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imnotshua · 3 days ago

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as seen on screen | jww (part 1/3)

٠࣪⭑ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem reader ٠࣪⭑ summary: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say. ٠࣪⭑ genre: coworkers au. smut (eventual), angst, enemies to lovers ٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i’ll block you. ٠࣪⭑ chapter warnings: drinking, swearing, smoking, reader and wonwoo do not like each other, mentions of revenge p*rn (stranger vs wonwoo) ٠࣪⭑ smut contents: catch ‘em at it in part 2/3 if you think i’ve forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post! ٠࣪⭑ wc: 7.8k ٠࣪⭑ a/n: currently hating myself for splitting this but my kids’ school holidays are nearly over and i can see the light. chapter 2 will be released 6th september. ٠࣪⭑ written for: the Lights Out collab hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕

Maranello, Italy

“Jeon Wonwoo,” you say, reaching over the conference table to shake his hand. It’s cold. “Welcome to Ferrari.”

The others in the room echo your sentiments. Edoardo had sent his excuses, skipping out on talks of sponsorships and marketing in favour of meeting with the engineers to discuss progress on next season's car. That leaves the Deputy Team Principal, Anselm, and you as Head of Communications running the show. It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last.

There was no point voicing concerns over your relationship (or lack thereof) with Ferrari’s new driver– you know fine well in this job you often have to grin and bear it. Though you’d hoped that your old adversary in the paddock would’ve learned that too, by now. It’s no surprise he didn’t like you from the start. Few did, after all, especially when they learned who your father was. But your paddock days are behind you, and most drivers you had run-ins with since you’ve moved up the ranks in Ferrari have long forgotten your printed transgressions against them, recognising that it’s just part of the job, never anything personal. Not Jeon Wonwoo. No, he knows how to hold a grudge.

The meeting goes as it always does as the beginning of the season looms– articles, social media posts, press agreements. You wonder how Wonwoo will handle the spotlight Ferrari demands. His lack of drive to perform outside of his contractual obligations has been an issue before, at Williams and Alpine. You suspect the once rumoured deal with Mercedes fell flat because of it. It won’t fly here. “Moving on to our green initiative,” you say. “We’ve made a commitment to reduce our carbon footprint, and I really hope you’ll all honour it in your downtime too– we’re avoiding flying private for the foreseeable future.”

There’s a chorus of groans from around the table.

“I knew you’d all hate it.” Your lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, no one’s making you fly RyanAir. We’ll have you in first or business where we can.”

Wonwoo is frowning. “I’ve got a personal commitment in Paris straight after–“ he starts.

“The wedding after the Italian GP,” you interrupt. “I know the timing is tight. We’re already looking into other options for you.” Wonwoo leans back in his seat but his shoulders still hold the tension. “It’s not set in stone, if we can’t make something work then private can still be a last resort, but let’s not abuse it the way we have been.”

The meeting wraps up shortly after and everyone makes to leave, but you call Wonwoo’s name, asking him to stay for a few more minutes. Mingyu, his manager, lingers too.

You wait until the room is cleared, until you sigh, pull out a tablet from your bag, open up an email chain and slide it across the table. Wonwoo’s eyes narrow as catches his name in the subject bar.

“A few of our sponsors have some concerns,” you say. A euphemism if there ever was one. Wonwoo’s lack of patience for the media circus is no secret. He swears in interviews, he gives short, clipped answers, he’s occasionally outright rude. The sponsors don’t like it. It doesn’t matter that he’s a clean racer, that he wins often despite shit cars and shit conditions, doesn’t matter that he plays well with his team. Nothing matters when he’s not commercial enough.

There’s a look on his face you can’t decipher, and this is what the people who don’t like cite as the reason. Too guarded. Too quiet, even in those sudden bursts of anger after a bad race. The only times you’ve seen him smile is when he’s on the podium. It’s a wonder his old teams had anything nice to say about him, but evidently they did otherwise Edoardo would never–

“What do they want from me?” Wonwoo’s jaw ticks as he keeps his eyes trained on the tablet in front of him.

“A softer image,” you say plainly. “More time in the paddock, a friendlier face for the press, let your fans take pictures in the street, an editorial or two, be more open with Netflix, let them see who Wonwoo really is.”

“My personal life is private–” he says, voice clipped.

“Yes–” you interrupt. “We know fine well how hard you work to keep everyone out.”

“Okay–” interjects Mingyu. “I think we can make a compromise here.” Wonwoo nearly snaps his neck to stare at him, but Mingyu is looking at you. “What if we create something new for the hounds. Some false storylines, a new persona–”

You hold up a hand to stop him. “First off, the hounds? Let’s not forget my background, Mingyu–” You’re interrupted by a scoff from Wonwoo, and you narrow your eyes at him. “Second, they can smell a rat a mile off. If you come out this season with an entirely different personality and you’re suddenly an open book, not a single person on earth will buy it. Not to mention– can you tell a lie with a straight face? It’s hard enough getting anything print worthy out of you. Can you remember all the little details you’d need to falsify to fend off people who’ve learned everything they possibly can about you?”

Mingyu chews on the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo scowls. “This is bullsh–”

“That’s enough,” you snap. “Quite frankly I don’t know how you’ve gotten away with doing the least you possibly can for all these years, but it’s not going to work here, and it won’t work with me. If you want this contract beyond your first year, you can suck it up.”

The look he gives you is ice cold. You heave an exasperated sigh.

“Just start small, give a little here and there.”

“How small?”

“We’ll start with a magazine. There’s a number that want you or Charles– I’ll speak to Jeonghan and go over the options to find the least offensive hound.”

Mingyu laughs nervously, and Wonwoo shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Sounds good?”

“Sure. Fine,” mutters Wonwoo.

“Good.” You don’t wait for anything else before you’re standing, collecting your things and making to leave. You’ve got a call about Charles’ next editorial in five minutes– thank God he’s easier to work with. “Mingyu, speak to Inès to schedule a meeting with PR on Friday?”

“Yep, no problem,” he says, making a note on his phone.

You’re just about to walk out the door when Mingyu calls your name, and you turn, expectant. There’s a long pause. A heavy look between him and Wonwoo.

“Yes?” you prompt.

“Can I speak with you ten minutes before the meeting?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’d like to touch base on a couple of things going on in Wonwoo’s–uh– personal life. We should discuss it privately.”

You cast your eyes over to Wonwoo, who is staring pointedly out the window.

“Sure, call my direct line or come to my office, whatever’s convenient.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The rest of the week flies. Countless meetings, endless calls, pouring over documents and emails and making sure the departments don’t put anything stupid into words. You’re invited to speak at a conference in a few months in Japan, you’ll be mid-season and swamped, but Inès can figure out the details. You’re just finishing a call with a sponsor when Mingyu knocks your half-ajar door. You wave him in and he closes the door behind him.

“Must run now, Stephen,” you say into the receiver, motioning for Mingyu to sit. “Give my best to your lovely wife, and the kids!”

You heave a sigh as the line clicks off, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Watch your girlfriend around that one. The sponsorship lead from Shell. Chases any woman under the age of forty.”

“Uh– yeah, I will,” says Mingyu slowly. “You okay?” He doesn’t look any less concerned when you wave him off, but he lets it go anyway. He seems nice, this manager. Younger than expected but by all accounts he and Wonwoo are a good fit, and that matters in this game. “Actually girlfriends are what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

“I don’t give out relationship advice,” you deadpan.

“Not mine,” he says. “Not even Wonwoo’s really. His ex.”

You have little patience for drivers and their relationship woes. It seems Mingyu can see it in the way you level a look at him, because he dives right in.

“She’s famous, back home, at least. I don’t know if you know much about idol culture but they’re not supposed to date. It doesn’t look good. She and Wonwoo kept it secret for the six years they were together.”

Six years? Six? Jesus Christ, no wonder he keeps his cards close to his chest. There’s been rumours of a secret partner, of course, since he’s never been the type to get caught taking someone back to his hotel room on race weekends, but never anything more than a whisper.

“I’m failing to see how any of this is Ferrari’s problem?”

Mingyu wrings his hands together. The pink on his cheeks deepen.

“Well, she left Wonwoo for someone else, you see. Eight months ago. And now they’ve split up too, it turns out he’s in possession of some– uh–”

“Some what?”

“He’s got some– some compromising photos. Of Wonwoo. And her.”

Fuck.

“Explicit?”

“It’s possible,” admits Mingyu. “The threats were vague, apparently.”

Great. Just great. You’re going to kiss Charles on the forehead for being heaven sent when you see him. Wonwoo has been here five fucking minutes and already there’s a mess to clean up.

“Her name and management company?”

Mingyu slides a slip of paper over your desk. You recognise the name, but you can’t picture her face.

“The boyfriend? He’s famous too?”

“No. He was her personal trainer. All we know is his name and his instagram, but it’s private.”

Shit. No one to reign them in. Though sometimes it does make them easier to buy off, or to scare.

“Have you told anyone else?”

Mingyu shakes his head.

“Good. I’ll need to get legal on this too, you’ll inform Wonwoo?”

“Yes– yes,” he sighs, sounding relieved, almost. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, voice sharp. You’re already punching in your assistant’s extension. “Hi, Inès, get Gabriella for me, please. It’s urgent.”

While you wait to be patched through, you call Mingyu back as he’s walking out the door. “For the record, Mingyu– if anything like this happens again, don’t you dare wait until Friday.”

He grimaces. “Got it.”

And so because you were late while bringing Gabriella up to speed, the PR meeting ran late. There goes your afternoon attempting to catch up on your emails, so you can count your Saturday at the poolside goodbye too. Thanks very much, Jeon Wonwoo.

He doesn’t look at you once during the meeting. Keeps his eyes trained on the powerpoint Jeonghan put together for Wonwoo and Charles.

“We’ve scheduled a few things for both of you before the start of the season,” Jeonghan, your team manager, says. “Namely, for you, Wonwoo, since you’ll have to catch up to Charles’ level of commitments. You’ll find the first few are already on your calendar. The first of which is with Esquire. It’s in London next Thursday.”

“We have the three of you on the six-twenty AM flight from Pisa,” says Inès. “You’ll be flying out of Heathrow two days later for Melbourne.”

Wonwoo nods, but Mingyu is the one to speak. “We’ll have someone from the team with us, then? For guidance?”

Jeonghan looks to you, as do the rest of your team. This is where you do your job best, after all. Knowing the angles the drivers could be hit with is what you were scouted for in the first place.

“That’ll be me,” you say. “Jeonghan too, he’ll be in London beforehand for another project.”

Wonwoo’s expression hardly changes, but anyone can feel the shift in the air. Anyone can tell he’d rather the ground swallow him up.

“I’ll fly out with you so we can prepare on the way. It’s regrettable that we can’t touch base beforehand, but my schedule’s very suddenly jam packed.” Mingyu shifts in his seat. “Jeonghan, can you make sure Wonwoo has some guidance notes by Monday?”

Jeonghan nods, jots it down in his diary.

You clasp your hands together. “Charles, you’re in Paris next week?”

“Yeah,” he says. Offers a winning smile. “Finally got locked in with Celine.”

“Have I told you you’re a Godsend, lately?”

You don’t miss the way Wonwoo rolls his eyes.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’ve always liked airports. The shopping, the little samples they throw in every time you buy a perfume, the people watching. You’ve specifically always liked airport lounges. You’d hoped to slip in unseen, find a corner to relax in with your double espresso, and at least get through a chapter of your book before work takes over again. But it’s unusually crowded and it’s hard to find a seat alone. It’s not to be though, because it’s five-fifteen in the morning and your name is being called by Mingyu from across the airport lounge. Let alone someone who’s hated your guts for the better part of a decade. Fuck fuck fuck.

It’s evident that Mingyu and Wonwoo are stark opposites, where one’s sunshine smile is offered up at a mere grumbled hello, the other can’t even be bothered to open his eyes. Wonwoo has his head tipped back in the chair, the brim of his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes, arms folded. You take the only spare seat on the row, next to Wonwoo.

“You’re not a morning person, either?” asks Mingyu, from Wonwoo’s other side. “I could barely get my boy out of bed earlier.”

“I’m fine,” you say stiffly. The last thing Wonwoo would want is to have anything in common with you, never mind how true your lack of personhood before ten-AM may be. “Just had a late night.”

“Working?” Mingyu asks sympathetically.

“No rest for the wicked,” you sigh.

And maybe your tired eyes deceive you, but you swear you see the corner of Wonwoo’s lips twitch up.

Mingyu talks too much, as it turns out. He chats incessantly about the schedule, the notes Jeonghan drew up for Wonwoo, the plans he’s made for dinner in the city (and would you like to join them? Uhh-), and tells stories about the few times he’s been to London in the past. He’s lovely, really, but you’ve got thirty minutes before your flight and you can barely get your body into gear as it is.

“Mingyu,” you interrupt. “I’m so sorry but I’ve got to catch up on some emails now.”

A lie, but your brain is melting.

His sweet smile falls for a second. Bless him. “Right, of course, sorry!”

You pull out your phone and your earbuds. All you’re doing is playing a match three game, but what Mingyu doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Later, on the plane– you find that Inès, in all her wisdom, has booked Wonwoo’s seat next to you instead of Mingyu. The look he gives you as you double check your seat number is all disdain, so as soon as the aisle quietens, you get up to see if Mingyu wants to switch, but you find him fast asleep, cap pulled low over his face.

“Thought he was a morning person,” you murmur under your breath as you ease back into your seat, and you swear you hear Wonwoo huff a laugh, but you look over and he appears to be as fast asleep as he was before. Whatever. You’ll give him (and yourself) an hour before you have him going over notes. Sleep comes too easily.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You dream of a blur of cars, the smell of rubber on tarmac, flashing cameras, and dizzying heat. You are twenty-one and freshly broken. Wonwoo pulls off his helmet, triumphant smile splitting his face. He turns, meets your eyes across an ocean of people trying to reach him. You hardly know each other yet, but he’s looking at you. For you, maybe.

London, UK

The first bump of tyres on tarmac jolts you awake, and the panic that sets in is like that dreadful feeling of realising you’re late for work. Brings you right back to your first year on the job, when the sleepless nights would have you zombified throughout meetings, and you’d have imposters’ syndrome for the months on end.

Your dreams are all half-formed memories lately. Strange that it was about Wonwoo’s first podium, but you draw that up to this week being taken over by his image regeneration campaign, and it probably doesn’t help that he’s right next to you, book in hand, glasses he so rarely wears these days slipping down his nose.

“You talk in your sleep,” he mutters, turning a page. He’s reading Strange Houses, and it’s on your list. If it were anyone else you’d ask them about it.

“Could’ve woken me,” you complain, pushing yourself up to sit properly. “We’ve lost valuable time getting you ready.”

“Mingyu and I have already gone over your orders,” he says flatly.

You frown. “Guidance from PR is something you’re going to have to get used to at some point.”

“Guidance is a funny way of putting it when it’s dictating my life.”

“This isn’t the military,” you snap. “But it is part of the job you signed up for. You want to race? Well, you’ll need to put that pretty face to work too. This is what your sponsors want, and they are how we’re all paying our bills.”

Wonwoo opens his mouth to retort but words seem to fail him. Your face is flushed. You’re tired, you’re embarrassed to have been caught sleeping, you’re irritated, and on top of that you realise you’ve just called him pretty. For God’s sake.

“A friend at Esquire has already sent the questions for you over,” you say, smoothing the wrinkles out of your shirt. “Let’s go over some preferred answers in the taxi.”

“Are we supposed to have that?”

“It pays to have connections,” you say shortly.

