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nerdycheol · 6 days ago

Text

Track Record || C.S.C

🏎️pairing: f1 racer!choi seungcheol x motorsport journalist! reader

🏎️genre: enemies-to-lovers, fluff, smut (protected sex, too much kissing) MDNI

🏎️wc: 12k

(a/n): glad to be part of @bella-feed 's and @sanaxo-o 's 100 follower event thankyouuu calli ( @hhaechansmoless), daisy (@flowerwonu ) and cel (@mylovesstuffs ) for beta-ing <33. im really sorry for delay in posting this:( this fic was inspired by anyone mv and and way to many carlos edits on my feed. even though this was beta read by 3 wonderful people, i still apologize if there are any mistakes in here:(( ive just started getting into f1 thanks to calli ;) so im just getting used to everything haha so people familiar with f1, overlook any inaccuracies <33 also quite poorly written smut jskjdsks

Let me know what you think—comments and reblogs mean the world! 💗

IF YOU AREN'T TAGGED IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S NO AGE INDICATOR IN YOUR PROFILE OR ARE UNDERAGE ____

The engines roared like a war cry, low and guttural and impossible to ignore.

You stood just beyond the garage’s shadow, notebook in hand, watching the blur of red and black cut through the curve of the track like a blade. The pit crew moved around you in practiced choreography—headsets, tools, nerves strung tight like violin strings. The summer heat pressed into your skin, clinging, relentless, and the scent of hot rubber and fuel settled in your lungs like memory.

You hadn’t been trackside in nearly a year.

Not since that article.

Your fingers tapped the edge of your notebook as you watched the car scream down the straightaway and finally slow into the pit lane. The tires hissed as they met concrete. Seungcheol’s car rolled to a stop just in front of the garage, perfectly aligned. Within seconds, the crew rushed in. The car was wheeled back smoothly, swallowed into the organized chaos of the team’s station.

Then the driver stepped out.

You didn’t need to see his face to know it was Choi Seungcheol.

He moved like someone who was always one second away from sprinting, every motion lean and charged with purpose. His helmet came off slowly, and he ran a gloved hand through his hair, the kind of move that would look cocky on anyone else—but on him, it seemed natural. Like arrogance was something he’d been born with. Worn into his skin.

He didn’t see you yet. Thank God.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax.

“Journalist from Velocity Weekly, right?” a voice beside you asked.

You turned. A crew assistant, barely older than a rookie, offered you a bottle of water and a tight-lipped smile. You nodded.

“Yeah. Just here to observe.”

“For now,” he muttered. “They didn’t tell him.”

You blinked. “Tell him what?”

“That you’re embedding for the season. He thinks he’s just getting a fluff piece.”

Your stomach dipped slightly. Of course they hadn’t told him. Of course the team thought it was better to deal with the fallout after.

Your article had shaken half the circuit and nearly ended his season. It hadn’t been personal—it was rather brutal. Honest.

You could still remember the headline: Golden Boy or Time Bomb? The Truth Behind Choi Seungcheol’s Fall From Grace.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Not in person.

But now, here you were—assigned to shadow his team for the next three months. For better. Or for much, much worse.

A nearby cheer pulled your eyes back to the pit, just in time to see Seungcheol peel off his gloves and hand them to a technician. He was laughing, relaxed. A flash of that famous smile.

Until his gaze swept the garage.

And stopped. On you.

His smile faded.

The air between you crackled—not explosive, not yet. But heavy. Dense with unsaid things.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, as if it meant nothing at all, Seungcheol turned away.

But his jaw was clenched and his hands balled up into fists.

You stood still, your pulse thrumming in your neck as Seungcheol walked away, not sparing you another glance. The weight of his dismissal pressed against your chest like an invisible hand, but you forced yourself to breathe through it.

The pit crew had gone quiet, some of them catching the tension between the two of you. You heard a quiet murmur—probably a few people betting on when he’d finally explode at you.

Your eyes didn't follow him, but you couldn't help the way your gaze flickered in his direction every few seconds. His broad shoulders moved through the crowd with an ease that only someone used to commanding attention could possess. There was no denying the kind of presence he had—one that filled up a room, even when he wasn't not speaking.

He disappeared into the building, heading for the changing rooms, and your stomach tightened.

The silence that followed in the garage felt too loud. You busied yourself by scribbling something that wasn't really a note just to have something to do with your hands. Something that made you feel in control, even if you weren't. Not here.

Not with him.

You didn't follow. You didn't need to.

Because five minutes later, you were being ushered down a narrow hallway by Seungkwan, the PR manager, who had been buzzing with nervous energy since you arrived.

He kept glancing at his phone and muttering about timing and contracts,” God! he's going to kill me.”

You assumed he meant Seungcheol. You were right.

You rounded the corner near the back exit just as Choi Seungcheol pushed open the locker room door. He was freshly changed— black joggers, white team tee, towel slung around his neck, water bottle in hand. His hair was still damp.

He stops when he sees the two of you.

Stops like his day just got infinitely worse.

And when his eyes flick to you, there it is again–barely restrained irritation. His lips press into a flat line. His jaw tightens. You almost felt bad for whoever’s about to speak to him.

Almost.

“Cheol!” Seungkwan chirps, voice way too bright for the tension coiling in the air. “Hey, I was just coming to find you.”

He nods toward you like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not standing between two people who share history sharp enough to draw blood.

“I figured it’d be better to rip the Band-Aid off.”

“You remember Y/N, right?” Seungkwan continues, gesturing to you like this is a reunion instead of a landmine. “She’s going to be shadowing the team for the next three months. Full-access feature for the Velocity Weekly docuseries.”

“Part of our image rehab strategy, you know—Transparency. Redemption arc. All that jazz.” Seungkwan kept flailing his arms even though both of his hands are full—one holds a notepad, the other holding his usual iced americano

There’s a beat of silence. Then Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow.

“Right,” he says, voice flat. “A redemption arc.”

He finally turns to you fully, eyes cold, calculating.

You give him a polite smile. Not out of kindness. Out of pride. Control. Survival.

“I’m not here to stir up old drama,” you say quietly.

“Good,” he replies. “Because there’s nothing left to stir.”

He looks at Seungkwan. “Is that all?”

The manager stammers something about schedule sync-ups, but Seungcheol’s already walking past. Not a glance back. Just the soft crunch of his sneakers against the tile floor as he disappears around the corner.

You don’t breathe again until he’s gone.

“Great,” the poor guy mutters beside you. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You don’t correct him.

Because you know—it will.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is too bright.

One of those generic media rooms with foldable chairs, beige walls, and nothing on the table but a bottle of water and a stack of branded cue cards you won’t use.

You sit with your back straight, microphone clipped to your collar, and your notes in your lap— clean, annotated, rehearsed. A thin layer of sweat beads at the nape of your neck, but you don’t lift a hand to wipe it. You can’t. The camera’s already rolling—they wanted to film Seungcheol's ‘candid entry’.

Seungkwan stands just off to the side, behind the lights. His arms are crossed over his clipboard, eyebrows furrowed like he’s praying for divine intervention.

You don’t blame him.

Because Choi Seungcheol is late.

By twenty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

He finally walks in on the thirtieth.

No apology. No hurry.

He moves like he’s strolling into a locker room, not a filmed, pre-scheduled interview. Freshly showered, in a black team tee and dark joggers, with a silver chain around his neck that flashes under the lights. Hair damp and pushed back. Jaw tight.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t have to.

The tension snaps into place the second he enters, taut and quiet like a wire stretched between you.

He drops into the chair across from you and spreads his legs slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the seat. A casual posture, but there's nothing relaxed about him. He leans back like this is a waste of his time. Like you are.

A staff member leans in to clip the mic to his collar. There’s no need for instructions—he lifts his chin just slightly, giving them easy access, his posture relaxed but deliberate.

“Rolling,” the cam op calls.

