was a window, along with every possible apparatus and piece of equipment she could dream of hooked up in its own organized fashion. there were a few chairs on the production side, reserved for a select group of people.

sebastian, her best friend, margo, and lukas, her producer. however, they preferred the term visionary partners.

"seb," her voice floats from the other side of the wall, angelic, "can you switch on the computer? i need to make sure i get these demos saved."

"of course."

leaning over the motherboard of dials, switches, and buttons, he flicks on the computer. the tower whirs to life, screen illuminating the dim space.

"what do you want to me pull up, bug?"

"pull up that software lukas downloaded last night. i want to try it out. i'm feeling loose tonight."

at that, the corners up his lips twitch into a smile, fingers clicking the mouse. swaying to his left, he flashes a thumbs up.

"i'll hit record whenever you're ready."

"just a few more minutes," she replies, the sound of scribbling echoing off the walls, "i need to think."

"well don't overdo it," leaning back in the chair, his gaze settles on her through the glass, "that pretty head of yours might combust."

"i promise i won't," she deadpans, and he can make out the hint of a scoff, "you worry too much."

"i always worry about my little einstein," fighting a yawn, he props his chin up with a hand, "take as long as you need, bug. i'll be right here."

minutes pass before her head pokes around the door frame, headphones in her grasp, "okay, i'm ready."

"all right," nodding, sebastian scoots over to the keyboard, hand floating above the mouse, "the stage is yours, love bug."

sliding the headphones on, she gives him a thumbs up, notifying him that it was time. sebastian's index finger applies pressure, the key clacking.

as she leans into the microphone, her voice spills from her diaphragm, tantalizing as it drifts into his ears. it's haunting, aching with a softness that sweeps him off his feet, this longing sensation unraveling in his chest tenfold the moment his eyes take in how the light dances across her features.

nothing scared him. not even the dread that filled him to the brim as he braced for impact. not even the skid of tires as the car sailed across wet tarmac, struggling to find grip. not even the fumes of smoke as engines failed, the various buttons and levers drained of their power.

one thing did, though.

and it absolutely terrified him.

the one thing sebastian vettel feared most was the idea of never being able to watch her perform ever again.

it was paralyzing, the fibers of his muscles straining as the thought bubbled to the surface from time to time. it was fleeting, only coming to fruition every now and then.

but it was enough to leave sweat pooling in his palms, jaw wound so tight that it left his neck searing.

so, that is why any time she sent the invitation, he graciously accepted it.

because why skip out on the opportunity to watch the person you adored more than anything do what they loved most?

blinking, the german's head swivels over to the clock on the wall.

the time read 1:47 a.m.

although she said it wasn't going to be long, from the way she sounded, voice raw and unfiltered, it was going to be another few more hours in the studio.

thank god for the mini fridge stocked with red bull.

not that sebastian minded watching anyway. she was in her zone. where she was most vulnerable, finding that flow state that sent adrenaline crashing throughout her being like tidal waves.

he often found that she was most ethereal in this state. a divine goddess confined to this mortal state.

and perhaps he was under her spell, completely and utterly hypnotized, separated by a thin layer of glass, paint, and insulation.

his own private concert, spanning all hours of the night.

fuck, was she gorgeous.

fuck, was she absolutely stunning.

and fuck, she was his.

all his.

his love bug, no one else's. and here he was, able to just watch for as long as he wanted. to study every little thing until it was ingrained in his memory, stored away to fantasize and dream about any time he wanted.

as he suppresses a groan, the german can't help but glance down at his pants, swallowing thickly.