Wonwoo frowns, says under his breath– “don’t I know it.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tomorrow is the photoshoot (you’d insisted Wonwoo be well rested before he’s photographed at all) but this afternoon is blocked out for the interview. Thank God they gave you Bridget at your request, one of your oldest friends from your first magazine. One of the few who didn’t give a fuck that you were only there because of your silver spoon. Didn’t care that you were barely nineteen in a senior reporter's position and on an undisclosed salary. ‘Nepotism is unavoidable,’ she used to say, cigarette in hand. ‘May as well use it.’ You haven’t seen each other in person in a few years but you always had time for each other on the phone. She has tight hugs and cheek kisses for you, and handshakes for Mingyu and Wonwoo.

She meets the three of you in a suite at The Corinthia, the penthouse of which will be used for the shoot tomorrow. Serves high tea, with little crustless sandwiches and scones and tartlets that go untouched by everyone but Mingyu. You pour yourself and Bridget a glass of champagne. Wonwoo opts for water. This room doesn’t exactly scream Jeon Wonwoo, but who the hell knows what does?

“We’ve met before, actually,” she says brightly to Wonwoo. “Though I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

“I do,” he says, quietly. Awkwardly. “It’s been a long time.”

You roll your eyes and pray this isn’t going to be like pulling teeth.

The questions start easy enough, but Wonwoo remains stiff and closed off. He gives little more than two sentence answers, and you can see the way Bridget is trying to dig deeper without scaring him off. These are questions about work, for fuck’s sake, you’d think it would be simple to bring out some passion in him, but he looks like he’d rather be talking about the way paint dries. Jeonghan enters the room quietly mid-interview, and you wave him over to sit next to you.

“How’s it going?”

Ha– how’s it going? It’s like pulling teeth. It’s boring, flat, comes off like he thinks he’s too good for this.

“Wonwoo is his usual self.”

“And how are you settling in at Ferrari?” Bridget asks. “We heard from Charles that you haven’t spent much time together yet.”

This was one you went over. It’s not unlike a magazine to twist words to pit drivers against one another. Anything for a little drama. Bridget is particularly good at that, as were you.

“Charles is great,” Wonwoo says simply. “He just has his schedules and I have mine. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other properly once we’re on the road together. And everyone at Ferrari has been very welcoming. I’m really lucky to be part of the team.”

“And what about working with your old nemesis?” Bridget asks, mischievous eyes darting towards you. This is part of why you love her. She usually toes the line where you’re concerned, but occasionally has something up her sleeve.

Wonwoo stares at her. “I don’t have a nemesis.”

“Well, sure, it’s been a while. But we all know that article didn’t shine you in the best light, and those snubbed attempts at interviews in the paddock afterwards left a sour taste in everyone’s mouths. Are you telling me it’s been all sunshine and roses working under your Head of PR?” Bridget winks at you and you suppress a smile. She’s the devil. “Word on the street is she’s a tyrant.”

“This is all starting to feel very tabloid,” whispers a concerned Jeonghan.

“Relax,” you whisper back. “She’s only saying this to wind me up. It won’t end up in print.”

Wonwoo doesn’t seem to know how to answer, eyes flicker over to Mingyu, to Jeonghan (not you), but Bridget thankfully takes pity.

“Speaking of schedules, with Charles working with Celine, we’re all wondering what we’ll see from you. Is there anything exciting coming up for you this season?”

“Not sure I can give the game away so soon. You’ll have to ask the tyrant in PR, I’m afraid,” quips Wonwoo, and it’s the first time in years that you’ve heard a hint of humour in his voice.

Bridget laughs gleefully, and from then on the interview goes just that little bit smoother. You’ll take whatever you can get.

Thirty minutes later, you’ve said your goodbyes to Bridget, and Jeonghan gently catches your elbow as you’re about to walk out the door. “Are you okay with this?” he asks. “Being called a tyrant? It might not land how we hope it will.”

You remember how things used to be. How drivers used to scowl as they caught sight of you in the paddock, how Wonwoo in particular avoided you ever since that one article came out. Your reputation for kindness was in the pits then, but working alongside them changed their view of you. Now your experience in journalism comes in more helpful than they’d like to admit, and despite your history, most of them have come to like you. And the worst thing your team have to say is that you make them work. So, what’s a little bad press for the public eye?

“Sure,” you say with an unbothered shrug. “It’s better for me to be the bad guy than Wonwoo. This is good. For once it’ll come off like he has a sense of humour, and it’s about time he showed some personality instead of coming across like a stuck-up assh–”

And at that moment, Wonwoo brushes past you. “Excuse me,” he says tightly.

Mingyu gives you a small, flat smile, and follows him out the door. Great.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The rest of the day is a simpler affair. You take five minutes to touch base with Inès on the schedule for Melbourne, and have her chase your team for the KPIs on recent campaigns, while Wonwoo and Mingyu disappear off to do whatever they have planned. Bridget calls and asks if you’d like to catch up later over a drink. (You would. She’ll meet you in Velvet, the hotel bar, for cocktails and music and conversation.) You and Jeonghan eat together in your hotel room while going over requests from brands, and finally, after what feels like an age, you take yourself down to the bar earlier than necessary with your book, in the hopes of finally getting a moment’s peace before the musicians start.

Unfortunately, barely five minutes goes by before Mingyu finds you, sliding onto the elegant sofa opposite your armchair. ‘Unfortunately’ sounds mean. He’s one of the few managers you’ve taken a liking to, but you were really really hoping for some alone time. It’s only after he says “Do you mind if we join you?” that you notice Wonwoo hovering behind him, an expensive looking camera dangling from his neck, annoyingly polished for so little sleep, and you can’t tell if he’s waiting for an invitation or looking for an excuse to leave.

“You do photography?” you ask, a false smile plastered on your face. If he can’t fake it in public for the sake of reputation, you certainly will. It wouldn’t do to have anyone think there’s bitterness within the team, especially in such early days.

“I dabble.” Wonwoo gives nothing, but he takes a seat at Mingyu’s side. All his energy must’ve been sucked up by Bridget.

“He’s really talented,” says Mingyu.

“That’s good,” you say, slipping your book back into your bag. “We can use that–” You’re interrupted by a huff of breath from Wonwoo. “Yes?”

“Is there ever anything you don’t use?” he asks, his sharp eyes meeting with yours for the first time you can recall in forever. You don’t appreciate his tone, or the accusation, and it’s taking everything in you not to bite back as you would have done in the past.

You lean forward. “Everything is marketable. Aren’t you a whole decade into your career, Wonwoo? I would’ve thought you’d have learned that by now.”

There’s a tick in his tight jaw, and after a beat he looks away. It sends a bitter lick up your spine to know you can still get under his skin. The silence is brief but charged– at least Mingyu is there to put an end to it.

“We wanted to thank you,” he says slowly, and you catch the way he presses his heel onto Wonwoo’s toe. Wonwoo’s nostrils flair. “For your efforts with his image. And the other thing.”

This isn’t the place to discuss that. Sure, it’s discreet, and the tables are far enough apart, and the music is at just the right volume that your conversation doesn’t carry, but you never know. You take another glance at Wonwoo, who is suddenly very bothered by how his jacket zip isn’t laying right.

“It’s all being handled by the other team. I have very little to do with it.”

“Still,” presses Mingyu. “We appreciate your lack of judgement, and your willingness to– uh– to fix it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s not like we had much of a choice, is it?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to speak but the words are barely formed before your lap is full of a tipsy Bridget. She’s hugging you tight, squishing your cheeks in that awful way she did when you were a rookie, and she’s saying “God, sweetheart, I’ve missed you. When are you coming back to London? The other nepo-babies aren’t half as interesting as you.”

You grin up at your old friend. “Never if I can help it. You should come to Italy.”

Bridget scoffs. “Not for all the sun lotion in the world. I need clouds, darling.”

She clambers out of your lap with all the grace of a baby deer, and it’s only when she stands to straighten her skirt that she notices the two men sitting on the sofa facing your chairs. “Oh, hello again,” she says, shooting a pleased look out of the corner of her eye at you. “You didn’t tell me we’d have company.”

“My fault,” says Mingyu. “We stopped by unannounced. We’ll leave you to catch up.”

“Oh, don��t leave on my account,” insists Bridget. “I’m just about to drag her outside for a cigarette anyway.”

Wonwoo’s eyes dart over to you. “You smoke?”

You quirk an eyebrow, a little taken aback. “I quit. Save for one or two at a wedding, or a funeral,” you say, voice terse. “Bridget– I tell you this every time we see each other.”

She waves you off. “Everyone’s quitting like it’s fashionable. Like smoking isn’t the hottest thing they can do. I keep hoping you’ll start again.”

This job keeps pushing you and you might, you almost say, but Wonwoo is still looking at you, in a sort of surprised way. It’s not like he knew anything noteworthy about you to begin with, it’s not like your smoking matters, what’s there to be surprised about?

Mingyu is the first of the two to stand, but Wonwoo isn’t far behind. They wish Bridget well, reaffirm they’ll meet with Jeonghan for breakfast, and they’ll see you at the shoot, and say their goodnights. And then it’s just you, your old friend, and a Marlboro Red in her hand ready to be lit.

She pulls you out to the garden lounge, saying something about how she misses smoking indoors but this isn’t half bad. She doesn’t bother looking at the menu because it’s always the same. A gimlet for her, an espresso martini for you. The waiter lingers at your table a little too long, compliments your lipstick.

Bridget leans back in her chair, flicks the lighter and takes a deep drag. “He still likes you then?”

“The waiter? I’ve never seen him befo–” You’re cut off by a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Who?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink.

“Wonwoo.”

Your splutter is anything but polite, barely caught in a napkin (and thank God it was caught, your white shirt would’ve taken some damage) drawing side eyes from the others at the surrounding tables. You stare at her confused, and she stares straight back incredulously, both palms turned upwards.

“You cannot be serious, Bridget?’

She blinks, surprised. “You can’t be serious? You’ve never noticed him looking at you like that?”

The laughter bubbles out of you. “He looks at me like he despises me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did given what I said about him.”

“That was years ago.” Her face scrunches up, confused. “You are talking about that shit your dad wrote, right?”

“Well, yeah. His edits,” you say. “It was under my name, though. I still used the things he shouldn’t have told me.”

Bridget takes a long sip of her drink. You trace your finger around the rim of your glass. “You could’ve corrected him. Told him it was your nasty fuck of a father. Anyone with eyes could see he liked you.”

That dream from the plane comes swimming into vision. Wonwoo’s hair was longer, back then. You’d talked a little in the hotel bar, a few nights before the Italian Grand Prix. Nothing out of the ordinary between acquaintances– it was polite, friendly at best. He bought the first round, you bought the second. His knee knocked yours under the table, and you both apologised. He asked about the book you were reading (East of Eden), you asked what he thought of Italy. He said he liked it fine, you said you’d like to live there someday. At twenty-one, someday felt like it was unachievable, in the far off distance ever out of reach. Of course, with your connections, nothing is ever out of reach. When you said goodnight you wished him well for the race, told him you’d put money on him so he’d better come through.

And then came his first podium. The next race, his second. The next, his third. Felt like a rollercoaster that wasn’t stopping. He was untouchable. Incredible. In between races you wondered if you’d cross paths again, but it didn’t pan out that way. And then came the crash. Five cars taken out with a mistake Wonwoo shouldn’t have made. Millions down the drain. No one was seriously hurt, at least, but it was enough to knock his confidence.

A few weeks later, you found him in another hotel bar, nursing a drink alone in the corner. Didn’t object when you sat down uninvited and said thank you when you said how sorry you were to see it happen like that. Talked a little more after a few drinks. Talked a little too much, your dad would laugh later.

And then the article. You never directly quoted him, or gave the slightest hint that he was your source, but he’d read it and he’d know. You knew that when you submitted it. It was only after it was published that you saw your dad’s edits, and there was no coming back from that. Afterwards, he’d snub you during post race interviews, have his then manager arrange it so you weren’t able to get a look in, and whenever you saw each other off the track he’d turn the other way without so much as a hello.

You shrug. “We’d only talked outside of work like, twice. We weren’t friends.”

Bridget hums around her gimlet. “He would’ve been more if you’d let him. Those pictures after he won– the ones where he’s looking right at you?” You remember the ones because you and Bridget were standing right behind the photographers when it was taken. Wonwoo– so perfectly centre frame, helmet tucked under his arm, smile so wide it was blinding. A bright spot in the grey. But he could’ve been looking at anyone. “They’re still talked about.”

You scoff. She’s always trying to find romance in the wrong places.

“Sure, I can’t tempt you?” she says, pulling another cigarette from the box.

You roll your eyes, a smile teasing at the corners of your lips. “You’re terrible.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning comes too soon, and you’re dressed from the waist up for sponsor meetings (on camera. Why, God, why?) until eleven-twenty rolls around. Your call with Anselm has run over, and you should already be upstairs for the shoot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You haven’t even had breakfast. Just one pitiful coffee the Italians would spit on and the chocolate left on your pillow last night.

Jeonghan knocks on your door as you’re signing off.

“Apparently they’re– uhh– they’ve started upstairs,” he says as you open the door, snorting when he clocks your mismatching red Snoopy pyjama bottoms and black blouse. “Are you go–”

“Do not ask me if I’m going like this, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan smirks like a schoolboy. “Are you going like that?”

You jab a finger into his chest. “I will threaten you with physical violence if you test me today.”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond to that, just tucks his chin down and tries his very best not to laugh.

“Give me five minutes.”

You change in the bathroom, fix your makeup and apply a little perfume. When you’re ready, Jeonghan walks you upstairs and you fill him in with the sponsor's requests. It’ll be Jeonghan’s job to get the ball rolling with the rest of the team.

In the penthouse there’s a mass of people, noise coming from every corner, Bridget is over by the window, taking her own behind the scenes videos on her phone. She waves you over.

“Morning, darling. Are you as worse for wear as me?”

“Hmm, no I stopped after my third and had the staff help you into a taxi,” you say with a small smile. “Did you get home okay?”

Bridget purses her lips. “Well my door was unlocked this morning, but I wasn’t robbed. So that’s something.”

You look around the room, scan the faces. “No Wonwoo?”

Bridget nods toward the bedroom. “They’re set up in there.”

“Thanks.”

You find him on the bed. Sleeveless top and blue jeans, hair pushed back from his face. It’s a good look for a cover, it’ll draw people in. His eyes flick over to you when you walk in, and immediately back to the camera. After a minute you realise he’s natural. After another you realise you’re not needed for this at all. Mingyu and Jeonghan come to stand by your side, and together, you watch him move. Wonwoo barely needs direction from the photographer, knows all his angles, and the way to contort his body into lines that evoke something deeper, something like desire.

“Has he always been this good?” you hiss at Mingyu in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

“Well why the fuck has no one seen it?”

Mingyu crosses his arms. “No one’s pushed as much as you.”

Jeonghan laughs. “Mingyu, you realise he’s in for it now? She’s gonna get him on every cover she can.”

Mingyu nearly snaps his neck to look at you for confirmation, but you ignore him, because Jeonghan’s right. Your mind is already whirring and going over which would suit him best. Which writers you know would be able to pull the most from him, where you could fit more into the schedule, if you could combine race weekends with a quick shoot.

Wonwoo must be able to tell something is afoot, because he keeps looking over to watch the three of you warily. Mingyu and Jeonghan bicker either side of you, the details of which you don’t care to know because you’re now set on showcasing the man in question under a whole different light. Unfortunately for Wonwoo, sex sells, and he’s got it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Melbourne, Australia

Wednesday starts with a team breakfast at the hotel. You’ve been here a grand total of 23 hours, most of which you’ve been awake, but it’s nothing a short nap before lunch can’t fix. Jeonghan is running on the same amount of sleep, so you’ve agreed to treat the day like a relay race. You thank God for your team, thank God they’re just as good as you expect them to be.