The little red light on the camera starts blinking. You shift your expression to something neutral, polite. Not fake — just professional. Safe. It’s the one you wear when you’re working. When you’re speaking to men who want to dismiss you before you say your first word.

“We’re here with Choi Seungcheol, lead driver for Team SVT,” you say clearly. “Thanks for joining us today.”

His eyes cut to you, finally. Slow, sharp.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he says smoothly.

You don’t let your smile falter. “Still, we’re glad you’re here.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, but it’s low enough that the mic doesn’t catch it..

You glance down at your notes, fingers clenching slightly around them.

“I’m told you’ve had an impressive off-season.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward the camera. “Trained. Drove. Same as every year.”

You make a soft, acknowledging hum and tap your pen against the margin of your page. “Do you feel like you’re coming into this season with something to prove?”

That does it.

His head tilts just slightly. The corner of his mouth lifts— not into a smile. Into something cooler. Controlled. “To who?”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “The media. The fans. Yourself.”

The air in the room shifts. It tightens.

For a second, he doesn’t respond. Just sits there, staring at you like he’s trying to read a headline written behind your eyes.

Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, voice low. “If I was driving to prove something, I’d be the wrong guy for this team.”

You blink. “Some would say last season proved that anyway.”

The silence that follows is immediate. And thick.

Seungkwan makes a small sound from behind the camera— a tiny gasp, smothered by the clipboard.

You don’t backpedal. You don’t soften.

It’s not a jab. It’s a fact. One he’s heard before. Seungcheol lets the moment breathe. Lets it sit between you.

Then he laughs–short, sharp. No humor in it.

“I forgot how fun you are to talk to.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not personal.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, and his voice is so quiet, it lands like a threat.

You inhale through your nose and glance at your page. Redirect.

“What’s the first thing you think of when you’re on the starting grid?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He smirks. “That’s the point. Thinking gets you killed.”

You write that down, even though you don’t need to. It’s getting recorded anyways.

He leans back again, eyes still locked on yours. Not angry. Not smug. Just… watching. When the camera cuts, the silence remains. You unclip your mic slowly. He’s already standing.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

He leaves before you can decide whether you want him to.

What the hell is his deal?

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The sun is brutal at this hour— high, relentless, glinting off the tarmac like it’s daring anyone to blink first. You don’t. Not yet.

You’re standing just behind the safety rail, far enough to be invisible to the engineers but close enough to see everything that matters. Helmeted figures blur past in streaks of color, but your eyes are locked on only one: car number seventeen—the one that belongs to Choi Seungcheol.

Your notebook is open, balanced on your forearm, pages flapping faintly in the breeze that smells like burnt rubber and hot fuel. The top line reads in neat block letters: “Voiceover Segment – Driver Profiles: Racecraft.”

Underneath, bullet points:

Brake timing: early on corners 6 and 9.

Lap 2: oversteer correction, razor-sharp.

Turn-in commitment : aggressive, clean.

Line discipline: tight, zero margin wasted.

Unsettled entry into Turn 13: intentional???

You scribble as he exits the far chicane, eyes narrowing slightly at the way he recovers with that barely-there flick of the wrist. It’s art, in a way most people will never understand. Not just velocity— it’s violence in control.

You look over to the small screen placed near the railings, then you notice something. Not technical. Not really. You glance down and, without meaning to, write:

Turn-in is sharp. Overcorrects slightly on exits. Quick hands. Always. Habit?

Still as stone under braking—almost eerie.

You stare at the words.

Your pen hovers. Pauses. Then moves again.

Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

“You planning to psychoanalyze his split times next?”

You startle.

Seungkwan is behind you, half in shadow, holding an iced coffee that’s already starting to drip down his fingers. His eyebrows are raised and his smile is dry.

You slam the notebook shut. The pages snap together like a secret being hidden.

“It’s for the voiceover,” you say, a little too quickly. “Atmosphere.”

“Mm. Sure.” He sips. “Very... moody atmosphere. Like a tragic Greek chorus monologue. I can practically hear the cello in the background.”

You glare. He grins wider.

Then he steps beside you, following your gaze to the track. Seungcheol passes again, fast and clean, leaving a scream of engine noise in his wake. He doesn’t look toward the wall. Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

Especially not you.

Seungkwan exhales, quieter now, “He hasn’t said a word to me since your name came up this morning.”

You look away. “He doesn’t have to.”

“No. But it’s weird. Even for him.”

The notebook feels heavy in your hands now, the weight of your own words still pressed between the pages.

Seungkwan gives you a long, considering look.

��Just... be careful with him,” he says finally. “He doesn’t forget much. Or forgive easily.”

The memory creeps in before you can stop it.

It was supposed to be just another race-day wrap-up.

The kind you could write in your sleep: thirty-second soundbites, recycled talking points, a handful of overused metaphors about speed and pressure. Seungcheol hadn’t finished the race— DNF, something about engine failure or a pit stop gone wrong— and when he finally stepped into the press pen, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

You didn’t take it personally. Drivers got like that sometimes. Adrenaline was cruel like that— hot and fast and feral.

“Walk us through what happened out there today?” you asked, calm, polite, voice barely rising above the whir of cameras and clicking shutters.

He scoffed. Actually scoffed. “There’s nothing to walk through. We didn’t finish.” Short. Clipped. Dismissive.

You tried again. “Some people think the restart might’ve been too aggressive–”

His visor lifted just enough to meet your eyes. Dark. Unreadable.

“Some people should actually watch the footage before asking dumb questions.”

And then he turned. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t look back. Just walked off, gloves still crumpled in one fist, jaw locked like stone.

You hadn’t planned to write anything critical.

But when you sat down in your hotel room later that night, fingers still cold from holding the mic, you couldn’t shake the look on his face—or the sharp twist in your gut that hadn’t been there before.

So you wrote what you saw.

“It’s easy to admire Choi Seungcheol when he’s winning. But when the race isn’t in his favor, his temper shows through the cracks in his professionalism. Today’s interview proved that even the most polished racers have fragile egos.”

Clean. Factual. Not personal.

But it lit a fuse.

Overnight, your inbox flooded–some praise, some hate. Your piece got quoted on TV. Spliced into fan compilations. Sponsors asked questions. PR scrambled. Someone from the team issued a soft rebuttal saying, “There may have been a misunderstanding during the post-race media exchange. Choi’s focus was still on the technical debrief, and emotions were running high. He holds great respect for journalists and values the work they do in bringing the sport to its global audience.”

It wasn’t an apology per se. Seungcheol never said a word.

But from that point on, he never gave you another quote. Never met your gaze in the press room. Never lingered for post-race comments if your mic was anywhere in sight.

And now?

Now, he looks at you like you’re the one who ruined everything.

Seungkwan murmurs, “He’s overdriving.”

You don’t reply.

You are familiar with this version of him. The one that drives too hard when he’s trying to shake something off. You’ve seen it before— in stats, in footage, in post-race silences.

Finally, the radio crackles. His engineer says something about cooling the engine down. And just like that, the car pulls in, growling to a stop. The door lifts.

He steps out—undershirt clinging to him, face shiny with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. His jaw is locked, like the session didn’t clear his head the way he wanted it to.

You glance at the water bottle on the nearby table. Someone had left it behind. It’s not even cold anymore, but still—it’s something.

You pick it up without thinking and cross the short distance toward him.

He doesn’t notice you at first, towel already half-draped over his shoulder, bent slightly as a tech says something about brake temps. But then he looks up. Sees you.

You don’t say a word. Just extend the bottle in your hand.

He stares at it. Then at you. Long enough that it becomes a choice. Long enough that it means something.

Then he says, flat and easy, “I’m good.”

And walks past.

You nod, even though he’s not looking anymore.

No one says anything. But your hand stays closed around the bottle until the plastic crumples slightly in your grip. And then you walk back toward the trailers before anyone can see the look on your face.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The edit bay is quiet.