Wonwoo’s Esquire cover won’t be out for another few weeks, so for the meantime you’ve pushed for more time with Netflix, another couple of sit down interviews, and a photoshoot by the cars with Charles. Tomorrow will be the regular media day, and with hardly any movement in the schedule, it makes more sense to get the extra bulk done today. Most of which will be done on site, at least. Less moving parts the better on race weeks. Not that Wonwoo appreciates it, but you can deal with his bitterness if it means the sponsors and the fans get what they need from him.

He sits at the other end of the table, between Mingyu and Charles. They’re talking animatedly with the engineers, and Wonwoo is making jokes, laughing so hard it scrunches up his whole face. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise from all of the people in-between you, but it’s a relief to see there’s some lightness there. It’s a shame he’s not like that naturally in the public eye, it’d make your job that much simpler. You’re watching him carefully, considering the angles you could push, when he meets your eye, and his smile fades. Shoulders sink, casts his gaze down at his plate, and his lips settle into a thin line. You’ve already heard from Mingyu how Wonwoo resents more being added to his plate. You suppress a roll of your eyes. God, if only he could make his open distaste for you a little less obvious. Not that it matters, really.

After touching base with Charles’ PR officer, Lara, watching over Wonwoo’s sit down with Netflix (terse, moody, difficult), and handing off duties with a fresher-faced-than-you Jeonghan, you retire to your room to sleep. You’re woken forty minutes later to a call from Gabriella.

“It’s worse than we thought,” she says. “The photos are out. News is already spreading in online circles in South Korea.”

“What?” you splutter. You fly up from the bed, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder so you can pull your jeans back on. “It’s bad?”

There’s a pause. “It’s pretty dark. Her face is half visible. Her mouth on his– uh–”

“Okay, I get the picture,” you say sharply. You feel a little bit queasy thinking about his d– “Is he identifiable?”

“His face isn’t in them, and as far as we can tell, his name hasn’t been mentioned online yet. But there’s a tattoo on his ribs, do you know if it’s been seen on him before?”

You wrack your sleep deprived brain, but nothing comes up. “I don’t. I’ll get the team on it,” you say. “How’re negotiations going?”

“They’re going nowhere. We can’t get in contact with the guy. He’s like a ghost. The number the ex had for him is disconnected, and the IG profile disappeared. We’re checking the last known place of work and the address she had for him.”

Hmm. Less than ideal.

“We’re working with the agency's legal team to fix this quietly,” Gabriella continues. “Once we’re in touch we’ll see if we can persuade him to take down the photos, but you know how fast this story can break. I’ve suggested it might be better to own it and seek justice through the system, but they’re insisting it’s not possible.”

You sigh, searching your suitcase for your Ferrari polo shirt. “We’ll ignore it for now. Worst comes to worst we could claim it’s a deepfake. I’ll contact her agency and see how they want to play it.”

“I’ll send the photos over Signal. You should know what you’re dealing with.”

Your spine stiffens. You don’t want to see those photos. That’s an invasion of privacy you can’t push past.

“I’ll go find him now,” you say. “Call me if there’s any updates?”

“Of course.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You find him in the paddock, talking to a fresh faced reporter, with Jeonghan standing to the side with his voice recorder, smiling fake like he’s trying to stave off a migraine. You hang back, shoot Jeonghan a text that just says wrap it up! office asap! and wait for his smile to slip into neutrality as he checks the notification. He rests a hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, interjects with a politeness that even the harshest critic couldn’t find fault with, and steers him to follow you in the direction of the makeshift office.

Once inside, Jeonghan sits, but Wonwoo doesn’t. He just has an insufferably confused look on his face, eyes slipping between you, who is wild eyed from lack of sleep, and Jeonghan, who shrugs. You close the door.

“Turn that off,” you say, gesturing to the mic the producer from Netflix attached this morning, but Wonwoo just stands there, brows pinched together in a frown. “What’s this about–”

You move in front of him, yank the mic pack from his belt, press the mute button, pull the cable just in case, and Wonwoo just stares at you like you’re insane.

“Do you have a tattoo?” you ask, sitting down at the table and placing his mic pack in your bag for safekeeping.

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

“A tattoo,” you repeat. “On your ribs.”

“Yes.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Some photos have been leaked. I need you to look at them, tell me if it’s you. If it isn’t, great. If it is— well, we’ll deal with it.”

Wonwoo pales, sinks into the nearest chair. “You’ve seen them?”

“No. And I won’t,” you reassure. It doesn’t look like he believes you but you press on. “I haven’t opened the message. You check them, delete them afterwards. Okay?”

He swallows thick, nods. Jeonghan looks away when you slide your phone across the table, point to the Signal notification from Gabriella, and let Wonwoo take it before looking away yourself. He holds it close against his chest like there’s eyes behind him, and his breath stutters to a halt.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Yeah– it’s me.”

You exhale hard through your nose. “Okay. It’s fin–”

“How could this possibly be fine?” he hisses.

“Does anyone know about your tattoo? Aside from your ex, and the artist, I mean.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, runs a hand along his neck. “Mingyu. My brother. A few close friends– they wouldn’t say anything. Someone I met once. In Amsterdam.”

“Please say it was a one night stand and not a sex worker,” says an exasperated Jeonghan.

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow. “The former,” he snaps. “What the fuck, Jeonghan?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Listen, man, I’m just checking. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Would they remember the tattoo?” you ask.

“I don’t know. We were both pretty out of it.”

“What about shoots?” you ask. “Paparazzi? Have you ever been photographed without your shirt on?”

“Not since before I got it,” he says.

That’s something, at least. This is fine. It’ll be fine.

“Okay– good.” You stand up. Wonwoo is wringing his hands in his lap. “We can work with this. Keep your shirt on, and stay quiet. If you need to talk to anyone about this whole thing, keep it between me, Jeonghan, and Mingyu. I’ll contact her agency now and work out a plan.”

“I should call her,” he murmurs, pulling his phone from his pocket, and your body stills.

“No you fucking shouldn’t,” you insist, a bite in your voice that drags his attention back to your face. “Not until we get to the bottom of this. Have you wondered at all how this guy got your photos in the first place?”

For the first time in years, since that night after his crash, Wonwoo looks vulnerable.

“Don’t call her, Wonwoo. You can’t.”

He leans forward on his elbows. Fists a hand in his hair. “I hate that you’re telling me what I can’t do.”

The heat flushes in your face in an instant, and you’re biting back before you can stop yourself. “You knew where I worked, Wonwoo.” Your lip curls into a snarl. “You knew signing your contract that there would be no way to avoid me. How about a little appreciation, huh? Since I’m going out of my way to fix your mess and your shitty attitude.”

On your way out the door you run into Mingyu. “He’s in there,” you grumble. “You need to get your boy in line, help him see what we’re trying to do here.”

And though nobody else knows the reason behind your soured mood, everyone avoids you for the rest of the day.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you for reading, everyone! if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging to get it seen outside of my small following. thank u ily <3

#thank u for reading <3 #fic: asos #i’m so excited to share part 2 with you! ❤️#jeon wonwoo x reader

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imnotshua · 3 days ago

Text

all for one, pt. 1: degradation

❝Heated in the car, tensions in the boardroom, but only you can make Seungcheol's temperature rise. Lights out, champion!❞

f1! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, angst | 18k

s u m m a r y : three-time world champion choi seungcheol races for greatness—even if it sacrifices red bull's constructor trophy. you, principal strategy engineer, cannot allow favouring the self-centred driver over the entire team. when a new red bull rookie threatens his position and certain rivals begin to tempt you, seungcheol must consider winning you over—a feat more difficult than a fourth championship.

c o n t e n t s (for pt. 1/3): red bull racer! seungcheol, principal strategy engineer! reader, e2l because i’m a one trick pony, cheol and reader are annoying cause i luv my problematic king and queen, red bull team are all sick of them, rookie red bull racer! jay from enhypen, mature warnings -> so much sexual tension cause i am a self-masochist, every sexual scene will be fuelled by hatred and irritation, reader is a brat, semi-public sex, hate sex oops

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : i type this in my work clothes still, running on five hours of sleep for the past two days...i fear i did not deliver the way i wished to but i hope you guys will enjoy it regardless :') thank you @camandemstudios for hosting the collab and allowing me to fuel my e2l cheol fantasies again !! hopefully i'll get pt. 2 and 3 out soon enough </3

EVERYONE IN THE PADDOCK WAS EXPECTING IT.

The moment the chequered flag waved over the first driver gliding through the final lap, fireworks erupting from the sidelines with a wave of deafening cheers, a hush fell over one garage that, in retrospect, had no need for such fearful silence.

“...and that’s a podium for Red Bull, brilliant save as expected!” the commentators declared, quickly timing the rest who followed after the driver. All praises, as expected, except for that one particular community, hesitantly agreeing.

You, on the other hand, knew what was being unsaid—that was the first spark of your agitation.

The racing engineer beside you, hunched over in bulky black headphones, peered at the screen before wrenching the headset off his ears. “I mean…it’s fine in the end, isn’t it?” he asked, searching for any essence of reassurance in your gaze. He would find none today.

It did not take long for the cause of your concern to be upon your screens again, chaos surrounding him in waves of red, the colour of Italian pride and joy as they celebrated a win for the man who beat the reigning champion.

The Ferrari racer did not bother to take off his helmet as he pounced on his teammates behind the scenes, held on by hopeful arms, the screams of the tifosi striking through the loser’s helmet, radiating in his ears till they rang like a warning.

The cameras focused on the still figure of such a man, processing the loss of first place, slipped away by half of a second. Any other driver, and the people would demand the helmet be taken off, see the loss painted on his face. No one dared ask him.

Only waited in anticipation for what would escape the certain-scowling mouth once the world caught a glimpse of him.

They managed only when he walked slowly over to the press, where the journalists nearly snapped their necks to take a glance at his stalking presence. BBC Sports were the first to brave an interview post-race. Dozens of protruding cameras instantly focused on the man as he brought his gloved hands to his decorated helmet. The blood-red sheen of Red Bull glistened in the Melbourne sun as the helmet was taken off. The white balaclava covered his features still, but there was no mistaking what curdled in the champion’s eyes.

“Congratulations on another podium, Seungcheol,” the journalist began, and you could see it on your screen—the restrained twitch of the said-man’s eyelids—no doubt suppressing an eyeroll. “Though, judging by your…well, you don’t seem too happy.”

Indeed. Seungcheol took a moment staring him down, eyes raking over his face, the mic, before peeling off his balaclava—instantly the raven locks hidden away bounced erratically around his frame, matted with sweat. “Yeah, well…the strategy let me down today.”

The racing engineer whirled his head to you, watching the same stream. He caught the sparks slowly catching fire from the words escaped on live television. “He’s saying that ‘cause he knows you’re watching,” he hurriedly offered. He was not sure he believed it.

You definitely did not. “Blaming it on the team, Jeonghan,” you muttered, feeling your temple crease from excess furrowing. Screwing up on the track is a mistake—pointing fingers is a flaw.

“And why is that?” the reporter asked, taking the bait. It made you seethe to hear it. “What specific part of strategy did you not agree with?”

“You saw the ill-timed pit stop. I was ready to squeeze out five more laps with the mediums, but insisting on a second pit stop in the middle was ridiculous.” His voice rasped more through the stream—exhausted from the race. “And then having the Ferrari undercut me because of this…in your words, I’m not too happy.”

He then threw the BBC reporter a smile which felt more like an irritated grimace. It had the driver’s engineer grimacing beside you. “Last time he did that was Bahrain.”

Not even a month ago. “Let him have his public tantrum,” you declared, sitting up from your chair, Jeonghan following your sudden movement. “I’ll see how he runs his mouth in front of me.”

“Here we go,” the man murmured, shaking his head as you left the pit wall. You would have let a curse slip at him, too, but now was not the time for inner-team tensions. The star-driver had already fanned the flames for such an event.

You stalked through the newbuild, bright-lit halls of the Red Bull garage, mechanics running back and forth, interns following closely behind as a couple cameramen flanked and recorded each speech. The red, yellow and navy-flanked compound never rested, a vessel of labour and power as dozens upon dozens of individuals enslaved themselves to the team’s victory. Nodding to each acquaintance who said your name in anticipation, a scent of slight fear marinated over the garage. Shit. This meant the comments had travelled.

And if the comments had travelled, that means the man who expelled them was nearby too.

You did not let yourself focus on that outcome. Your only objective was seeking out Jihoon—who, due to Seungcheol’s little outburst, was hiding out from the press in the depths of the paddock. The publicists surrounding him were muttering frantically within earshot, and the moment they caught sight of you thundering towards them they immediately stopped, finding solace in your shared anger.

Jihoon turned towards you, and he was already raising his hand before you could speak. “I know, I know,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit, a cue for the publicists. “You both go. We’ll handle it.”

“We’ll handle it,” you parroted, watching them leave, the two clearly relieved. “How many times do we need to fix his mess?”

The man crossed his arms, muscles tensing underneath his navy polo t-shirt, all the Red Bull sponsors on clear display. “In fairness, he’s less mouthy than last season. The only questions I got hit with today were over his refusal to pit-stop at the agreed lap.”

That goddamned pit stop. Thirty-five laps in was the agreed protocol for. Seungcheol even agreed to it, albeit begrudgingly, but he was flying across the track on the thirty-fourth lap, and he barely heard the DRS activation call before he overtook the slower Ferrari, mocking a salute to Wonwoo before setting his sights on the real opponent.

You had witnessed it all so clearly. The order from Jeonghan to box, but Seungcheol was 1.3 seconds away from Mingyu, a fastest lap time away from gaining top of the pedestal. His racing engineer warned him to take care of the tyres—no need to go batshit on the softs—but he saw the metal flesh of the Ferrari’s rear-wing, almost close enough to taste, and he could not help himself.

“Maybe if he boxed when we agreed on initially, then he wouldn’t be bitching over second,” you guttered, watching the screens as Seungcheol entered the Red Bull garage. Yes, he should not be bitching, because he drove into the pit-lane five laps too late, soft tyres fraying, and the new mediums gave up in the hunt for first-place.

Because he did not listen to you, he lost seven more points than was intended. Not just him—the whole team.

Your souring expression only had Jihoon patting your shoulder. “Box that frown, _____. You need to greet the rookie.”

Releasing your last sighs, you shot the team principal and CEO a parting glare. “If he’s there, Jihoon, just know I’m not staying quiet.”

“I didn’t think you could, anyway,” he called out, which you chose to let slide; you could not also butt heads with one of the most important men in the garage.

Down some different hallways you walked through, taking the narrow stairs which brought you to the first level of the Red Bull facility. More interns ushered past, waving in greeting to you, you smiling in return, but any menial mirth upon your face slowly faded with every step closer to the door at the end of your journey. He was supposed to be there—the door slightly ajar, you thought him already present, bracing yourself for the booming snarl that would rock the room on its stilts. No doubt he was bothering the junior publicists responsible to follow his every move post-race.

And now he will set his sights on you. Sucking in an irritated breath, you reached your hand out, pushing the door. The lights were almost blinding, accentuating the late afternoon sunlight as you took in the multiple tables and chairs, a whiteboard in the far end of the room with incomprehensible scribbles staining the surface. As you predicted, the publicists you had seen beforehand instantly shot up from their seats.

The infamous champion, however, was not there—another man, much younger, sat in between the team members. Donning the Red Bull gear, even the outer layer of the suit zipped to the neck, his dark blond locks now raked dry. His sun-kissed face turned to you, and he, too, raised from his seat, looking around to the publicists in some form of approval.

The image—and the absence of a particular sight—had you instantly raising your spirits. “Please, don’t be silly, sit, sit!” you immediately began, walking over to the table. “Look at you, Jay, first race of the season!”

The said-rookie smiled sheepishly, turning to sip water from the long straw of his bottle. “It’s not like I scored any points,” he said, glancing at the sheets spread out before him.