Too quiet, almost. The kind of hush only machines make — low humming from drives, the soft crackle of the audio monitor when it switches between clips. The rest of the crew’s long gone, lights out in the pit lane, doors locked on the media center.

You should be gone too. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re here, headphones on, fingers pausing and dragging the timeline back five seconds. Again. Again. Again.

Seungcheol’s onboard camera footage is pulled up. A clean lap. Camera mounted on his halo bar—his hands, the wheel, the track flying toward him in perfect resolution. You’ve been trying to write the segment opener for over an hour, and all you have is: Choi Seungcheol is a driver of precision. Control. Ruthless rhythm

You hate it. It sounds like something anyone could say. Something he’d hate hearing.

You rewind again.

Pause.

There’s a freeze-frame of his hands— gloved, sure, absolutely still as he flies down a straight. No micro-adjustments. No nerves. He drives like the car isn’t moving at all.

But then— frame by frame, you notice his left thumb tap twice against the wheel. Barely a movement. Like a tick. Like a habit. You rewind again. Slower.

The tap happens before the DRS opens. Before the straight clears. Like he knows he’ll need the calm, the open stretch–and the tap is permission.

Or reassurance.

You lean in.

“He always taps before the straight,” you murmur to yourself, writing it in the margin of your notes. “Ritual. Or— something else.”

You scroll back to earlier footage from a different practice day. Different circuit. Different weather.

The tap is there again.

Tap tap. Just before full throttle.

It’s nothing. Probably nothing. But it’s there. And now you can’t unsee it.

You rub at your temples, trying to steer your thoughts back to the script. To objectivity. To professionalism. You’re here to document him, not… understand him. Not unravel him.

Still, you click to the footage from earlier— trackside cameras. Wider shot. Less clinical. He’s walking back toward the garage, helmet off, hair sweat-damp, and jaw clenched.

He doesn’t look at the camera.

But just before he steps out of frame, his eyes flick sideways.

For half a second less, he looks at the lens.

No. Not the lens.

You.

Your pulse thuds unexpectedly, stupidly. You sit back in the chair. The note page is still open on your screen. Your last bullet point reads: Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

You highlight it.

Then delete it.

You shut the laptop before you can change your mind.

But the weight of it stays, humming behind your ribs—like something alive and unspoken.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’re seated at the long conference table inside the paddock media suite, flanked by the production crew, comms specialists, a documentary director, and three too-many cups of bad coffee. The air-conditioning hums above, just loud enough to compete with the voices droning through the day’s agenda. The room smells faintly of rubber, sweat, and those branded granola bars the crew keeps handing out.

Seungcheol hasn’t spoken once.

He’s in his racing suit still, half-zipped and tied at the waist, black compression tee clinging to his chest. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, cap pulled low. Watching. Listening. Disconnected in that deliberate way he always is—like none of this is worth his time but he’s here because he has to be.

Across from you, Seungkwan flips to the next slide of the media presentation. “Okay, so – docuseries production. We’ve finished with most of the behind-the-scenes material for the pit crew and team engineers, but the big gap right now is still driver profiles.”

You nod along. This part is yours. You’ve spent the last two nights combing through the racers old race tapes, trying to piece together something coherent. Something that looks like a person, not a machine.

“We’ve been thinking,” you say, voice calm, measured, “to balance out the high-speed footage, we could shoot some off-track material. Nothing invasive. Just quieter stuff—daily routines, maybe their time at the simulator, or a few minutes of downtime. To show contrast.”

There are a few hums in approval.

And then– “No.”

His voice isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Final.

You glance at him.

Seungcheol hasn’t moved, but his eyes are locked on yours now— dark, unreadable, flint-sharp under the brim of his cap.

Someone at the end of the table clears their throat awkwardly. You wait for him to explain, or for Seungkwan to interject.

But Seungcheol does not budge.

“You want ‘real’?” he says, tone quiet but cutting. “Maybe start with getting your facts right the first time.”

Your pulse spikes. You stare.

A few heads swivel your way. You force your face to stay still, neutral. The worst thing you could do is show how hard that hit.

“I didn’t–” you start, but he cuts in again.

“You don’t get to decide what parts of me are useful just because your cameras are running.” His jaw clenches. “You’ve already taken enough.”

No one speaks.

Not Seungkwan. Not the director. Not the wide-eyed intern with the color-coded clipboard. Just this stretched-out, sticky silence where you’re suddenly aware of every inch of your body and how very visible you feel inside it.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You look down at your notes— like they might offer some way out of this. But it’s already happened.

Then he moves.

Not abruptly, not with dramatics. But the chair legs scrape the floor, deliberate and loud, as he pushes up to his feet.

Seungcheol shrugs on his jacket, grabs the nearest bottle of water from the table, and without another word, walks straight out of the meeting room. No one breathes for a second.

Then Seungkwan, like clockwork, lets out a weak laugh. “He’s just… not really a media guy.”

No one tries to correct him. And you?

You press your pen against the paper until the tip snaps clean off. Not because he humiliated you.But because for the first time, you think you understand why.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You arrive at the paddock earlier than needed.

Your meeting with the docuseries team isn’t until later in the afternoon, but you came two hours early and now you’re standing awkwardly in a place you’re technically allowed to be, but feel like you shouldn’t.

From the corner, you watch him finish his final practice lap. Seungcheol’s car rolls into the garage, engine ticking hot, his visor still down. Someone opens the cockpit. He climbs out like a machine disengaging—fluid, precise, all quiet intensity.

Then he sees you.

Or maybe just registers your presence. His head turns, eyes landing on you for a fraction of a second. His expression doesn’t shift. No surprise, no annoyance. Nothing.

He doesn’t ask why you’re here.

He just pulls off his gloves, helmet tucked under his arm, and walks straight past you toward the changing room at the back of the garage. Like you’re furniture. Background. Static.

You exhale deeply. Fair enough.

You wait.

It takes several minutes. You hear the sound of a locker door slamming shut, muffled movement, the faint hiss of a water bottle being opened.

Then— footsteps. He emerges.

Fresh shirt, hair damp and curling at his temple, towel slung around his neck as he rakes it over the back of his head. He doesn’t see you at first— his focus is on drying off, his stride already pulling him toward the far side of the hallway.

Then he spots you.

Leaning against the wall opposite the changing room, arms crossed, posture casual but heart pounding a little too loud for your own liking.

His steps falter. Briefly. Just for a beat.

Then resumes, unfazed, like he’s made a silent decision to walk past you entirely.

You let him.

Until he’s two steps ahead of you.

“Seungcheol.”

Your voice isn’t loud, but it stops him.

He turns, slowly. That same unreadable look in his eyes, sharp and distant like he’s looking through you instead of at you.

You step forward.

No grand gestures. No long speeches. Just a small can of cherry soda in your hand— cool, slightly dewed from sitting in the media fridge.

You extend it toward him. “You did well today.”

He blinks once. Then again, slower.

His gaze drops to the can, then lifts to your face.

“…Have you poisoned this?”

You let out a sigh. You deserve that.

“No,” you murmur. “Though I probably deserve that kind of suspicion.”

His brow lifts a little at that–surprised by your honesty, maybe. But still guarded.

“I just–” you start, voice low, unsure. You shift the can in your hands like it’s something fragile. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For the article. For…everything it cost you.”

His expression doesn’t change.

You push forward anyway.

“I didn’t know it would spiral like that. I didn’t know you at all, and that’s the worst part, right?” You glance away, swallow. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not now. Maybe not ever. But… I hope someday you’ll hate me a little less.”

It hangs there for a moment.

Not silence exactly— there’s still the hum of equipment in the background, distant voices from the other end of the paddock— but it feels like silence.

You take one careful step forward and press the cherry soda into his hand. You don’t wait to see if he accepts it fully.

Just a small, tired smile. Tight-lipped. Not hopeful. Just… human.

And then you leave. You don’t look back. But if you did, you’d see him standing in place, eyes on the can in his hand like it’s a message he hasn’t quite decided how to read yet.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You almost skip dinner.

You tell yourself it’s because you have notes to revise, footage to sort through, emails to send. Some twelve-year-old-girl excuse.

But really, it’s the risk of being in the same room as him — the same cramped circle of laughter and clinking glasses and easy camaraderie you still feel slightly removed from.

Seungkwan doesn’t let you off the hook. “They won’t bite,” he says, tugging you toward the restaurant entrance. “Well. Maybe Seungcheol will. But I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave teeth marks.”

You shoot him a look. He grins. It helps. A little.

Inside, the team is already gathered around a long, narrow table. A place is cleared for you just as you arrive. By some twist of fate— or more likely, Seungkwan's passive-aggressive seating plan— your spot is right beside him.

Choi Seungcheol. Black hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Gaze locked on the menu like it’s about to pick a fight.

He doesn’t look at you when you sit. Doesn’t greet you either. His attention stays locked on his plate, one elbow propped on the table, his fingers absentmindedly circling the neck of his water bottle.

Conversation flows around him — light, messy, animated. Someone makes a joke about the docuseries. Something about how dramatic it's going to make all of them look. A few heads turn toward you.

You brace yourself, already reaching for your glass.

But before anyone can say more, Seungcheol cuts in. Voice flat, but not cold, “At least they’re doing their job.”

You glance over, startled. His gaze isn’t on you— it’s fixed somewhere across the table. He doesn’t say anything else.

You don’t either.

After a while, the laughter gets too loud, and the room too warm. You slip away, excusing yourself quietly, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

The breeze is immediate, tugging strands of hair from your face. You breathe in slowly, eyes closing for a beat. Just one. Long enough to gather your thoughts. Or let them go.

Until you hear footsteps behind you. Soft but deliberate.

You don’t have to turn. Your posture straightens instinctively, some part of you already aware of the heat that trails after him like a second skin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just comes to a stop a pace behind you. Then, after a beat, “You always disappear like this?”

His voice is quieter than usual. Not teasing. Just… curious.

You glance over your shoulder. “Only when I need air.”

He nods. Looks up at the sky like it’s given him something to think about before he stares down at the ground. Then, without a word, pulls his hoodie over his head.

You blink.

“What are you–?”

Before you can finish, he’s stepping closer— not touching, but near enough that you can feel it — and draping the soft fabric over your shoulders.

“It gets cold at night,” he says simply, scratching the side of his nose like it’ll make him less embarrassed. “Didn’t want you freezing out here and getting blamed for holding up filming tomorrow.”

You’re too stunned to answer right away.

The hoodie is warm. It smells like wind and gasoline and whatever aftershave he uses.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods again. Turns without fanfare and slips back inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

You stand there for another minute, fingers tightening around the fabric, heart doing something stupid against your ribs.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You don’t know when it starts, exactly.

Maybe it’s the day Seungcheol doesn’t just ignore your greeting, but gives a faint nod in return. Or when he asks, without looking up from his gloves, whether the docuseries will be covering the wet tire strategy segment— like your opinion holds weight. He still keeps his distance, still rarely meets your eyes, but his silence has lost its bite. It doesn’t bristle anymore. It lingers.

He doesn’t bolt from shared rooms. Doesn’t brush past you like you’re invisible. One time, he even moves aside to let you through the garage door first— a small thing, but enough that Seungkwan later texts you 10 eyes emojis.

And then there’s the cherry soda. You keep seeing it— half-empty cans in the recycling bin, one tucked beside his gear bag. He never says anything, but he doesn’t not accept them when you leave one near his seat after a long day.

You haven’t earned a smile. Not yet. But you believe the hatred’s softening into something else. Something almost watchful. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re still a threat— or something far more dangerous

It had been pouring for hours.

You were supposed to get off work at five, but the storm had other plans. Rain tapped hard against the windows, a steady, relentless sheet that turned the world outside into a blur of grey. You figured you’d stay back—might as well get some editing done while waiting it out.

But the sky never cleared.

Eventually, you packed your things, tugged your jacket tighter around you, and stepped under the building’s glass overhang, eyes on the road as you waited for your taxi.

You thought almost everyone had left, so you clearly didn’t expect to hear footsteps behind you.

“You’re still here?” a voice said, low and familiar.

You turned, surprised. “You hadn’t left?”

Seungcheol slung a backpack over one shoulder, hair slightly damp, a faint sheen on his skin like he’d been working in the garage. He looked relaxed in a way you rarely saw outside the race track.

“Had a few things to wrap up,” he said. Then he glanced at you. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

You nodded toward the rain. “Thought I’d wait it out. Get some work done while it calmed down. But… I think I misjudged.”

He followed your gaze to the storm. Then, casually “I’ll drop you off at home.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh no, that’s okay. I already booked a taxi.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cancel it. No point wasting your money when I’m offering it myself.”

You stared. “But–”

“No buts,” he said, grinning now, the kind that made his dimple flash. “I’ll be in the parking garage.” And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you stunned under the glass awning.

And, that's how you ended up in the front seat of his BMW, waiting for the signal to turn green. The hum of the engine barely audible over the drumming rain. The windshield wipers moved in steady rhythm, clearing arcs through the downpour. The A/C was on low, keeping the windows from fogging up. But what catches your eye is the small picture tucked neatly beside the central console.

“Is that you?” you ask, pointing to the picture of a small boy in a red toy car. Seungcheol let out a short laugh. “Yeah. My first ride.”

You smiled. “You’ve been driving your whole life.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the steering wheel. His voice dropped, softer now. “My dad used to race. Nothing big. Amateur circuits. But he talked about it like it was sacred. Even after he gave it up.”

You stay quiet, letting him go on.

“He had this old kart. Kept it in the shed behind our house. I think I was…four? When he let me drive it. Couldn’t even reach the pedals properly.”

You smile a little. “Did you crash it?”

He huffs. “Into a fence. And a bush. And almost my mom.”

You both laugh— soft, genuine.

He shakes his head, lips twitching. “But I didn’t stop. Every weekend after that, I was out there. Practicing. Pushing. Getting yelled at for tearing up the yard.”

You note how relaxed his posture’s become, the way his voice has settled into something low and fond.

“Got serious around fifteen. Left school early. Trained wherever I could, worked side jobs, picked up sponsors. Didn’t care about anything else. Just… getting fast enough. Good enough.”

There’s a pause.

And then, quieter “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t make it.”

You glance up from your notepad.

He’s not looking at you— his gaze is somewhere else, far away. But you can feel the weight of that question hanging between you.

“You did make it,” you say softly.

That brings his eyes back to you.

And for the first time, you see it — the person beneath the helmet, beneath the legacy and the wins and the walls. A boy who raced because he loved it. A man who never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything. The signal turns green.

But he holds your gaze a little longer than usual, before looking straight and driving.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Your room looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes were scattered everywhere, your suitcase bulging so much it would take brute force to zip it shut.

“Yah! What’s all this mess?” Mina, your roommate slash bestie appeared in the doorway, a glass of lemonade in hand. She eyed the chaos, stepping over a pair of jeans to place the glass on your cluttered dresser. “Are you going away for ten days or ten years?”

She bent down, scooping up a shirt from the floor. “Is this all for your prince charming?” she teased, raising an eyebrow at you.

“He is not my prince charming,” you shot back, holding up another dress from your wardrobe and checking your reflection to see if it flattered you.

F1 was hosting a race in France, and naturally, Seungcheol and the team were going. So when your boss called you into her office with a mischievous smile and said something like, “We need raw, behind-the-scenes action. The lead-up, the aftermath. You already know them—you’re the only one who can pull this off,” you didn’t really have a choice.

“Well, it didn’t look that professional last week when he dropped you off,” Mina said, her voice lilting. “You two seemed pretty cozy. Didn’t take you to be the PDA type. Hugging and all, huh?”

She folded another shirt before her eyes widened. “Wait—isn’t this my top?”