“Eleventh is not as bad as you think for a maiden race,” you assured him. You did not need to mention the previous second driver, Sohn Youngjae, DNFing in the first two races—you also did not need to mention whether those fumbles were his fault, or the new car. “Point is, it’s the third race. You’ll get in the top ten in no time.”

Jay wanted to thank you. He could not, however, when a certain deep, booming voice grated in your ears.

“Already preparing the replacement for the chopping block?”

It was involuntary, how your features twisted into a natural scowl. As if your body recognised the source of all agitation nearby, and prepared you for two outcomes—an attack, or defense. This time, the former would prove more useful.

Taking every ounce of your strength to do it, you slowly turned your head. Your eyes pouncing on Choi Seungcheol had the rage igniting your exhaustion.

An air of irritated arrogance misted from his suited-frame, the uniform stripped to the waist, revealing the white, full-sleeved, sponsor decorated vest. His raven curls were less sweated, finger-brushed by his restless hands, though that had disappeared as he leaned against the doorframe, observing the scene before him.

A retort was slipping out of you before you knew yourself. “No, since you screwed us on and off the track!”

He was expecting this. “I won’t be held responsible for the terrible strategy,” he said as he approached. He then mocked a ponder, and you could not help your eye-roll. “Since, let me think…you, as Strategy Engineer, created said-terrible strategy.”

“Principal Strategy Engineer, thank you. I know what my role is,” you jeered, squinting your eyes at him, “about time you learned yours too.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, and his glare meant to strike true. “It’s why I’m still on the podium despite you trying to sabotage me.”

Even Jay turned his head to you at that. Your humourless laugh had Seungcheol frowning. “You thinking that confirms my suspicions,” you chortled out, “that helmet truly isn’t protecting anything inside.”

The rookie could only watch, fearful eyes darting between his two superiors as they knifed each other down. “I’m not apologising for the interview,” the champion declared, leaning to where you sat. “Her Majesty wants Podium Pie but loses her appetite when I offer it to her.”

You scoffed.“You’ll have a right to complain when you give us a win this season.”

His jaw tightened—a stinging remark. “I’ll give you a win when you stop fucking with my races. I haven’t forgotten Bahrain.”

When the second driver began to fidget in his seat, he realised another person remained in the room. That fact, too, seemed to irritate the podium sitter. “And stop wasting your time coddling rookies,” he added, rising straighter as he stood, throwing a glance at Jay. “Focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points.”

Before you could bark back at him, he already turned his back to you—any form of conversation with him now unwelcome. “You know who you can send any feedback for me to.”

“Don’t bother pretending you’re gonna learn from it,” you sniped—an opportunity taken.

He looked over his shoulder. “So you do focus on me, then?” A ghost of a smirk plastered on his cherry lips. “Good to know you do the bare minimum in your job.”

Bastard. “How about you follow my example then and do some bloody work yourself?” You pointed towards the door. “Stop wasting my time.”

“Thought I’d return the favour,” he merely said, hands lazing on his hips. “Since you waste so much of mine on the track.”

“Oh my God, just piss off!” you demanded, and the rookie almost flinched at the shrill change of your tone.

The champion merely laughed, a heartless little chuckle which had steam churning out of your ears. “Don’t go complaining to Jihoon about my meeting absences, then,” he called as he began to leave, “I know how you don’t like to fight your own battles.”

You were going to prove him wrong when you grabbed a Sharpie from the table, hand raised to throw it at his face. With a driver’s agility he swerved out of the room, his self-satisfied humming ringing in your ears.

Jay watched you set down the marker rather harshly, taking a quick peek at the doorway once more. “I knew Seungcheol had problems with people on track, but…”

“You don’t know the half of it,” you sighed out, rubbing your temples. “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“It’s fine, really.” His hand travelled to the back of his neck, scratching a little awkwardly. “In all honesty, it’s not the first time I’ve seen you both…um…”

Your mind unintentionally wandered to all the possible moments your rookie would have witnessed—the notion that he had multiple opportunities was enough for a breath to huff from your lips. “I’m sorry,” you said, although it only held half its intended worth. “Enough about him, though. How are you feeling? Especially with the car?”

The boy paused, head hesitantly curving to different directions before quickly leaning forward, elbows propped on the table. “Well, it’s great…obviously,” he began, a calming assurance before the stormy confession. “I can feel it being faster than the RB one, but the sensitivity—” he raised his hands, fingers curling around an imaginary wheel, steering an imitation of his Melbourne drive. “It feels like I could be a tenth off a turn and crash immediately.”

Of course—the same problem predicted champion Sohn Youngjae experienced in last year’s car, the exact predicament that landed every junior Red Bull rookie stumbling behind Seungcheol in two-digit places. Everyone on the paddock sensed the issue. The question as to whether anyone was to highlight the issue was, itself, an entire issue.

“I’ve spoken about that,” you said to him, though he merely lifted his shoulders in an impassive shrug. “You don’t need to worry about it. You leave it to me.”

He snuck a glance to the door—a shadow of who thundered in and out somehow still lingering. “Seems like a lot of people are leaving it to you. I heard the papers saying it was less Red Bull, more _____ and Co. Formula One team.”

That brought a soft bout of laughter from you. “The first time the news is appealing to me,” you remarked, playing with the pen clicker. “But they’re still wrong. Red Bull isn’t what it is without its entire team…and that includes you now.” You then pointed the end of the pen towards the rookie. “Work hard, Jay, and you’ll make the podiums by the summer.”

Nodding enthusiastically, he raised his hand towards you—a personified olive branch. “Thank you,” he said in earnest. “I won’t let you down.”

You scoffed, though not maliciously. Taking his hand, you shook it promptly. “Seungcheol may not be counting on you, but I am. The whole team is.”

As the expectations settled upon him, his face morphing into a myriad of awe and pressure, you observed his will, mind wandering over his words. ______ and Co. You restrained a pride-stained smirk—if that was the impression Red Bull had left, then the publicists here needed to work overtime. Still, you could not help your ego, usually so bruised by recent results, slowly swelling from Jay’s comments. You did have many colleagues relying on you, whether they wished to admit it or not.

But it did not matter to you, because you all worked for one objective: winning the Constructor’s Championships, thus making Red Bull the dominating field in Formula One as it was before. Whether certain colleagues will allow you to complete your objective is another matter entirely.

So, as you finally let go of the rookie’s hand, you hoped that either the reigning champion learned to behave, or Jay knew how to drive.

THE RED BULL TEAM, IN COLLECTIVE MEASURE, SIGHED IN RELIEF AT THE SUZUKA CIRCUIT.

Everyone, as per usual, had their calculating, uncertain gazes plastered on the superior driver as he swerved from each sharp turn to razor-cut corners, grunting acknowledgments to his messenger at every update. The harder the track, the greater the win—nothing easy was ever rewarding, and Seungcheol craved the sweet consequences of overcoming a challenge.

The car pushed against him as he curled into the infamous Esses, turns three and four in the middle of the race. The staggering g-force threatened to stutter his lightning pace, but Seungcheol was a bullet, blasting from the cannons of Honda’s engine. Power thrummed from his veins, attached to the Red Bull vehicle, and though there were splutters of near-loss of precisions in turn eight, it did not cost him. Even with one specific strategy ignored, he gained into podium position, and by lap 40 had overtaken the aspiring McLaren, vengeful papayas in his wake to whom he merely chortled at.

It was no shock to anyone, then, when the chequered flag waved over his car first.

The garage whirled to life in a cheer, everyone around you already out of their chairs and swarming to the open paddock, where the stops were set up to position each driver as they slowed. The navy, red and yellows of your team proudly stuck like a primary-coloured beacon—first before anyone else.

You, however, strayed your vision from the winner. On the screens splayed before your now emptying desk, you observed the secondary driver surpass the Aston Martin. The battle sparked within the Casio Triangle of curves, the last difficult section in the circuit. No one expected, perhaps even cared, to see Jay surpass Alonso’s defense, but the boy swerved inside turn 18, snagging sixth place from the senior champion.

You did not understand the stillness of your body until that boy, too, earned his black and white flag. Felt the rush of relief thrum through you, realisation striking clear in your mind.

Park Jay had brought the car in the points.

The post-race interviews blurred through your conscience, time eating away the evening until you saw the podium celebrations. Seungcheol pedestalled the tallest, his champagne spray all the more glorious as it attacked Mingyu on third and Piastri in second. Still, with everyone’s eyes on the winners, you only looked at the boy walking into the garage, getting cheers from the mechanics.

You were at the scene as the most important crew scrambled to assemble for the next meeting. “Jay!” you exclaimed at the slight-sweated racer, who immediately smiled at your approach. “Fourth race and you’ve given us solid points.”

He was waving off your words, though the smile on his face was smug. “Alonso was giving me a hard time,” he admitted, weaving through the hallways with you. Mechanics had already brought the cars in, stripping the winning vehicle to analyse minor damages, any possible elements for change.

“And yet it wasn’t hard enough,” you countered, taking out a special pass and hovering it over the security reader. With a successful beep! you opened the door, and most of the team presented themselves before you, cheering emulating once they saw the driver beside you.

Jihoon, at the head of the long, white table, ushered over the newcomers, a lazy grin hanging over his mouth. “Good job, kid,” he praised, Jay dipping his head to hide what you were certain was a growing blush. “Already doing better than your predecessors.”

“Any more of this and he’ll turn redder than our bull,” you teased, which only made it worse for the boy. Chuckling, the team principal waved a finger over the empty seats, the driver sitting next to his racing engineer.

You wanted to set yourself down next to Jihoon, but he shook his head, pointing to the seat beside Jeonghan. “Seungcheol’s there…you don’t wanna sit on his champagne.”

Sure enough, the chair was drenched with prosecco—stains of his wins. “Couldn’t he have cleaned himself up a little?” you remarked. “Leaving his mess without a second thought.”

“Let him off this time,” Jeonghan said, crossing his arms as he watched you approach the free seat. “He’s given you the win.”

“He hasn’t given me anything,” you mumbled, settling yourself, hearing the door slide open. “He races for himself…not like he listens to that damned radio either.”

Just as you finished your sentence, you saw Jeonghan send you a warning glare—you understood why when you found the very man you spoke of close the door behind him, his eyes rooted to you and the criticisms fresh off your lips. Jihoon glanced between you two, waving him over. “We were wondering where you went,” he said, waving him over to his seat.

“I was gonna come earlier,” he began, still watching you as he made his way over to his champagned chair, “but I kept being stopped by well-wishers. Everybody’s just so happy for me.”

“You deserve it today, buddy,” Jihoon agreed, holding out his hand as Seungcheol sat down, then patting him on the back. “We need these wins to fend off the McLarens. Both Chan and Piastri have championship potential.”

“We, however, already have a champion in the midst,” Jeonghan declared, thumb rocking over to said-man’s direction, earning a smug smile from him.

Your sigh managed to hide most of your disdain from the team, everyone about to move on. Only one caught onto it. “Isn’t that right, _____?” Seungcheol asked, a little too loudly, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you, all plastered with confusion.

“That was last year,” you said, picking at the seam of your trouser. “You’re not leading the tables, so you’re not a champion as of now.”

His smile sharpened. “You’re the only person who thinks that.”

“Doesn’t make my thinking wrong, though.”

“Your thinking is wrong,” he immediately rebuked, crossing his arms, “which isn’t surprising, since it never really is right.”

His tone had your mouth snapping open. “Is this why you don’t bother listening to team strategy?” You matched his stature. “Think your opinion is so important it trumps a dozen people’s ideas?”

“We all know who’s leading the game plan,” he maintained, so matter-of-factly that you could not help yourself. Instantly your head threatened to burst from its body, so much agitation boiling within you it took Jeonghan holding onto your arm in due time to stop yourself from hurling at him.

Still, you snarled, “Oh, so you’re deliberately ignoring my plans?”

A dismissing look. “I never said that now, did I?”

A cutting glance right back. “You’re implying it.”

He said nothing to that, eyes lidded with snide boredom. You burned with the agitation he lacked—always a game to him, these interactions. You could tell with his leaning back in the dampened, swivelling chair, the corner of his lips, barely tugging upwards…the very image of nonchalance.

The team principal instantly jerked his head to his computer screen, clearing his throat. “Anyway…” he trailed off, fixing himself in his seat. “Results. Obviously, Cheol gained first after losing out on pole. How did you feel about the degradation during the middle laps, since you had to pit stop earlier than planned?”

“It was getting bad, to be honest, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” was the answer, the driver bringing out the tab to the Suzuka circuit telemetry. “Piastri pitting first over Chan was definitely a mistake on the McLarens’ part.”

You observed each driver’s positions through each lap on the data sheet, watching Seungcheol’s gain in positions from the papaya drivers through the ill-timed pit stops. “The mediums could have lasted longer, though,” you pointed out, pointing your pen at the downward graph on his drive line. “Jeonghan warned you about traction.”

“I was a little busy getting Hamilton off my ass on 20th,” he countered, raising a brow, “Wonwoo was about to leave the pit lane too at that time.”

“Hamilton had a failing gearbox straight after,” you argued, turning around the paper, “and your tyres were about to fly off their tethers.”

His finger pointed at a certain place on your paper. “I managed fine, didn’t I?”

You knew where he pointed—his first place position. “It’s not about where you ended up,” you insisted, setting the graph down, “it’s about following orders. What would have happened if your tyres did fall apart?”

“They didn’t, so why are you still talking about it?”

“Because I have to think about the consequences should things go wrong,” you fumed out, ignoring Jeonghan’s careful gaze. In the corner of your eye, you could sense Jay nearby, his own confused, concerned state doing nothing to satiate your anger. “You don’t think about the risks, which is why I’m the one constantly worrying about the state of our cars, and whether it’ll give us wins.”

“I’ve given you a win, haven’t I?!” Seungcheol suddenly lashed out, and you furrowed your brows. “Why are you still complaining?” He then looked around the room, glancing at every single unnerved face. “Should we not be celebrating my win today?”

When the murmurs erupted, majority agreeing with his stance, you scowled, unable to contain your heavy sigh. The racing engineer beside you shrugged his shoulders, he too joining the wave.

“He has had a comeback, in fairness,” Jihoon agreed, and that was that. Once again, the champion reigned over the room, undecided winner on the track and within this boardroom.

It was not the first time this had happened—nor, did you imagine, would it be the last.

As always, you were expected to play along. “Of course,” you faltered, deflated. You did not blame the CEO for wanting to drop the subject, but you could not help it, the irritation lingering.

This stinging, however, would soon fade when he piped up in a more positive note. “Mr. Jay Park!” he declared, focusing on the young rookie, who instantly exuded a little surprise. “Now in the points!”

The boy smiled, fixing his dampened locks. “The car was amazing today,” he began, efforting to look at everyone’s faces, filled with mirth—save for one, of course. “Yeah, the mechanics…they’ve worked really hard.”

His answer had you smiling. “You can praise yourself too, you know,” you said, glancing at the rise in position at the end of the jutting curve, the difficult 17th turn which solidified the rookie’s position. “You overtook a two-time world champion.”

“He definitely reminded me in the last three laps.” He raked a hand through his hair, thinking back on the race. “If that Aston was any faster, he would have spun me off the road.”

“You kept your cool, Jay, especially with a driver of that aggression.” You reached your hand out, whole-heartedly patting his shoulder. “You should give yourself more credit.”

His smile widened at you. “Thank you, _____.” He then glanced at Jihoon, a little more breadth in his chest. “Yeah, I’m…very proud of this result.”

“You should be,” was the man’s answer, sending him a slight smirk before focusing back on his computer screen. “Let’s say a drink after I’m done doing some paperwork? We should celebrate Cheol and Jay’s points.”

“I know a nice place nearby,” you chimed in, pulling out your phone and checking its location. “I hope everyone’s free, since today’ll mark a shift in Red Bull.” Slotting the device back in your pocket, you clapped your hands together, taking in the positive ambience of the room, which finally began to emerge. “Here’s to both cars in the points and a chance for the Constructor’s!”

A round of cheers travelled round the group, one remaining silent as he became the first to stand. As he muttered a few words to his engineer, he excused himself, mocking a farewell salute to Jihoon before departing the room. The others began to disperse too, no doubt hoping to find more celebratory champagne.

As you got up, Jay reflecting your actions, you were about to speak to Jihoon for the China plans when the former got to you first. “Hey, um,” he started, watching the rest of the team slowly leave the room, “I just wanted to thank you—again, actually,” he added right after, sheepishly chuckling, “for being so…you know.”

When you ticked your head, scrunching your brows, he made himself more specific. “I was a little scared about Suzuka, especially since there was so much pressure.” He nodded, locking in the answer. “I know Red Bull’s ‘unlucky second driver’ rumour.”

You clamped your lips together, suppressing an aww. “I mean, there is pressure. You’re in the top three teams right now,” you pointed out, “but you’re gonna prove that rumour wrong.”

“This is what I mean,” he said, holding onto your words. “You’ve been really nice about today, and I appreciate it a lot.”

“Well, of course!” You waved a hand at him. “Part of my job is to make sure the drivers are confident in the plans we’ve created.”

“Anyway…” He scratched the back of his head. “Even if people may think you’re wasting your time, coddling me or whatnot, I still wanted to thank you for being nice to me.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Stop wasting your time coddling rookies…focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points. So that was the reason behind Jay’s sincerity.

Oh, you were going to kill Seungcheol.

“Of course…” you trailed off, sending him an uncertain smile which he blissfully returned with his own sincere grin, letting you know he will attend the rooftop bar as he exited the room.

As you made your way out of the meeting room, you then thundered to where you predicted the senior driver would be residing, in a further, grander part of the Team Hub. You were certain Red Bull spent at least a third of its budget on this man’s amenities—truly, if you were to take control of the capital, maybe the second car would be capable of podiums too.

Up the stairs you went, the bottom half of the walls bathed in navy, the top reflecting a stainless-steel silver all around you. The reds and yellows never escaped you either, labels on the door indicating your way around, each engineer or mechanic’s room printed out. You reached a grand set of double doors, murmuring barely heard from behind the painted frame.

You knocked—you should have waited before entering, but the knock was sufficient warning. The man did not deserve a choice for rejecting whoever entered his room.

You deserved it, though, because once you walked inside, the sight of half-naked Seungcheol nearly rocked you to your core.

Upon a massage table he lay on his stomach, chin resting on his hands as his physiotherapist worked on the upper parts of his back, towards the muscles that connected to his neck. A white sheet stopped your sight from straying any further, and instantly you trailed back to his face, which now craned upward to shoot an irritated glance towards you.

Because the image stunned you still, he took the opportunity of your silence to retort, “Aren’t you familiar with the concept of privacy?”

His quip instantly snapped you out of your momentary daze. The only thing you could demand from him was, “Why’re you wasting your time on a massage?”

A whoosh of breath escaped him, more exaggerated to incite your vexation. “You might as well stop now, Soon,” he exasperated to his attendee, “No one’s gonna be allowed to relax anymore.”

“As if you stop bumming about when I tell you not to,” you cut right back, nodding in greeting to Seungcheol’s personal physio. “Soonyoung, next time just keep squeezing the tension in his neck till it snaps.”

The man’s mouth could have fallen to the floor in pure shock—more so when the driver spluttered out a rough laugh. “And you’re laughing?” he demanded. “I say, maybe you deserve it, judging by your reaction.”

“If _____ wants to choke me so badly, she can come here and do it herself.” He slid his head, baring his neck to you. “It’ll give you an excuse to touch me since you want me so bad.”

Your scoff had the poor medic a little concerned for your throat. “I would rather the Ferraris run me over,” you snarled. “Or I could take Jay’s car and run you over instead! Save us all the headache, no?”

“You might as well take my car then,” he quipped, settling his head in his hands, “You’ll run me over faster.”

“So you admit you’re favoured over the second driver?” You latched onto the implication, stepping forward. “I always had a feeling the mechanics took extra time tuning your car.”

“Since you’re too stupid to recognise it, I was praising the driver, not the car.”

“Oh, I know, that’s why I ignored the indication,” you jeered, crossing your arms. “It’s a miracle he’s scored points anyway, given how difficult it is to drive the RB22.”

Seungcheol’s remark was quick—cutting. “He’s not a bloody baby. His whole job is to get points.”

There—the perfect opportunity, presenting itself to you. “Hey, Soon, any chance I can speak to him alone?”

“Of course,” he said, nodding as he swiped his hands together, dusting off remnants of his client. “Though I’m scared if Jihoon asks me to collect him I’ll only see his bleeding body on the table.”

“Just know I did it for the team,” you drawled, earning a huff of laughter from the physio, and an unimpressed scoff from the champion. As the former bid his adieu, he closed the door behind him, you watching it slide shut.

With the door closed, you made yourself turn, expecting to stare him down. His eyes were already poised upon you. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable, the pressure akin to the Turn One g-force at the very circuit the man before you won in. It did not help either that he barely had any clothes on.

Not that it had an effect on you—no amount of perfectly lean muscle, dangerously curved shoulders that swell with every slight movement could change your mind about him. You made to keep your sight on his face, which had enraged you so much its objective allure had worn off completely.

That very face contorted in an arrogant dismissal. “Tryna get me alone while I’ve only got a towel to cover myself?” he provoked, slowly shifting his position. “Another one of your so-called faultless strategies?”

“Your vanity is staggering, Seungcheol,” you remarked, rolling your eyes. “I was actually trying to save face, but I suppose I should have kept an audience to humiliate you.”

A scoff through his nose. “You can try to humiliate me,” he dared, slowly swinging his leg downward, sitting up on the massage table. “What do you want?”

You decided to cling onto the lead he slipped out. “You’re suspiciously critical about that boy,” you said. “Not a single word of congrats to him when he’s one of your first teammates in a while to gain points for the team.”

He raised an incredulous brow. “That’s your issue with me?”

“Don’t try to demean it,” you opposed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “He’s already got a ton of pressure on him for needing to perform after the previous rookie failures. You being overly mean doesn’t help.”

Disbelieved, he twisted his mouth in a frown. “You’re berating me…because I’m not best friends with my teammate? The guy who’s competing with me for the Drivers’?” Then, he clicked his tongue, unable to help himself. “I mean, not that he actually is, since there is no competition between us.”

“Oh my God, this is what I mean!” you exclaimed, breaking the crossed arms to bring your hands to your hips. “I’m not asking for friendship bracelets, I’m asking there to be a little mutual respect. Jay clearly admires you, and you being the ‘difficult senior’ is only gonna make his journey in Red Bull more difficult.”

He breathed in sharply, his bare chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. “Well…it seems you’re already there to make everything easier for him, so I don’t need to do anything.”

Your brows immediately furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He jerked his head towards the left wall, where the meeting room would have been situated. “You were all cheers and promises of team drinks when he placed fifth today. Fifth,” he repeated for good measure, almost spitting the position out.

“So? I’m only celebrating team achievement.”

“But when my name is concerned, suddenly praises and celebrations are illegal! Banned on the paddock!” he declared. “Shit, I won the Grand Prix today, yet you acted like I was disqualified.”

“I did not act like that,” you countered. “Pointing out possible performance improvements is not, and should not be taken as, a personal attack. Of course, since you’re so self-centred, I know how hard that is for you.”

“It’s not selfishness to demand respect,” he huffed, gripping harder onto the edges of the table. “I just think you hate to see me succeed.”

You paused then, at a loss for words. “...what?”

He carried on, forever a man in love with his own voice—Narcissus if he battled for podiums. “Don’t act so shocked by this. You just can’t take it if I’m winning.”

The sheer lack of logic in his declaration had you snarking, “The only time you’re ever useful is when you are winning, since, you know,” you iterated, as if he was a child needing extra explanation, “we’re on the same team!”

“Are we?” He stepped off the table, wrapping the towel around his waist—hanging too comfortably as it cut off the v-line trail, and still exposing his begrudgingly sculpted legs. “Are we really, when you applaud the kid more when he wasn’t even on the podium?”

“Here we go again,” you grumbled, rubbing the space between your temples. “Seungcheol, the kid is on your team, too. This might be a foreign concept to you, but I want to support both the drivers.” You craned your head to glare at him—never forgetting his height the closer he stalked towards you. “It’s the Oracle Red Bull Team, not the Red Bull Solo.”

“I hope you remember that too,” he muttered, eyes imprisoning your own. “Stop needlessly shitting on me when I’m the reason you have points right now.”

A scowl marred your mouth. “Jay’s given us ten points.”

His eyes now squinted. “I’ve given you twenty-five today.”

“You’ve given me nothing,” you clarified, raising your chin at him. “It’s all going to the team.”

“Are you not part of the team?” A slight lean, a stance to intimidate you. “Do all your little speeches on teamwork not apply to you?”

“Don’t pretend I don’t slave away for this team,” you guttered, refusing to be subdued. You stood tall, despite his muscled stature threatening to overpower you. “All those so-called speeches you call them are aimed towards you.”

He exhaled lightly then, lips breaking to release a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “Careful, Your Majesty, or I’m gonna think you’re obsessed with me.”

Your nostrils flared at his audacity. “The only person obsessed with you is yourself, you stupid prick.”

You meant to hurt him, bruise his ego. It only seemed to swell before your very eyes as his grin widened. “I have to, since you praise every idiot on the paddock save for me. Doesn’t help my three-time championship winning mindset, you see.”

All these little quips, snippets of tom-foolery spluttering out of his cherry mouth. “You’ll deserve praise from me when you learn how to help your team out.”

His pupils darted over your impassioned stare, your determined stance burning inside. “I’ll help the team out when you bother helping me out.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard. Never pondering beyond his own mental borders—always thinking about himself. You could see it in his eyes, too. The dark, oak-hard browns of his irises, so resolute in his self-centredness. It made your lungs tighten in discomfort at the notion.

You did not bid his terrible counter with a response, simply sufficing in glaring him down. Of course, because he always knew how to match you, he, too, stayed content in this heavy silence, crossing his arms over his upper chest, barely catching onto the swell of his shoulders growing with the movement.

Even this was a power play—any normal opponent would have reacted to the state he was in, but you refused to succumb to the lack of layers. Any atom of awkwardness was thwarted by your growing obstinacy. No amount of aesthetic perfection could cancel out how much of an asshole he was.

At least he knew that you were no frail intern, or a mindful, hesitant engineer. If he wished to stoop low, then you would dive to the lowest depths in order to silence him.

As long as Choi Seungcheol did not win over you.

You did not realise how long the two of you stared each other down, refusing to back away, until the doors suddenly opened, and still none moved until you heard the surprised “Oh!” from a flustered Jay, freezing at the entrance.

Looking over your shoulder, you found yourself straightening your posture, clearing your throat a little too loud. Seungcheol’s irritated growl cut through your ears, striking the rookie in the process “What’re you doing here?!”

Seeing Jay almost flinch had you glaring at the man before you. “I’m sorry, I—” the former began as he looked to his right, beyond your own vision, then back at the scene before him. “Jihoon was asking for you both, so…”

It looked as if Seungcheol was about to open his mouth again, so you beat him to it, replying, “Tell him we’re right behind you.”

You could tell Jay wanted to inquire further, but the senior’s presence was enough to have him hurryingly nodding, leaving the two of you alone once more. You wasted no time, smacking the man on the arm.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, rubbing the spot where you whacked home. “What the hell was that for?”

“Stop being so difficult,” was all you demanded, hoping in vain that the warning would stick.

He merely dismissed you with an aloof glance, stepping past you to where his clothes were neatly folded on the side tables. “I’ll stop being difficult with him when you stop being difficult with me.”

You watched him pick up a shirt, about to unloosen the ties on his towel. He then looked at you. “I know you’ve already seen me half-naked, but that’s enough privileges for you today.”

The eye-roll was instinctive, uncontrollable. “Less privilege, more punishment,” you muttered, thundering out of the entrance.

As you were about to shut the door when you heard him say, “Yeah, you keep believing that!”

“Shut up!” was your incredibly witty response, slamming the door behind you. Aggressively you shook your head, bolting down the hallways with your mind spinning with his words, his attitude, his bare chest glistening as it shifted with every slight turn of his arm, twist of his abdomen.

You seethed, widening your eyes at yourself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you murmured, a mantra to your own scrambled mind, to the man you left behind, and this strange scene now in the very near past.

Choi Seungcheol was a born and bred bastard. You could not let him stray from your original objective—no matter how much he endeavoured to make you stray.

WHOEVER DROVE BEHIND THE WHEELS OF RED BULL’S DESTINY DECIDED TO PUT ITS CELESTIAL FOOT ON THE PEDALS.

You did not tend to believe in luck in winning races—it was obvious, considering strategy meant ruling out coincidences, strokes of mere fortune over logistics—but there was definite shift in the team, as if the very tides of the sport had turned, the entire paddock rearranging itself according to your team’s success.

Now you did think your colleagues were exaggerating with such claims, but Shanghai brought favourable results once more. The sprint allowed several points to enter the Red Bull threshold, Seungcheol achieving first in the sprint, the Ferrari rocket barely missing him by a fifteenth of a second. Jay’s softs had major traction, but still managed to snag points position.

Chaos began during the actual race on the Sunday, several of the mid-fielders spinning after a Haas car braked too late. The star driver of the team battled for first between Mingyu and Piastri once more, polesitter Seungcheol retaining his position while Jay managed to snag fifth again—conversations opened towards the latter’s growing impact on the car, especially when he also earned an extra point for fastest lap.

Still, the Chinese Grand Prix failed to be as eventful as its successor. Miami weekend arrived within a fortnight, and the city prepared in full splendour—it could have rivalled Las Vegas’ grandeur, especially since the yellow sun and turquoise beaches that usually bathe the population in a coming-of-Summer ambiance were nowhere in sight. Torrential rain was predicted on race weekend, and it had every team on the paddock shitting in their fire-proof suits.

The Red Bull Garage were one of the first to establish themselves on the track, Jihoon watching over you as you laid down the possible groundwork to secure a win. There was more work to be done, since Miami introduced the sprint similar to the previous host, which meant recognising what went according to plan, and what could have been improved.

Sprints were Seungcheol’s forte. The man was made of velocity, as if his very blood accelerated through his veins at the speed of the RB18, which followed his every call. Obviously—it was made solely for him, even if the mechanics tried to convince you otherwise. Regardless, you knew that, despite the horrendous weather conditions, you knew that he would be faultless—he would turn the car into a motorboat.

Jay, on the other hand, you were unsure about. His improvements reassured half of the team, but cynics like yourself needed more convincing when torrential rain was predicted. He had also never raced beside his rivals in such conditions—one rocky incident during his F2 career had crippled his reputation for performing unpredictably.

You had even asked him during practice, when you were informing him of the game plan for Saturday as the angered rainfall made no attempt to settle into a calm drizzle. “This’ll be harder than Shanghai,” you warned him.

The boy looked beyond the Red Bull Hub’s windows, watching the flurry of black and white and red and blue umbrellas pass by him through the blurred, watery glass. “I know…but you’ve prepared me for the risks.” He paused for a second, clamping his lips together. “I won’t do as well as Seungcheol, though.”

You did not know why that had your mouth constricting into a frown. “Why do you think that?” you demanded, and the sour taste of your question left the driver almost shrinking back.

“He got first in Shanghai,” he reasoned, reaching a finger out as he doodled to the window. “I’m still staggering behind him.”

“This is your first season, Jay,” you countered, glancing at him. “You both can’t be compared when he’s won three championships.”