“Yeah, it looks good on me,” you said with zero guilt. “Also, since you’ve found it, can you please put it in the suitcase? Thanks.”

“I’ll forgive you this time. After all, you’ve got to impress your prince charming.”

“He is not my—ugh! Whatever. Also, I’m going there to work, not to date.”

“I never said anything about dating,” she said, grinning as she walked out.

You flopped onto the bed with a sigh.

Yes. Yes you were nervous. But not because of him— well partially. This trip was a big deal for your career. A chance to show what you could do outside the controlled setting of HQ interviews and edited footage. You were going to capture the team raw— tense, driven, exhausted, and elated. You were excited… and also maybe, spiraling, just a little.

Of course Seungcheol would be there. Lately, the two of you had been… closer. After that conversation in his car, things had shifted. Now you both ate together in the canteen. You’d catch him waiting outside your office so you could walk together. Sometimes, he even dropped you off at home, no explanation needed. Seungkwan, ever the agent of chaos, was definitely having fun being a witness to all this. He texts you in the middle of lunch “OMG!! I give it 2 more lunches before he starts feeding you from his spoon” or “CHIVALRY OR WHAT!?” when Seungcheol opens the soda can for you.

It’s not like you were in love or anything… Obviously not. But you liked having him around. You liked the ease that had started blooming between you. The way he made you laugh without trying. The way you felt seen, in rooms where no one usually looked twice. And this trip… maybe it would change something between you. You weren’t sure what. But you hoped— that it would be something good.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The hotel in Le Castellet looked like something out of a period film. Ivy-covered walls, tall wooden shutters, cobblestone paths damp from morning drizzle. You pause in the lobby, suitcase handle in one hand, the other clutching your phone with the itinerary pulled up. The air smells faintly of citrus and fresh flowers.

Seungcheol walked a few steps behind you, dragging his duffel bag along the polished floor. His hoodie’s still bunched around his elbows, and his hair is tousled from the flight.

He stopped beside you, glancing around at the old-world chandeliers and exposed stone walls. “Fancy,” he mutters, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

You nod, letting out a breath. “Feels too nice to be covered in race fuel by the end of the week.”

That earns you a small laugh from him. It’s easy. Unforced.

As everyone begins collecting their room keys, you hang back to avoid the crowd. Seungkwan’s already texting you: don’t take too long u two… they’re gonna run out of good rooms ;)

You roll your eyes. Just then, Seungcheol appears beside you again, a key card already in his hand. He leans slightly toward you, voice quiet.

“Hey. What room did you get?”

You show him the slip from the front desk. He glances at it, then tilts his head. “Next to mine.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I asked the guy if he could put the team close. Just in case, y’know, media stuff or whatever.”

You don’t question it. But there’s a pause. A moment where neither of you move, the buzz of the lobby fading a little.

He eyes your suitcase for a second, then reaches out without a word and takes the handle from your grip.

You blink. “I could’ve managed, you know.”

He shrugs, already steering it toward the elevator. “I know. But I was right there.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it lingers. You trail a few steps behind, watching the way his hand rests casually on the luggage, like he’s done this before. Like he’s just... quietly decided he’ll look out for you now. When the elevator dings open, he holds the door for you without looking, but when you step inside, you catch the faintest smile on his face.

You sit cross-legged in your robe, unpacking your suitcase. Toiletries to the left, clothes (mostly folded, some not) to the right, and an increasing pile of “why did I even bring this?” building at your feet. You're halfway through deciding if you packed too many dresses when a knock sounds at your door.

You frown, glancing at the clock— almost midnight.

Padding over, you open it slowly.

“Seungcheol?” you blink, surprised to see him standing there in a grey hoodie and joggers, hair a little tousled like he’d been rolling around on the bed for the past hour.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I couldn’t sleep. Was wondering if you’d be up for a walk.” he says meekly “I would have asked Seungkwan but umm.. He seems to be sleeping, you know, maybe all that jet lag caught up to him. He lets out a little laugh. “I just hoped you wouldn’t be sleeping. Didn’t mean to bother you, though.”

“You’re not,” you say, amused. “Just give me a second to change.”

—

“You walk like you own the place,” you tease, taking a spoonful of the butterscotch gelato he insisted on getting for you from “the best place in town.”

“I kind of do,” he says, mock serious. “This is my fourth year racing here. I know every late-night gelato stand within a three-mile radius.”

“Oh, so you’re a connoisseur,” you grin.

The cobbled street underfoot winds gently along a row of quiet shops. Most are closed at this hour, but some still glow faintly with warm light. A bakery with pastel tiles. A souvenir shop with tiny Eiffel Towers on the window. The breeze is cool, enough to make you hug your arms lightly.

“You ever come here just for fun?” you ask.

“Never had time. Always training. Or recovering.” He shrugs. “It’s weird, though. Walking around with someone. Like this.”

You glance at him. “Good weird or weird weird?”

He smirks. “Still deciding.” You laugh, and in retaliation, give him a light shove on the arm. He stumbles dramatically, clutching his gelato like a wounded soldier.

“You almost killed it,” he gasps, holding it high.

“Oh no, the tragedy,” you mock.

Just then, a gust of wind picks up, catching strands of your hair and blowing them into your face. You brush them away with a frown– and then feel his hand, unexpectedly gentle, brushing the rest back. His fingers pause briefly, tucked behind your ear.

The street noise fades a little. It’s quiet. Just the two of you standing there, his hand still resting lightly against your hair, his eyes on yours. He’s close enough that you can see the tiny mole on the left side of his forehead— just below the hairline, the way his expression softens when he’s not trying to look unreadable. His thumb shifts slightly, like he might say something— but doesn’t.

Then, slowly, he lets his hand fall away. “We should head back,” he says, voice low.

You nod, heart thumping a little faster.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You are supposed to be filming the pit crew rotation this morning.

Nothing fancy— just clean b-roll for the docuseries team. Angles of tire changes, gloved hands passing tools, that low, satisfying whir of drills and radio chatter. The kind of footage that’ll get sliced up and paired with voice-overs later. But your camera drifts.

Just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice, maybe.

You were framing the rear wing of Seungcheol’s car— looking for reflections in the carbon fiber— but your lens catches something else. A flash of motion just outside the frame.

You pan left instinctively. And freeze.

He’s near the edge of the garage, talking to one of the engineers. Laughing at something. Really laughing— head tilted, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes all crinkled at the corners. The sun sneaks in through the open garage door behind him, casting a soft halo along his jaw, catching in his lashes, warming the brown in his eyes.

And for a second, you forget what you’re doing. You just watch.

The way his nose scrunches a little when he smiles too hard. How his hands move when he talks— animated, open. The little dimple that appears even when he’s not doing anything particular.

God. He’s pretty.

He’s beautiful, actually. Not just in the way he looks. In the way he carries himself. In the way he makes people laugh. In the way he made space for you— even when he didn’t have to.

Your chest feels tight. Your grip on the camera slackens.

He glances up, mid-conversation. Catches your gaze across the garage. And smiles. Like he sees you. Just like that.

You inhale softly. Your heart is doing something weird–fluttery and slow all at once.

Oh.

Oh no.

You love him.

It settles in your bones quietly— without panic, without denial. Just this quiet, solid truth. You love him.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

Today was the cocktail event organized by the F1 committee — a chance for teams and media to mingle, but not really work. You were invited, so you decided to treat it like a night off. Get a little buzz from champagne or maybe flirt with some cute French waiters. You were totally not thinking about Seungcheol.

You decide on a black sleeveless dress with subtle ruching along the waist, featuring an asymmetrical hemline trimmed with sheer ruffled fabric— which you also ‘borrowed’ from Mina.

As you walked into the softly lit room, the low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses wrapped around you. The moment you approached Seungkwan and the group of boys, you could see the surprises on their faces. “Whoa… you look amazing,” Seungkwan said, barely able to hide the surprise on his face.

Seungcheol was standing a little further, his mouth slightly open as if caught off guard. He didn’t say anything at first— just stared at you, a quiet awe in his gaze. Then, clearing his throat, he finally spoke, his voice low but sincere.

“You look beautiful.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned to meet his eyes, and the warmth in his expression made your cheeks flush. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling suddenly shy under his quiet attention

You and Seungcheol found your seats at a round table near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by teammates, media personnel, and a few sponsors. The table was decorated simply— white linens, small floral arrangements, and glasses filled with champagne and sparkling water. Despite the elegance, the atmosphere felt a bit stiff and rehearsed.

The announcer’s voice came over the speakers, crisp and polished, welcoming everyone to the event and thanking sponsors and teams. The speeches went on— a few heartfelt words about sportsmanship, the future of the sport, and the importance of media coverage. But you and Seungcheol exchanged glances, both fighting the urge to tune out. The words felt like white noise beneath the clinking glasses and polite laughter.

Around you, conversations buzzed— some lively, some forced. People in sharp suits laughed a little too loudly, posed for photos, or whispered in corners. The cocktail party was starting to feel crowded, the space shrinking as more guests arrived and the music swelled.

You shifted in your seat, glancing around for a breath of fresh air. Seungcheol’s brow furrowed slightly, and before the moment could become overwhelming, he leaned over to you.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Curious, you followed him out through the double doors and onto the balcony. The cool night air was a relief, calm and quiet except for the distant murmur of the party behind you.

He pulled two flutes of champagne from a waiter’s tray as they passed by, handing one to you with a small smirk. “For emergencies,” he joked, the tension in his shoulders easing.

You clinked glasses softly and took a sip, the bubbles tickling your throat. Seungcheol swirled the champagne in his glass, eyes fixed on the bubbles rising. “You know,” he said, voice low, “it’s kind of nice to get away from all that noise. Sometimes I forget how exhausting it all is.”

You smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, the speeches and formalities are... not exactly the highlight of my day.”

He glanced up, a teasing spark in his eyes. “I bet you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But here we are. And honestly, I’m glad you dragged me out here. This feels... different. Calmer.”

He shifted a little closer, the warmth from his body suddenly very noticeable. “Different can be good,” he said. “Sometimes the best things happen when you least expect them.”

You looked up at him, heart skipping. “Like what?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Like finding yourself standing on a balcony, sharing champagne with someone who’s been in your head more than you’d like to admit.”

Your breath hitched. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Maybe,” he whispered, voice thick. “Or maybe it’s just me.”

You laughed softly, but the tension in the air tightened. Your eyes lingered on his lips, and suddenly the space between you felt charged, electric.

Your conversation slowed without you really noticing, and the space between you got smaller. His eyes flicked to your lips, and yours moved to his. His hand rested on your hip, steady and warm. You could feel the heat between you. Everything else seemed to fade away.

Just as you leaned in, about to close the gap, a sharp clink broke the moment. One of the champagne glasses slipped from the railing and smashed on the ground below.

“Shit! I’m sorry” Then after a moment he removes his hands from your waist. “I– I think we should head back.”

You give a small nod, hard enough to mask your disappointment.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’d been avoiding Seungcheol like the plague.

Ever since what happened three nights ago— the almost-kiss, the silence that followed— you hadn’t found the courage to face him. Not properly. Not without your heart skipping a beat and your words getting stuck somewhere in your throat.

And Seungcheol? He tried. You could tell. Like the time you were in the garage with the engineers, taking notes on wing configurations. He’d walk over, hands shoved in his pockets, hovering like he wanted to say something. But you didn’t even give him the chance— you mumbled something about needing to check a file and slipped away before he got a word out.

Then there was lunch the next day. You saw him enter the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning the room. You ducked behind a vending machine until he sat somewhere else.

And earlier this morning— when he held the elevator door open for you— you pretended to be on a call, turning away so fast you nearly bumped into a potted plant.

It wasn’t that you were mad. Or even embarrassed, really. It was worse than that. You were unsure. And that feeling scared you more than anything.

Unfortunately for you, the team is having their free practice session and lap formation today, and you just happen to have to be present to record them.

The paddock was buzzing, the distant roar of engines reverberating through the asphalt. Team members bustled around, heads down, radios crackling. You stayed behind the camera rig, half-hidden behind one of the monitors, using the equipment as a shield — both from the sun, and from Seungcheol.

You could see him in your periphery, suited up in his practice gear, leaning against a stack of tires, talking to one of the mechanics. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was slightly damp– from sweat or water, you couldn’t tell. Every once in a while, he laughed at something someone said, teeth flashing, head thrown back.

And you hated it– how your stomach flipped, how your skin warmed, how your fingers twitched on the camera button. You needed to focus. This was work. Just footage. Just documentation– and it will all go back to normal once you get back to korea and finish the documentary.

“Y/N!” someone called. The assistant director waved you over. “Can you help me get a few close-up shots of the drivers before they head out? Starting with car seventeen.”

You swallowed hard. Car seventeen was Seungcheol’s.

You hesitated. He was already walking toward the car, helmet tucked under one arm, gloves dangling from his fingers. And just your luck— he looked up right then.

This time, you didn’t look away fast enough.

Your eyes locked. Just for a second. But something shifted. His brows pulled together slightly, gaze steady. Like he was done pretending not to notice the space you kept putting between you.

You took a deep breath and walked toward him, camera clutched like a shield. Before you could raise it, he spoke.

“Are you gonna keep doing this?”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said, voice low. “Avoiding me. Ducking out of elevators. Hiding behind vending machines like we’re in high school.”

You winced. “I wasn’t hiding–”

“You skipped lunch three days in a row,” he continued, stepping closer, the words gentle but firm. “You left the garage the second I walked in. And this morning? You couldn’t even meet my eyes.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deflect—but nothing came out.

So he tried again, softer this time. “Y/N… why?”

You were quiet for a beat too long.

And then it just tumbled out.

“Because I love you,” you said. The words hung in the space between you, raw and sharp. “I avoided you because I love you.” you repeat, your voice softer now.

He froze.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper now. “And I’m scared. Because maybe you don’t feel the same. And if I keep being around you, if you keep being this version of yourself with me—kind, thoughtful, close— I’ll start hoping. I’ll start thinking maybe there’s something real here. And I can’t afford that. Not when I’m the only one who feels it.”

Silence. Just the faint whir of drills and the distant chatter from the paddock.

Then—his hand reached out. Found your wrist. His touch was warm and grounding.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “Y/N, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the day you walked into HQ. And after that night on the balcony, do you really think I haven’t been going just as crazy as you?”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Don’t run. Not from this.”

For a moment, everything slowed— the noise of the pit fading into the background, the tension between you easing into something softer, something real. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes warm and steady.

The PA crackled over the loudspeakers, announcing the start of the race lineup. Reality tugged you both back, but neither moved away.

“See you after the race?” he asked, his voice low, hopeful.

You nodded, already knowing you’d be counting down the minutes.

___

The sun was brutal.

The stands were packed, a blur of flags and roars and camera flashes. The smell of rubber, asphalt, and heat hung thick in the air as the teams scrambled for final checks. Mechanics swarmed like ants, tightening bolts, checking tire pressure, calibrating sensors. Overhead, a helicopter circled the track, catching aerial shots for the broadcast.

You were posted near the pit wall, camera hanging from your neck, a comm in your ear buzzing with static and updates.

But your eyes— they were on Car Seventeen.

Seungcheol sat behind the wheel, helmet on, visor down. From this distance, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you didn’t need to. You knew his routine by now— the way he leaned back and rotated his shoulders before a race, the way he tapped the steering wheel twice before the formation lap, how his fingers curled like he was anchoring himself.

The lights went out and Seungcheol launched off the grid like a bullet, tires spinning for half a breath before catching grip. Ahead, three cars jostled for position— he was P6, boxed in, the track narrowing into the first corner like the eye of a needle.