“He won the sprint in his first season, too,” he said, doodling absentmindedly on the fogged pane. “And it only went up for him then.”

You snorted. “That’s ‘cause he was still following orders without a fight at that time. He’s fucked a race before, too, you know.” You took a step towards him, propping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And that was when he wasn’t listening to me.”

As Jay looked back at you, you set your gaze a little harder. “He doesn’t like to admit it, but it takes a village to make a resident champion. If you listen to the team, Jay…if you listen to me, you won’t just be some rookie in Red Bull. You’ll be a champion in your own right.”

He watched you in return, blinking back at your words. There, you were not a mere friendly face anymore. Before him now was an ally—a powerful mentor who genuinely believed in his success. A Kingmaker, if he was to be so bold.

You hoped he had taken your words seriously, and left him to ponder over your sincerity as the day ended. Saturday, as predicted, brought oceans’ worth of rain upon the coastal city, onlookers adorning parkas and plastic covers to avoid the worst of the showers. The track was more than slick with the rainfall, and every team decided to start on wets.

And if there is rain, then there is always a crash.

Not quite a crash which was of any importance to your team in particular, but one of the Ferraris—Wonwoo’s you believed—spun out of control due to severe aquaplaning on turn 7, nearly bringing down his teammate and Seungcheol in the process. Of course, since the latter cannot ever control himself, the official broadcasts had to censor his stream of stupid bastards and fucking idiots before Jeonghan finally told him to hold his tongue.

Still, Seungcheol recovered quickly, unlike Mingyu, so he widened the gap between himself and the next opponent—Chan in his papaya’d fury—but he would be no match for the contending champion. Unsurprised as you were, you let Jihoon focus on him as you set your sights on the rookie, climbing up and up, nearly sending Seokmin in the Aston off wide at the end of the sprint lane. A risky move indeed, with speeds up to 200 miles per hour, but he had prepared for this. You had prepared him for this.

Before you knew it, you had hardly gauged Seungcheol’s win in the Miami sprint before Jay flew past the chequered flag, gaining fourth in a sprint which had half the drivers spinning in the rain fall. Once again, the garage was delighted, but while the crew flung towards the winner, you found yourself bracing for a rather disappointed boy walking towards you.

He only stopped a foot before you, holding onto his helmet with both hands. “I’ll do better in the race.”

You could only furrow your brows in confusion. “But fourth is what I expected?”

“Bloody Piastri,” he muttered, watching as it was time for the interviews. “I promise, _____, I won’t let you down.”

“Jay…” you began, but he trudged towards the press, who no doubt would bring up the F2 incident. Amongst the crowds, the champion watched the little interaction, slowly turning to examine your disheartened expression.

As you noticed his stare, he shot you a rather feline smile. “Christ,” you muttered, watching him now make the rounds to you.

“Someone isn’t too chuffed about his performance, then,” he greeted you, sparing his teammate a mockingly pitiful glance. “I take it you’ve finally stopped babying him? Told him his performance is dogshit?”

“I didn’t need to tell him—” and then you brought an accusatory finger upwards— “Not that I needed to, by the way!” You clicked your tongue. “No, he was already disappointed in himself.”

“As he should be,” he corrected, locking his hands behind his back, helmet dangling between his fingers. “Piastri’s overtake was like taking candy from a baby.”

“And when your brakes locked at Turn 12? Right in front of the Ferrari?” you demanded, turning to him. “I heard the stewards weren’t pleased.”

“We didn’t get the investigation, though, so I don’t care.” He twisted the corner of his mouth upwards. “This is what happens when you pamper your drivers. Maybe if you treat him the way you treat me then he’d actually win something.”

You tilted your head at him. “So you admit that I directly influence your wins?”

His chuckle immediately stifled any hint of amusement. “So positive, huh? No, I’m admitting that you’re directly influencing his losses.” He swung his helmet over to his front. “My wins will always be my own.”

“One day you’ll be punished, Seungcheol,” you warned, propping your fists on either side of your hips, “all these ignoring my orders, pretending you don’t have the garage supporting you whenever you win.”

“Maybe,” he only said, once again his disregard taking over. He slid his eyes to the banners on the circuit screen, his face at the forefront of any other driver. “But it won’t be today.”

And he left you there at the front of the garage, watching the rain pour steadily, the drops unable to soothe the anger that he left behind.

This damned rain decided to be merciless on race day, too. The engineers eyed their radars warily as teams began setting up their positions on the grid, Jay having a few words with the mechanics. Qualifying turned out to be chaos, too, with nearly a third of the drivers barely making Q2. Fortunately the Red Bull drivers were safe in Q3, but Seungcheol lost out on pole to Mingyu, which meant that the entire team had to deal with his sulking as they prepared for the final touches on the main day.

In the end, no sprint could have rivalled the anarchy which was the Miami Grand Prix. The beginning had most of the wet tyres spraying huge excesses of water, causing horrendous visibility issues for everyone save for the smug Ferrari in the lead. Seungcheol managed to divert from Mingyu’s spraying, but could not go fast enough to overtake him in the first lap.

Still, he could not complain when just after, the neon Sauber collided through the avalanche of mist into a Williams, in turn striking off his front right tyre in the process. The virtual safety car was brought out, thus forcing the champion to stay in his position, with his teammate five positions behind him.

The race restarted on lap six, but the rain did not stop, the danger of further crashes constantly imminent, especially in the clustered mid-field. Mingyu began widening the gap between himself and Seungcheol, and it fuelled the latter’s grit, even more so on the straight after turn 16 where he almost flew off his wheels from the sheer speed.

It was around lap 20 when you heard Jay’s message on the radio through to his race engineer. “Heeseung, the rain’s gonna stop soon. Let’s do intermediates.”

Heeseung turned to you and Jihoon, waiting for confirmation. Why Jay was certain of the weather changing, you had no idea, since the forecast predicted the rainfall to continue till the end of the day. It was as if he could recognise it, as the engineer clarified, “He was saying beforehand that the clouds were clearing…that no one can properly predict coastal temperatures.”

You kept looking at the information, the tyre degradation as well as the car performance in general upon the ongoing telemetry. Last time the cars rolled out in Miami during a storm, half of the grid was wiped out due to poor tyre choice. A part of you thought him crazy.

“It’s your call,” Jihoon said to you.

I promise, _____, I won’t let you down.

Your fingers tapped against the table, watching over the shower—slowly softening, you noticed, amongst the sounds of rapid spraying from the midfielders passing. “Tell him to box the next lap,” was your final call. Heeseung nodded, relaying the message to his driver.

Jay cruised his way into the pit lane, you watching the broadcast dropping his name down from fourth, fifth, sixth, major places as the mechanics did a perfect pit-stop, green light barely flashing before the rookie escaped, entering just before a rather shaken Alpine who had locked up. Eleventh, you saw, but he had time.

Time which he used to his advantage.

While Seungcheol was in Mingyu’s battling sphere once more, the commentators in the background spoke of the rain slowing, the track already drying out from the torrential damage an hour back. The wets began to be a nuisance, even for the drivers at the forefront, the gap between the two and the rest of the field saving the champion.

With everyone’s eyes on Seungcheol’s struggle, his agitation towards Mingyu, you found Jay’s banner rising with every overtake done between the next twenty laps. You could not look away, so stunned by his exploiting of the drying track as the rest toiled to keep their vehicles stable. He was akin to a rocket, razor-focus on the track ahead of him, each corner swirled as if he had raced this circuit a million times.

He had captured your attention so intently you barely saw the final battle turn in the senior driver’s favour, who, after finally latching onto Mingyu’s wide turn in 11, swooped past him, smirking underneath his helmet. “Nicely done, Cheol,” Jeonghan commented, fixing his headset.

“Light work,” was the answer, which only had you snorting—as if he was not chewing on struggle puffs for half the race. That was the sole moment of your focus diverting, once again back on the rookie who now passed Chan on the longest straight.

“Oh my God,” you got out, watching the screen as Chan refused to give up, DRS on both as each tried to bring their front wing after the other. It was one close call after another, the straight nearly ending, barely three seconds left to turn before the McLaren driver braked early, too early, and Jay had taken that opportunity, a golden egg handed in his gloved hands as he turned sharply, beating his opponent from the outside and accelerating enough to then swoop in from the inside at 18.

Heeseung could barely contain his shocked grin. “Holding P3, baby!” he exclaimed on the radio, but Jay gave a curt response, undoubtedly too focused to communicate back with the same energy.

And he stayed within this position. Perhaps he could have battled Mingyu too, but the latter was already challenging Seungcheol after both had pitted around the same time—a terrible call from Ferrari, you had to admit. Despite that, Jay’s consistent acceleration stopped the papaya drivers from creeping too close for comfort.

The chequered flag fell in your favour—scraping into first was Seungcheol, Mingyu hot on his heels in second as fireworks erupted in a sudden rocket-launch into the air, deafening cheers detonating from the crowds at another Redbull win.

A win and a podium as Jay’s car saw the wave of the black and white flag. A double podium for Red Bull after a whole two years of rookie failures.

It was not long before the finished cars set themselves along their positions on the grid. The rookie barely flung himself out of the car before you were dragged by Jihoon and the rest of the men on the track, finding yourself in front of the boy as he found you amongst the sea of red and blue and yellow. He wrenched off his helmet, pulling down his balaclava and immediately dashing towards you.

His breathlessness in reaching you had your own eyes widening. “Jay!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “A fucking podium!”

He was smiling, lips curving wider with every beat. Then, without warning, he flung his arms around you, pulling you into a most heartfelt embrace. You stilled at the sudden contact, chin grazing against his neck as he hummed against you. “Thank you for believing in me, _____.”

You could not help it—the smile, which threatened to inhabit your face, your hands which snaked around his neck. “It’s my job,” you merely said, ruffling his hair. “I’d have been a shit colleague otherwise.”

“No,” he murmured, slowly pulling away as he kept you at arm’s length. “You’d have just been every other person on our team…but you’re not.”

Pursing your lips a little from grinning, you patted him, fully accepting his hug. With hundreds of thousands of eyes upon the two of you, there was no discomfort—maybe a sense of satisfaction, that a driver finally believed in your vision.

In the corner of your vision, you saw the incoming journalist. You jerked your head towards them. “They’re waiting for you.”

Glancing back, he retained his mirth, stepping away. “I can keep them waiting…if you want me to.”

“Can’t have you slacking already,” you teased, Jay huffing out a laugh. “You go. We’ll celebrate in your honour soon enough.”

Satisfied by that, he dismissed himself from you with a little wave, jogging over to the press for the post-race interviews. You watched him leave, smile unable to be wiped off, your own lingering for him. He deserved it today—more than anyone else on the grid.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you did not realise that not everyone had left their focus on you, as the rest of the world shifted to the Red Bull drivers who had made their team incredibly proud. You did not realise the stinging glimpses, the turn of his head every moment towards you as you headed inside of the garage, waiting for the podium celebrations.

It was all for the better, perhaps—had you recognised the bestower of such a heavy gaze, it would have ruined a perfectly good day. And you refused to let your spirits be dampened by anyone.

ORACLE RED BULL TEAM WERE ALREADY EXTRAVAGANT, BUT THEY SPARED NO EXPENSE IN CELEBRATING THEIR GREAT WIN.

Every sports anchor and news outlet commemorated Jay’s quick rise to gaining his first podium within the first couple of months, slotting his name after every compliment bestowed to Seungcheol. You could not get enough of it, already aware that the rookie deserved such praise since he settled himself in the Red Bull seat.

The prized driver himself felt a little out of place with all the international praise, but Jihoon’s compliments had nearly made him faint with the sheer embarrassment. The CEO and Team Principal prided himself on this great achievement, and sought to celebrate it properly, Ferrari and Mercedes-style.

With over a week left in Imola, the man in charge decided to fly out the team to the headquarters in Milton Keynes, hiring luxury event planners whilst informally tasking you to look over the preparations. The pomp and splendour may have been in excess—and you told as such to him—Jihoon was not to hear it.

Seungcheol, despite his superior’s glee, had no troubles complaining about it. “You’d think we’re celebrating a royal wedding,” he guttered, crossing his arms after the event-planning meeting. “It’s only a bloody podium.”

“This is for you, too, Cheol” Jihoon assured him, patting him on the chest as he left, emailing you over the minutes supplied by the publicists. “_____, get ready for tomorrow. I want you in early.”

The champion tsked out as the former left. “He never did this shit even when I won the championship.”

Now you knew he was spreading misinformation, but you chose to bother him in another manner. “Maybe because both drivers earning points is more important to him than one driver winning?” you contemplated, mocking a ponder.

Unsurprisingly, he was not amused. “Stop putting your words in his mouth,” he huffed. “And why the hell are you involved in the planning? I know you’d rather crash into the Ferrari garage than plan a tacky party.”

“First of all, it’s not a tacky party,” you corrected, checking over the details on your clipboard. “It’s to showcase our achievements. We haven’t had a double podium in years.”

He turned his head away, frowning—as if he did not care. “So? I won us the Driver’s.”

“So?” you parroted, emphasising his mumbling. “Because of Jay, we have a chance of winning the Constructor’s, too.”

Even with his face turned, you caught the tick in his jaw. “Are you not satisfied by my wins?” you heard him ask.

You made him wait—pausing in melodramatic fashion, enough to see him glance back at you again, anticipating in irritation. “So you don’t want the Driver’s then, is that what I’m hearing?”

“You’re not hearing anything because I haven’t said anything,” you pointed out, hugging the clipboard to your chest. “Besides, you already know how I feel about your wins.”

He craned his head to the side, studying your face. “No…I don’t, actually.”

You did not like it, his eyes darting over your every feature—your steady gaze, the slight flare of your nostrils, your lips, hiding the slight gritting teeth. “A win for you is a win for you only. Jay’s wins on top of it, though…then it’s a win for us.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you say I talk a lot of shit.”

All you could manage now was a scowl. “Of course you wouldn’t get it.” With that, you turned on your heel. “Don’t be late for the party,” you called out, not bothering to look back at him. “It’s meant for you too, even if you don’t believe it.”

You did not wait for his answer, choosing to ignore him for the rest of the day.

Involuntarily, you missed the opportunity to speak to your rookie, too, so wrapped up with the party-planning In the end, you dampened down the overindulgence, realising you did not want the papers speaking about it, and—you had to face it—this was not your job, what with your Imola-strategy planning forced to be side-lined, which was a terrible strategic decision in itself. Jihoon did not provide enough time for you to set up anything too extravagant, so you hoped the addition of a luxury open bar would be enough to satiate expectations.

The next evening arrived quicker than anticipated, the entire team arriving in clusters to the sleek, silver building, a huge, graphic bull plastered on its right side to welcome back the locals—officially named the MK-7. Everyone dressed majestically for the event, semi-formal attire adorned with all the riches people had saved, diamond earrings and Rolexes sparkling in the vibrant lighting.

As the CEO ordered, you were one of the first present, welcoming everyone who arrived. Mechanics, engineers, publicists, everyone working or associated with the team were present. Even certain VIP members of Racing Bulls were invited, attempting to establish the relationship between two sister teams.

It was not long before music had livened up the huge, metallic hallways of the building, food and drink eagerly consumed by the guests, everyone intermingling smoother than you expected. Granted, the absence of journalists may have played a part in the ease of the ambiance, but you liked to think that you had played a part.

_____ and Co. Formula Team. You smiled as you sipped your first of many champagne glasses of the night. That smile widened when you spotted Jay making his appearance, flanked by Heeseung and Jihoon. Each one of them were clad in sleek black suits, although the latter’s three-piece was more luxurious than his employees—one had to boast of their paycheck after all, you surmised.

The rookie found you instantly amongst the crowds. “Hey!” he called, ushering over to you. Instantly he hugged you with one arm, a casualness established. “Wow, you look great outside of the Red Bull colours!”

Indeed. You observed your outfit, a simple enough black dress which shimmered with every flicker of light catching on its fabric, its asymmetrical hem cut across your right leg, slicing up to your left thigh. Heels were the less practical choice, but they matched your outfit, so you tolerated the aching in your feet.

Even so, you matched his compliment with one of your own. “You scrub up quite nicely yourself.” You set your sights on Jihoon. “You’re wasting money on your stylist.”

“Yeah, you’re looking ugly too,” was his dignified answer, to which you kissed him on the cheek. “I suppose the party’s not horrific. Where’s the bar you promised?”

“Fuck you,” you first commented, pointing towards the food and drink situated at the far ends of the hall. “I made sure they stocked up on the rum and cokes.”

“You truly are Red Bull’s saving grace,” the CEO praised, to which you rolled your eyes, downing another glass of champagne.

“Join us when you’re done greeting everyone,” Jay offered, looking around the room.

“I’ll try,” you promised, observing the many admirers he had garnered within minutes. “I’ll let you tend to your fans first.” His immediate blush had you chuckling. “You both mingle. I’ll be right back.”

As Jihoon dragged the boy to the open bar, you double-checked the banners hanging from one point of the first-floor balcony to the other, flanking Red Bull colours celebrating both the drivers’ names and achievements.

You could hear the conversations, the whispers of opinions—everyone expected the champion to retain his lead, but to have a genuinely talented rookie challenge him introduced a whole new dimension to the race.

It was peak entertainment, in their words—their meaning of Formula One.

You supposed it did spark interest within the team. Nobody enjoyed Seungcheol’s second championship run, his winning every race on the calendar a terrible viewing experience for the average fan. Despite that, it was advantageous for you, for the team, so you did not complain too much. Even if it meant the second driver was side-lined. Even if he visibly struggled in a car meant for Red Bull’s golden boy.

“Bastard,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself from cursing. How strange, that profanities never ceased, how instinctive they remained on your tongue at the thought of the man.

“You really are obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched. Instantly, you swivelled around, and your breathing nearly stopped again at the sight of said-bastard—Choi Seungcheol, out of his racing suits—clad in clean, crisp black suit, no bow-tie in show as the top button of his white-shirt opened, revealing a patch of smooth, golden skin. His hair was a little longer, curls smoother, done over as they tucked obediently behind his neck, caressing the sides only with the turns and twists of his head. His one hand was tucked in his trouser pocket, the other adorning an empty champagne flute.

You attempted to regain yourself—more so when he, too, assessed your out-of-office attire. Shamelessly, you then noticed with a surprise. “You’re not the only bastard in this field.”

“Really? A shame.” He clicked his tongue. “Here I was, feeling special knowing I was the only bastard in your life.”

“You don’t hold that much importance to me,” you merely said.

“A lie,” he opposed. “Your success and mine are intricately linked. I am, in fact, essential to you.”

“No wonder you thought yourself special,” you drawled, “Your delusions found a way to being the centre of attention again.”

“That’s because I am,” he clarified, the emphasis so heavy you wondered whether that was his first glass of the night.

You made a show of looking over to his teammate—who, by the open bar, had now gained a crowd of recognition. “Hmm…I don’t think so.”

He followed your line of sight. Comical, how instantaneous his mood soured. “Your PR works wonders, then.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“All this splendour…this luxury…” A weighted pause. “You wouldn’t have done any of this for me alone.”

“Well, of course not,” you agreed, which had him scoffing. “It’s a celebration of the team, not just the driver. Jihoon’s the one who initiated it.”

“You had no problem turning it down, though,” he accused, and suddenly you realised the button undone at the top, the slight blush tinging his cheeks. “I thought you hated doing this shit.”

You made sure he did not turn away from your stare. “I’d do anything for the team, Seungcheol.”

He was blinking slowly, breathing heavily. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and you caught the action, darting away for a second. He was leaning a little closer, the scent of his perfume entering your nostrils, the infusion of champagne mixed in.

“Anything…” he repeated, languid. “Anything…for the team?”

He did not need to hear the answer. He could see it, stained on the determined set of your alluring features, all made up for tonight.

“I see.” He made to down the flute, then realised the lack of alcohol swirling inside. “I need a drink.”

You slid your eyes to the bar. “You can join your teammate. Share the success.”

The corner of his cherry mouth twitched upward. “Share,” he scoffed, as if the very word offended him. He said nothing else, skulking past you, almost knocking you over as he made his way instead to the waiters carrying trays full of champagne.

You lifted your chin at his back, fading within the crowds. Fine. Let him sulk—tonight was not solely about him, anyway. You made sure of it.

Still, the conversation did not escape your mind, his slight slurring words, the cruel tone of his voice striking an unwelcome commotion within you. Fortunately, Jeonghan, who had arrived soon after, forced you to drink some more, gossipping about the terrible dancers from the engineering department.

The night had begun to incite further excitement, music turning louder, spirits becoming more animated. Everyone was—or, at least, seemed to be—enjoying themselves, either drinking or dancing or laughing, and you made it your sole objective to mingle too, refusing to let your labours go to waste.

You even managed to swing about with Jay, who turned out to be a rather good dancer after acquiring a little liquid confidence. The next couple of hours were a dream—more so when, after engorging yourselves in amusement, the music began to settle, Jihoon jogging to the front of the crowds. His magnetic presence had the guests pausing their ministrations, eyeing his swaying figure as he clinked his glass with a desert spoon.

“Thank you everyone for joining us today!” he exclaimed, waving his hands over to the audience before him—you at the forefront. “This has been a long-time coming, and I couldn’t have been happier to be celebrating with the finest team in F1!”

His declaration was followed by a round of hooting. “We’ve been so lucky with our star driver, who’s brought us three trophies here. Seungcheol, I’m too short to find you in there, but here’s to you for putting Red Bull in the contender’s scene!”

The cheers were deafening—the drink in you had you joining in, albeit not as enthusiastically as your peers. “This year, though, we have achieved something we did not even dream of in the previous seasons. One rookie has done what previous experienced drivers were unable to do. Barely 23 years of age, but has managed to start off his career by having one of the quickest podium finishes in the Red Bull season!”

Jihoon raised his glass to you. “With our Principal Strategist Engineer by our side, we have created the team of legends!” His grin was hazardous, infecting each guest that surrounded him. “We will be the winning team of this Championship!”

You, in turn, lifted your flute. “To gaining a chance in the Constructor’s! To Jay, and a new beginning!”

Everyone followed your league. “To a new beginning!”

The entire hall drank simultaneously, cheering once again threatening to take down the ceiling with the sheer, unadulterated mirth that radiated within the four walls. There was no denying it. Everyone was so happy. Even you were eventually, after the alcohol had blanketed your senses, making your senses buzz with excitement.

Jay, at the very least, was on the top of the world, already tipsy with wine and compliments as he made full use of the bar. “Heeseung, how much has he drunk?” you asked, watching him attempting a backflip next to the walls of trophies.

“Blame Jeonghan. He egged him on to do four kamikaze shots with him. Each.”

“Christ,” you got out, checking the time on your watch. “And where’s Jihoon?”

“He’s trying to see if we have a karaoke machine in the spare boardrooms,” he replied, swirling his drink. “As if we’re that jobless at the headquarters.”

You huffed out a chuckle, one more name on your tongue remaining. “Take care of yourself,” you said, squeezing his shoulder before filtering your way through the clusters.

Eventually you found the CEO, who was unsuccessful in his search for further entertainment. “No karaoke machine at MK-7,” he faltered, shaking his head as he downed another rum and coke. “Do we run a racing team or a prison?”

“Alright now,” you muttered, setting him down on the bar stools. “Maybe that’s enough for you today.”

“No, I need one more drink with Cheol,” he said, raising his pointer finger for emphasis. “Where’s the prick gone? Did a whole toast for him, but I didn’t see him anywhere.”

So he noticed, too. “Probably off somewhere…licking the wounds he inflicted on himself.” To that, Jihoon gave you a look. “What?”

“He’s not used to being challenged, _____, that’s all.”

“And how’s that my problem?”

“He’s your driver as much as Jay is.” He leaned against the countertop. “Go find him for me. I’ll sort him out.”

You contemplated giving Jihoon more to drink so he would shut down that request. Unfortunately, you were a good friend. “Fine…” you got up, straightening your dress. “...but I’m not feeling too great either. I’ll take a while.”

“Excuses,” was his answer, to which you flipped him off, a gesture you would not dare be committing sober. Thankfully, your boss was plastered too, so only found it the funniest action on the face of this earth.

Making your way out the hallways, you tried your best not to be distracted by the guests. Many tried to pull you for a conversation, congratulate you for your work. Although you appreciated it, you had a job to do, and that would always remain your priority.

Stalking the empty hallways, music from the party fading slowly, you walked further away from the merriment. The building was huge, a metallic maze in its own right. You were almost certain you were lost until you found yourself within the grand halls of the Red Bull showroom.

Gazing beyond the grand staircase which brought one down to the gallery, dozens of priceless Red Bull cars were lined up in a circular arc, flanked by banners of their numbers in a sea of navy. You had observed your team’s lineage many times, especially during the initial promotion at the beginning of each season, so you knew this room inside out.

It was the sole reason Seungcheol stood out.

There he was, in the dimmed lights of the showroom, flickering every now and then in a certain corner. It dampened his grave features; his eyes were set on the car before you—the RB15, which won him his first championship four years ago, settled neatly on a pedestal. His mouth was a hard line, a tightrope of agitation, and his absent-minded swirling of his sad champagne was the only sound in the room.

He was so absorbed in his reflections that he did not gauge your step down, the entrance within the hall. Perhaps he did notice, but did not seem to care anymore. Nothing out of the ordinary for him.

It was that thought that had you taunting him. “Why’re you hiding out here?”

Blinking back, his eyes sharpened, darting to you. He drew back a heavy breath. “So generous for Her Majesty to come after me,” he drawled, drawn out.

You clicked your tongue. “Principal’s orders,” you clarified, downing the last of the alcohol in your glass. “I would’ve happily let you sulk here.”

“I’m not sulking,” he sneered, but his words were heavy, effortful. The alcohol took its toll on his dry, cruel wit. “Go back to your party.”

“My party?” You propped the champagne flute upon the ground, dusting away at your hands. “Last time I remember, it was your name on the banner.” His mocking snort had you raising a brow. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost your ability to read, now? What can you do successfully?”

A crease marred the centre of his browline. “You’re the last person who can measure my successes,” he spat. “You shit yourself when you have to say one good thing about me.”

You twisted your mouth. “I have no problems pointing out your successes. It’s my bloody job to scrutinise your performance. Not my fault you provide me with so many criticisms.”

“It is your fault,” he began, stepping out of the championed car’s vicinity, his suited-self in full view. “I have won almost every single Grand Prix since the start of the season, yet all I got from you is radio silence. I have brought points for the team, but I’m hearing nothing about myself!”

“Oh yeah?” you taunted, taking a step forward, the first embers of your anger warming in your gut. “Tell me, Great Champion, what have I been saying that’s made you so upset?”

Your counter only had him scowling further. He opened his mouth, and the imitation that spewed out of him had you blinking back. “Oh, ‘Jay is improving so much in such a short time! Jay is somehow driving the undrivable car’!” He kept parroting your casual comments, accentuating his teammate’s name with cruel sarcasm as he stalked towards you. “‘Jay this, Jay that, Jay can be the future fucking champion’!”

You could only gape at him. “You’re mad…because Jay is doing well?” a harsh chortle escaped you, and it cracked the ice forming on the driver’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Great Champion, Saviour of Formula One, that your teammate is challenging you! I’m fucking devastated that he can drive a car that no one else can drive!”

“I can drive that car!” he roared, and you swore his rage echoed in the grand hall. “I am winning in that fucking car!”

“Because it’s made for you and you only!” you screamed back, pointing a finger at him. “If you couldn’t bloody drive it, what the hell are you here for?!”

“What the hell am I here for?!” His wild eyes were rooted to you, staring you down in a frenzy akin to his visage during a tense race. “I’m your fucking driver. I’m the reason you have a job in the first place.”

A gasp flew out of your mouth at his audacity. “How dare you,” you guttered, another two steps forward. He was closer now, his rage radiating off his stature like rubber off a ruined tyre. “I’m the reason you’ve managed to get three championships. Any other and they’d have left long back.”

“Oh, so now I get no credit for my wins, while the teenager swiped from go-karting gets all the credit for his measly podiums?” He snarled loudly in your face. “I thought being a good strategist meant you were objective about a situation. Maybe you are out of your league with this job.”

He was drunk. He said this because the champagne he downed in spite went straight to his head. Because of that, you let your rage rush to your head too—alcohol and anger never mixed well.

“You…you selfish bastard!” you spat, glaring into his eyes, set ablaze by your words. “Getting jealous of your teammate…refusing to celebrate the team victory because you think it damages you…taking all your anger out on me when you’re the one who never follows any orders!”

“And why should I follow your orders?” he snarled, and you could feel the disdain bite at your face. “You’ve never done anything for me.”

A laugh barked out of you, and it drove him insane. “Look at you! Can’t even see outside of yourself! Of course I never do anything for you, I don’t work for you! I work for the team, while you only work for yourself! You’re so fucking self-centred that you haven’t realised it for years!”

As he watched you snap one word after the next, the final scream drove straight home. “You only do what you want! You only care about yourself!”

And you would have let your mouth run this eternal sprint, never ceasing the curses against him. Except the champion had had enough.

The champion let out an agitated, aggravated breath, seized your shoulders in his shaking hands and crashed your lips against his.

Your eyes shot open at the pressure, the sensation of his mouth moving at frightening pace, and it swept over your senses, shooting sparks at every corner of your hazy, flustered mind. His grip on your arms was iron, the ore of his ire striking through your flesh, binding you to the spot he desired. You perhaps might have, had you ever bent to his will.

But you were—yes, you may have thrashed against him, repelling from his burning hands, but you found your lips betraying your will, finding a rhythm, chasing after his own, opening for him to delve deeper. What the fuck are you doing? Your mind screamed at you, shaking your senses awake but to no avail. Whatever cage held your logic in safety, Seungcheol’s hands, Seungcheol’s lips had pried it open, locks torn in savagery.

Savage because there was nothing beautiful in this scene—no sweet kisses, no tender touches softening ample desires. This was a cruel circus, a gross collection of drunken stupors and heated rages finally pushing to the surface. He was all over you, a mighty presence blanketing your frame, his hands on your arms travelling down, encircling your waist, yanking you so close you almost melted against the heat, radiating off his frame.

Maybe the sounds of lips smacking against lips, deep pants flying out in between dragged your common sense back into the cage. Somehow, the logic which he had set free came crawling back. Whatever function that faltered in your arms had fixed itself, fingers rising to his tensing chest and pushing him back.

The ferocity had him stumbling, hazed-out by the actions he had committed—did not realise he committed. You sputtered out a ragged breath, chest rising, falling, as erratic as your gaze, all over his flushed, raging features. He was the same, harbouring the same anger as you, always on the same level.

This time was unprecedented. These levels of sheer rage never penetrated the surface previously. Perhaps the drinks were responsible for the fading propriety—not that you both ever showcased any sense of professionalism around each other.

But in the white lights of Red Bull’s hall of fame, any semblance of decorum vanished.

The two of you, facing each other—eyes refusing to tear away from one or the other, rooted in case one slipped. You would never—would refuse to let it happen. You saw it in Seungcheol, too—the determined, skin-slicing glare of his, you always on the opposite end of it. And maybe the drink cursed your senses, disheveled your conscience. It had to, because he was straying, this time, straying from your burning eyes to your now-swelling lips.

Your question meant to freeze him over. “Why…why did you do that?”

He lost himself in your parted mouth, shining because of him. It was an effort, dragging his carnal gaze up to meet your own. “Because I do what I want…by your description.”