He stayed wide. Braked late. Too late, almost.

The car twitched as he dove into the corner, threading between two rivals. A puff of smoke, a lock-up— someone behind miscalculated— but he was clean through, emerging in P4.

By Lap 7, the front runners were bunched tight. Every straight was a drag race, every corner a standoff. The car ahead swerved left— blocking. Seungcheol feinted right, then cut back with precision, catching the slipstream on the long straight.

He pulled out at the last second. Side by side. Gear shifts slammed. Wheels inches apart. At 310 km/h, he edged forward, took the inside line— and held it.

P3.

The car behind didn’t let up. On Lap 10, it was payback. Seungcheol saw it coming too late–brakes flashing, the other driver dove from the outside. They nearly touched through the apex, Seungcheol forced wide, dust kicking up under his tires.

He dropped to fourth, but not for long.

Next lap, he studied the braking points— waited for the tiniest mistake. It came at Turn 9: a late apex. Seungcheol threw his car down the inside like a blade, tires skimming the curb, just enough grip to stick it. Sweat clung to his neck. His gloves were soaked, hands still steady on the wheel. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Eyes locked on the two cars ahead.

Lap 17. The second-place driver ran deep into the hairpin— barely a car length ahead.

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate.

He switched the diff, went full attack. The rear twitched under him as he accelerated early. The grip held. His nose was inside by the next turn. The two cars touched wheels lightly, metal brushing metal— but he didn’t lift.

By the time they hit the main straight, Seungcheol was in second.

Now it was just one left. And he wasn’t giving it up easy.

The last five laps were hell. DRS opened. They swapped places twice. Once, they went three corners side by side— wheels locked, tires screeching. Seungcheol braked into the final chicane from too far back, but he held it— just barely. The rear of the car squirmed, traction dancing on the edge of disaster.

Final lap. Final sector.

He was ahead. Just a few tenths.

The last turn came up fast — he didn't brake early, didn’t lift. He trusted the car.

The tires screamed, the G-forces crushed his ribs — and then, he was out of the turn, full throttle, crossing the finish line.

First.

His hands shook as he unclipped the wheel. The car slowed, the crowd a blur, but none of it landed. All he could think about was one thing—

He’d won, and you were there.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is buzzing— reporters crammed into every row, microphones armed, flashes going off like fireworks. Seungcheol has just won the race. He sits at the center of the table, sweat still glistening at his temples, race suit half-unzipped and collar tugged loose.

He should be talking about tires. About strategy. About the last-minute overtake that made the crowd lose their minds.

But his eyes flicker to you every other second.

You’re standing off to the side of the room, barely visible to the press, heart pounding from more than just the win.

A reporter asks him about the final lap.

Seungcheol answers smoothly. “It was tight, but I knew what I had to do. I’ve never wanted something more in a race.”

Another reporter chimes in, “You seemed... different out there today. Sharper. More emotional. Was something motivating you?”

He pauses.

And then, right there, with a thousand eyes watching him and the world on record—

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, voice steady. “There was.”

A small smile pulls at his lips as he glances toward you.

“There’s someone,” he continues. “Someone who’s been behind the scenes since the start of the season. You might not see her in front of the cameras, but she’s there. Always. Working, filming, noticing things no one else does.”

You freeze.

“She’s smart. Sharp. And the most annoying person when she wants to be.” His grin grows, softer now. “She’s also the reason I’ve been driving like I’ve got something to prove.”

A ripple goes through the crowd.

“I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what this feeling was. But I know now. And I don’t care if this is the right place or the wrong one—I just know I want her to hear it.”

He looks directly at you now.

“I love you.”

The room goes still.

You feel your pulse in your ears, the words still ringing "I love her. That’s all."

Seungcheol exhales slowly, nods once, and pushes back his chair. The screech of it against the floor cuts through the stunned quiet.

He rises.

And then—chaos.

“Seungcheol! Are you saying you’re in a relationship?”

“When did this start?”

“Was it before the season began?”

“Is she part of your team? Are you worried about the backlash?”

A dozen voices rise at once, microphones shoved forward, cameras flashing like lightning.

But he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t stop.

He just gives a tired half-smile, dimples ghosting his cheeks, and lifts a hand in a calm, deliberate gesture. “No further comments.”

That’s all he says.

And then he walks off the stage—unbothered, sure-footed, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of a press room. Like the whole world hadn't just tilted.

And somehow, with your heart still thudding and your throat closing up, all you can think is: he said it. Out loud. To everyone.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You were waiting for him outside his hotel room, heart pounding a little more than you expected. You’d slipped away from the paddock, too eager not to be the first to congratulate the winner.

The elevator door clicked open, and there he was— still flushed from the race, a slow smile tugging at his lips when he saw you.

“That was some race, sir,” you teased, stepping closer, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You really kept us all on edge.”

“Finally decided to stop playing hide and seek, ma’am?” Seungcheol leans his hand on the wall beside your head.

Your breath caught, heart thudding harder at how close he was. You matched his smirk, teasing, “Had to make sure you didn’t escape after all that you pulled today.”

His eyes darkened, that familiar heat flickering between you both. “Good. Because I’m not done yet.”

Before you could answer, his hand slid from the wall to your waist, pulling you closer.

He reached for the door handle, his fingers brushing yours ever so lightly. The quiet click of the door felt loud in the charged silence between you. Inside, the dim light softened everything— the subtle scent of leather and cologne wrapping around you. Seungcheol didn’t move away. Instead, he closed the door slowly, turning to lean against it, eyes locked on yours.

His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until the heat of his body pressed gently against yours. His hand slid from your waist up along your ribs, tracing slow, deliberate circles that sent shivers down your spine.

He didn’t break eye contact as he leaned in, pressing his lips softly to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer without hesitation. When you parted slightly, the kiss deepened.

His hands slid down to your lower back, gripping you firmly. Your fingers found the bottom of his shirt, trembling as you tugged it up and over his head. His bare skin pressed against your palms, warm and solid.

A low groan rumbled from his throat as you kissed down his jaw, then you moved your hands to the buttons of your blouse, undoing them quickly. The fabric slipped off your shoulders, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze.

You backed toward the bed, dragging him with you by the waistband of his jeans. He followed, lips never leaving yours, his hands roaming everywhere — your waist, your hips, your thighs like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

You gasped as the back of your knees hit the bed. He took the cue, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you just enough to lay you back, following you down with a low groan. You reached between you, undoing the button of his jeans as he kissed your collarbone, the scrape of his teeth making your back arch

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered against your skin, voice rough and low. His hand slid between your legs, cupping you over your underwear. You whimpered, hips rolling into his palm.

Your clothes came off in a tangle— your skirt pushed up, your bra unclasped, his jeans kicked away. It wasn’t graceful.

You could’ve guessed his size from the way it outlined his briefs. You tugged him closer by the waistband of his briefs, but he paused, forehead resting against yours, chest rising and falling fast.

“Wait,” he murmured, reaching into the nightstand. You watched, heart pounding, as he grabbed a small silver packet and tore it open with practiced ease, all while his eyes stayed on yours.

When he finally eased into you, you gasped— fingers tightening on his back as your body adjusted to the stretch.

“God…” you breathed, head falling back against the pillow.

He groaned against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Fuck— you feel like heaven.”

He gave you a moment, just holding still, his hands framing your waist before he began to move— slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs.

Seungcheol had been relentless, his focus locked on the way your back arched beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in with every thrust.

“Cheol, faster,” you gasped, the plea tumbling out between moans, your nails digging into his shoulders. He responded with a deep, guttural groan, snapping his hips harder, deliberate, forceful—sending shocks through your entire body.

“Fuck baby,” his sharp eyes flicked down to meet yours, a glint of hunger. “you’re making it hard to hold back.”

“Then don’t,” you shot back, breathless but defiant, your hips rising to meet his with purpose. His lips twitched—not quite a smirk.