That had your lips parting wider, brows twitching upward. Like an itch the irritation, an eczema of anger scaled your very skin, and it proved impossible to scratch away. The insults formed, climbing too quickly in your constricting throat. “You fucking bastard.”

Seungcheol squinted, as if the venom stored in your slander struck his face. Good. You meant for it to hurt. But his eyes hooded, head dipping just a little to look at you with the full force of his focus. God, you could tell he was drunk, but those irises held emotions more pungent than any alcohol he downed.

What he did was scoff through his nose, a small, dismissive gesture—as if he was aware. As if it was old news, rotting in the Red Bull garage. As if your observation held no importance.

That drove you off the goddamn paddock. Oh, you were going to murder him.

And you were going to—your legs thundered to your supposed victim, hands already rising to strangle him, except your fingers did not squeeze the life out of his throat, but raised to the back of his head, pulling so viciously towards you that he had no warning for your lips.

Yes, your mouth was on the attack this time, stumbling his ministrations upon you, allowing you to smirk against him as you kissed him back with the same fervour. By God, Seungcheol stood corrected with his statement, his brow furrowing as he finally recognised the situation. You quickened your mouth against him, and he could not match you fast enough, a matching pace with a rival car, teasing to overtake but not quite allowing himself that win.

He needed that win—his hands shook with the sheer want as they wrapped around your frame, swiping over your dress, finding any sliver of skin to extract its warmth. He could not even wait before his tongue swiped against the seam of your lips, and it was lights out for the champion, delving deeper inside your mouth.

Your lips were the finishing line, the pole position. Your taste was the champagne spray at each win Seungcheol gained, but the taste of your tongue was sweeter, the same alcohol you consumed prior now mixing into a passionate cocktail of your kisses.

Even the passion, however, could not rival the fury that laced your mouth, the heat of his tongue undermining the volcanic pants tumbling out of you. You writhed against him, each swipe into his dark curls harsher knowing it was the bane of your existence who bore them, each rough swirl of your tongue along more vigorous realising it was the beacon of your ire that offered it.

He pushed you further and further, the large, rectangular table in the middle of the too-bright hall an obstacle in his war path, fingers finding recess along the buttons of your dress, efforting to pop them open but he was clumsy, like a fool when handling the fabric.

You broke away for air, heaving more as he pounced on the corners of your mouth, lips travelling down. “Stop ruining my dress,” you rasped out in irritation, sensing the pressure of the sleeve pushing down, stopped by your neck.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grunted, roughly hoisting you upon the table-top, empty glasses falling with a soft thunk all around you. His hands travelled down, so fast, too fast, finding the hem of the dress, riding it up with scrambled fingers.

You hissed at the touch, his remnants up your legs, the outer-side of your thighs. “It’s my job,” you snarled, a startling rush of breath escaping you as his mouth planted on your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses at the column of your throat. It was a magnetic feeling, the sparks inside the base of your skin alighting with every brush of his teeth.

“Your job—” he barked out, squeezing out flushed kisses upon you, eliciting soft exhales from you— “Is to focus on me, to make me win.”

“Always about you, isn’t it—” you meant to bite back, but the dress now bunched at your waist, and his thumb skimmed much too close to the apex of your thighs as he opened your legs. “Ah, never thinking about anyone else.”

He paused from his assault on your neck, dizzying head dipping down to the display: your panties, matching your dress, and he blinked back rapidly, insides swelling with a hunger that almost made him forget why he pounced on you in the first place. “I don’t give a fuck about anyone else.”

Realising your impending silence, he dragged his gaze upwards, caging your own. “Not right now anyway.”

His tone irked you so much, but the look in his eyes stunned you to further quiet. Again, you blamed the champagne for slowing your wit, any chance to humiliate him. You kept pointing fingers to it, because you ignored it—watching as one of his hands, firmly hanging onto your hips before falling, leaving a ghost trail in their wake, found slight purchase against the lace of your panties.

Your breath hitched—and the curse was out, because he heard it. Quiet as a Saharan night, but to his ears as loud as a festival. “Shit,” he got out, wrenching your legs further, settling in between, snuffing any distance. “Liked what I did?”

At least your drunken state allowed some form of torment. “You haven’t even done anything,” you griped, acutely aware of his fingers still lingering. “Bigging yourself up for no reason.”

“You and your fucking mouth,” he guttered, colliding his lips against yours, attempts to silence you successful enough that you could merely hum, closing your eyes and letting the sounds of your mouths engulf you entirely. You wished to be strong, pride seeping through the haze of lust, but then you felt a most delicious sensation against your core—dampening lace rubbing against your slit, and then a little further, and that damned pride of yours crumbled over his fingers.

The champion savoured your broken moans on his tongue as his thumb rubbed your clit, drinking them in like liquor—tasted infinitely richer than any alcohol he downed in a rage this evening. He circled the bud, swelling under his touch, and he felt your absence on his mouth, breaking away in growing pleasure.

Pleasure. From Choi fucking Seungcheol.

Agitation sprung on your veins, battling against the sheer desire overwhelming your senses, cultivating the quicker he encircled your clit, other digits slipping past the underwear’s lining and teasing your entrance. His other hand gripped onto your thigh, hard enough that you knew it would leave a remnant, but you were scraping your nails against his neck, dipping underneath his dress shirt, each sharp graze earning seething breaths.

He was teasing still, never taking the panties off while he played with you, swiping your arousal with expert fingers, groaning at the sight of the tips slick with your eagerness. His head hung heavy, loaded with the sounds of your weighted sighs, but nothing stopped his determined gaze, looking at you through his lashes as he kept going.

And because he did not stop, did not dare give you a moment’s rest—did he ever, you thought in passing amidst the chaos—your core tightened beneath his touches, your thighs tensing with every second faster in his circling, his mouth growing desperate in its torturous path. He claimed your lips again, and the desire rippling off his tongue was so intense you could not help the moan climbing out of your own mouth, loud enough it escaped his clutches, releasing it to the Red Bull halls.

Your orgasm was near, so near—any minute and you would be undone by the one man who had unravelled your professional demeanour countless times, and would now wield the ability to pleasure you over your head.

“Fuck, I can’t wait—” he slipped out, wrenching his fingers away from you, almost making you scream. “I know, I know, just give me a second—!”

Frantically his fingers attempted to undo his trouser buttons, but found himself erupting to a pause. “Wait, shit, I don’t have a condom.”

You groaned at him for stopping, tugging at his shoulders. “I’ve got the implant,” you chided, as if he was supposed to be aware of this information already. “Get on with it already!”

He would have argued back with you, but his desire leashed his tongue. Stupid, drunken fool—restless in his movements, so impatient to have you that his fingers ceased to work, unable to take his trousers off, buttons popping quick enough for your hands to wrench down his Calvins. His cock sprung free from its cotton, and you had to falter for a second, seeing the sight before you.

Oh Christ—the near-release was forgotten, fading within you, but this new sight occupied all your thoughts instead. Your parted mouth and widened eyes had him unable to stop a wild smile from forming.

You would have regretted this—all of it—more so when his smirk sparked your insides into a frenzy. “If I knew this was a way to shut you up…” he trailed off, pulling down your underwear.

You watched him guide his cock to where your arousal still prevailed, waiting for respite. Even your scrambled mind could not stop retorting, “Says the one who couldn’t get his pants down properly.”

He merely chuckled, a harsh huff of laughter. “Here you go again,” he said as he leaned in, imprisoning you with his stare. “I shouldn’t even fuck you for all that attitude you give me.”

“And you’re such an angel, huh?” But then you felt his tip slip against your folds, and you paused—hesitated. Oh, he really was no angel at all.

“I hope not,” he slurred, his free hand hanging onto your hip. “Especially not with you…you don’t deserve it.”

Somehow that too pissed you off, and you furrowed your brow, ready to begin yet another argument when he slipped past you, his cock sliding in, and your brows then raised, sputtering breaths escaping, because he was inside, Seungcheol was inside you, and you could only gape at him.

You were drunk—of that there was no doubt, since none of this could have occurred in your dreams. Nothing in your imagination could have conjured the sheer fullness of him, the size of his length making your cunt pulsate at its very presence. Sure, you had engaged in illicit relations, had some fun in your early days, but those days were easily forgotten.

You knew, as he bottomed out in you, that no amount of champagne could ever make you forget this feeling.

He watched your eyes widen, lips contort in that wonder, releasing a ragged, satisfied breath. “Jesus,” he said, matching your amazement. “You’ve never even looked at me this way when I’ve won you points.”

“Still—” you began, but hesitated when he slowly began to pull out. Even so, you got out, “Still thinking about yourself?”

A chuckle sputtered out of him as his tip solely remained, teasing between your slit. “Thinking about myself, am I?” he repeated, his hands taking hold of your thighs, pushing you to wrap your legs around him. “Even now?”

Knowing you, you would have said yes, just to spite him—then his cock was sliding right in again, a little faster than before, and your walls betrayed you, welcoming him much too quickly for your liking. You held onto him, too focused on him inside of you to care that your dress was barely off, sweated into, fingers digging so urgently into his shirt you were certain of its ripping.

Your incoherence, more so when he commenced a quicker pace, made him unable to contain his grin. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered to you, his words leaving their trace on the shell of your ear. His arrogance set you ablaze, but there kindled another kernel of fire, more dangerous than your usual agitation. You were not allowed to think on it further, your thoughts revolving solely on the precise, razor-sharp movements—never failing to slip out to the tip, and then ever so quickly diving back in.

Seungcheol could not stop grinning. Goosebumps spread over his heated skin, his dress-shirt matted with sweat, but he was alive inside you, thrusting into you with a rising pace which had you drawing out sounds he did not think possible to extract. He had already shamefully admitted to himself that your nose constantly upturned at him, your hmphs and whatevers had him smirking unknowingly, but that very mouth now singing harmonies of pleasure—pleasure he extracted—was a feeling too addictive for him to consume responsibly.

One more advance of his cock into your pulsing cunt and your back arched, soaked fabric against soaked fabric clashing with each of his movements. The sensation grew from your core, curling along your spine, the inner lining of your thighs, and it returned, by God it had returned, when you thought the bastard would rob you of it again.

And he could feel it too. He could barely comprehend it himself, much less say it to you, his open, heavy kisses dropping on every expanse of your skin just not enough to satiate him. The champagne dizzied his mind, your cunt staggered his senses. Even his thrusting became erratic, the sweat on his brow grazing against your temple with every swipe up, with every slide down.

“S-Seungcheol—” you finally got out, your thighs tensing, your core tightening even further. You were close now, dangerously near, and his name on your tongue made his self-control wane even thinner, fingers sliding down to your clit once more. “I think I’m gonna—fuck!”

You gasped at his circling, the familiar movements back to taunt you. The languidity of his touches had long vanished now, rocking you on the table, the thudding of bodies against wood quickening at a pace most impressive for two drunkards, screwed-out colleagues who could barely navigate their mouths towards each other, sloppy kisses on cheeks and chins, free hands finding whatever purchase on sweated shirts, knotted dresses, sheen skin.

Your moans. God, your fucking moans, your sweet, victorious, passionate grunts, slipping out of you without helping it, despite your restraint in truly letting go. This drink had cursed you, this damned party had weakened you, but when he hit a certain spot, balls-deep within you, you almost lost the will to care.

In the great halls of Red Bull Racing, the winning lights of your team flashed on you and Seungcheol as you found yourself on the brink of collapse.

Red Bull’s champion could sense it beyond the alcoholic haze. “You’re close, right?” he whispered, barely voiced properly—unsurprising, since all his strength fixated on you. “Shit, hang on—”

And then he became ruthless, setting a pace so rapid and perfect that you understood why he gained all these titles, overtook all his opponents. He was faster than any car flying on the racing tracks, beadier than any steward pacing on the paddock. He followed onto every soft moan that escaped you, every dig of your nails in his shirt. You could feel him slipping and yet he never ceased to please you, contributing to the ever-increasing tension ridged within your thighs. The release was fated to arrive, and Choi Seungcheol would be the one leading it with his stained fingers.

One more circle of his fingers around your clit, and you were undone.

Completely, utterly unable to stop yourself from shaking as you wrenched your eyes shut, rasping out to him as you came. As he pulled his face away from your own, comprehending your newfound position, the contortions of your face, the shake of your thighs had him stunned. His emotions overwhelmed him, his desire turned pungent, his pride so powerful from the image it had him cursing, holding onto you as he, too, let himself go, finishing himself into you with a pained grunt.

The very action had the man hanging his head, exhaling painfully as he held onto your hips. You, too, could hardly take enough time settling yourself, barely registering his touch as you kept your eyes closed, listening to your own heartbeat.

The only sounds in the room now were your inhales and his exhales, soft swaying of the fabric with every minute moment, the slight creak of the table from the champion’s weight. Hell, his cock was still inside you, but there was no recognising it, your astonishment holding you captive.

It was only when, after great effort, when Seungcheol lifted his head, his tired, heavy-lidded gaze finding your own, your feelings halted—just for a moment.

Those bitter, brown eyes; a circuit’s worth of arrogance racing around in those irises usually, sparks of challenge always afire whenever they locked with yours. These were the same pair of eyes, widening, ever so slightly, the more you studied them—the more you realised that these were the same eyes you equalled with as they undressed you without shame.

Instinctively, your hands went down to your bunched-up dress, further down. His cock was still there, only now sliding out as the bearer, too, slowly grasped what had just occurred.

It was as if the guise of alcohol had dropped. No more champagne-tinted glasses adorned. Your fingers that had somehow grazed his skin then confirmed your fear, at first a little organism which now grew large enough to suffocate you in the victor’s hall.

You just had sex with Choi Seungcheol.

Every drop of blood drained from your face. What have you done?

He, too, looked as if he had seen a ghost.

Your eyes did not dare leave his as your hands pushed your dress down, bottom sliding off the table, forcing the man to pull back, take a step behind him. None of you said a word, simply staring, physically unable to tear your gazes off each other.

What have you done?

The champion’s mouth parted, almost as if wanting to say something, anything to stifle the shock growing in his insides. Gone was the desire, the scathing, painful lust that permeated the very atoms of this room.

Your breaths could barely come out, tensely lodged in the back of your throat.

Seungcheol rasped out only one word. “_____?”

_____. You could have died then and there.

It was what had you slipping out, scarcely there, “What have you done?”

And it was not fair—for the first time, you were not fair, completely unjust, but you did not care, did not care a single bit for the slow, contorted confusion, surprise staining his broken, perspired face.

Because what you said was undeserved, you blamed the nerves of your words for your next actions; picking up your panties—God, evidence of his ministrations still present—and you whirled your back to him, taking off in a hurried rapidity towards the exit. You did not dare look back, in case you confronted the haunting stare on your neck, the dying, disoriented glint in those irises.

The lights were still on. The winning cars still remained stationary, as they were before, and always will be.

You and Seungcheol, however, were forever changed.

#this sounds so good #tbr #lightsoutcollab #seungcheol x reader

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imnotshua · 3 days ago

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🎲 and 🐇

sorry this took me a couple of days to get to! things got busy! 🐇 ⇢ do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both? i suppose all of my reader inserts are actually original characters lmao. i mock up natal charts for them, i imagine their names, i picture what they look like. i don't think OC x member fic be very interesting for most people to read, so i'm happy posting as reader fics and keeping my thoughts to myself, but if anyone's interested in what i headcanon for ones i've posted, i'm happy to share!

🎲 ⇢ what stops you from writing more in your free time? my brain is fried lmao. between work, kids (one of which has a condition that means trips to the children's hospital two hours away), 2.5 pets (my neighbour and i sort of share a cat), and life admin i often just don't have the mental energy for writing.

truth or dare asks

#postbox 📮#thank u for asking <3 #ask games

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imnotshua · 3 days ago

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