His mouth found your neck with a hungry urgency, lips dragging over your pulse point before he began kissing down the column of your throat— open-mouthed, hot, and slow. You gasped when he bit down gently, just enough to make you jolt, and then soothed the sting with a languid, wet kiss that left your skin slick and tingling.

you moaned, hands threading into his hair as he sucked at the sensitive spot just below your jaw, drawing another sound from deep in your throat.

Seungcheol grunted, his grip tightened on the headboard. The force of his movements intensified— each thrust deliberate. His arms wrap around your waist and pulls you in— if it's possible anymore.

He moved lower, his tongue tracing the curve of your shoulder before returning to your neck, switching between soft kisses and firm sucks that left heat blooming across your skin. Each kiss was deliberate, each bite a mark of possession. Your hips rolled up instinctively, chasing friction, needing more.

“Cheol! I– I think I'm—” you moan out barely able to form words.

Seungcheol’s dick once again disappears into you. His thrusts get harder. “Yeah? My baby’s close?”

Every time his dick drives into you, your slick forms a ring around the base of his dick.

“Mghh so go-good,” you sigh out, tossing your head back. Seungcheol pushes his face into the valley of your bouncing tits. Each tap of his tip against your cervix had him dizzy, the overstimulation causing each muscle in his body to tense.

Seungcheol’s grip tightened on your hips as he pounded into you with unrelenting force, every thrust sending jolts of pleasure spiraling through your core. Your nails raked down his back, desperate to anchor yourself to him, to the overwhelming heat building between you.

He dipped his head, breath hitching as he nipped at the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Your back arched instinctively, pressing closer.

“Cheol…” you gasped, voice trembling with need, “I can’t hold– nghh anymore.”

He didn’t slow— if anything, his pace grew more fierce, more demanding, matching your rising desperation. His mouth found yours again, a searing kiss that stole your breath, teeth grazing and tongues tangling in a fierce dance.

Your bodies moved as one— taut, desperate– chasing the impossible thrill of release. And then— with a guttural growl, he tensed inside you, shattering the last restraint as waves of pleasure crashed over you both in a crescendo of raw, unfiltered bliss.

You clung to each other in the aftermath, breathless and trembling, the fierce glow of your shared fire still burning bright in the dim room.

Seungcheol shifted beside you, his hands warm and careful as they brushed away the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead. His fingers traced slow, soothing patterns along your skin, grounding you after the storm of sensation.

He reached for the soft towel folded nearby and dipped it into the glass of water on the nightstand. With deliberate gentleness, he pressed the cool cloth to your flushed cheeks, wiping away the sheen of sweat and the remnants of kisses along your neck.

“You’ve got marks,” he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of admiration and protectiveness. His lips brushed over the places where his teeth had left gentle imprints, leaving you breathless all over again.

Without a word, he pressed a tender kiss to each one, as if silently apologizing and claiming you all at once.

Seungcheol’s fingers slid beneath the sheet, tracing the curve of your waist, making sure you were comfortable. Then he helped you adjust your clothes, pulling the fabric back over your shoulders and smoothing it down with care.

His hands lingered just a moment longer as he pulled you close, wrapping you in a warm embrace. The steady beat of his heart against your ear was the only sound in the room, a quiet promise that he was there, that you were safe.

“Rest now,” he whispered, voice low and soothing. “I’ll be right here.”

You sighed, melting into his arms, feeling the last traces of tension ebb away. And as your eyelids drifted closed, the world outside faded until all that remained was this— his touch, his warmth, and the quiet certainty of being loved.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

It was only day three of dating, but somehow every little thing Seungcheol did felt like a scene straight out of a movie— and you weren’t complaining.

You were wandering near the Seine, the spring breeze tousling your hair, when Seungcheol suddenly stopped and looked at you with a mischievous grin.

“Race you to that bench,” he challenged, pointing across the park.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “You’re on.”

In a burst of laughter and clumsy running, you both sprinted— Seungcheol barely beating you and collapsed on the bench, breathless.

He nudged you with his shoulder. “Not bad for someone who claims to hate running.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you huffed. “I’m just letting you win.”

He laughed and then suddenly turned serious, eyes soft. “You know, it’s crazy how fast this feels like more than just three days.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long. “I’m already imagining all the mornings I want to wake up next to you.”

You grinned. “Slow down, Speed Racer.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, quick but sweet. “I’m just getting started.”

______________

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jungwnies · 1 month ago

Text

f1 grid | building legos

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : building legos with your f1 boyfriend ୨ৎ : word count : 1002

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : ive been contemplating getting one of the lego sets but i do not have the dedication to be doing all of that...

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

dead serious from the second you open the box

“we build it exactly like the instructions or we don’t build it at all”

holds up a single sticker for 5 minutes trying to align it perfectly

mildly offended that the lego car doesn’t come with DRS

does not speak the entire build but high-fives you when it’s done

yuki tsunoda

swears 8 minutes in after dropping a tiny piece under the couch

refuses to use the little sticker tool and ends up misplacing like three

makes engine sounds the whole time for vibes

snacks between steps and gets crumbs on the instruction booklet

still insists on putting the minifigure in the seat at the end and says “me.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

overconfident at first. “we’ve got this. easy.”

15 minutes in: “i think we skipped step 14.”

reads every single instruction like it’s an ikea manual

makes a whole system for sorting the bricks by color and size

gets genuinely offended if you freestyle any part of the build

kimi antonelli

quiet, focused, lowkey terrifying levels of concentration

absolutely the type to be like “you missed a piece” without even looking up

corrects a misplaced sticker with tweezers and surgical precision

“this is relaxing” he says, fully sweating

secretly keeps the finished car on his desk and won’t let anyone touch it

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

“do we really need to follow the instructions?”

10 minutes later: deep regret

gets dramatic when the stickers start peeling on the corners

flips the box over like it’s going to give him the answers

names the finished car “baby ferrari” and displays it like it’s his child

lewis hamilton

you do the building, he handles the stickers and vibes

puts on music and makes it a whole chill date night

gets way too into picking which minifig is “you” and which is “me”

encourages you the whole way like you’re building a real f1 car

posts the finished build on his story with “teamwork”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

“easy. we’re finishing this in one hour.”

chaos ensues. one piece gets vacuumed. another disappears into thin air

you’re handling most of it while he’s dramatically reading sticker names aloud like a race intro

tries to modify the car to give it “sidepods with better airflow”

laughs the entire time but genuinely proud of it when it’s done

oscar piastri

reads ahead in the instructions to “strategize” the next three steps

calmly hands you pieces like a surgeon with a scalpel

only loses his cool when a sticker folds, then he just quietly groans

lowkey competes with himself to get it perfect

says “that was fun” but doesn’t touch it again for three days because he’s emotionally recovering

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

critiques the design as if it's a real f1 car

“this suspension would never survive turn 3 at silverstone, just saying”

gets oddly competitive about finishing it quickly

tells you he’s “just watching” and ends up doing 70% of the build

when you finish: “another one?” like he didn’t just age 3 years in stress

lance stroll

chillest builder ever. doesn’t care if stickers are crooked

puts random pieces on top just because “they look cool”

definitely zones out mid-build and makes a coffee without telling you

holds the finished car up like a trophy and says “you crushed that”

more excited about the little lego pieces than the actual car

ʚ・williams

alex albon

very into the details, especially the color coordination

“no no, give me the sticker — i’ll get it lined up perfectly”

halfway through starts giving the car a backstory like it’s a pixar character

lets you fix mistakes even when he already saw them

displays it on his shelf like it's his new prized possession

carlos sainz

extremely precise, very methodical — treats it like a team strategy

puts the sticker on with a ruler. yes, a ruler.

“this piece is off-center.” disassembles entire front wing

gets emotional when it’s finished. “look how beautiful it is.”

lowkey wants to buy the next set before this one’s even done

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

claims he’s built “like every lego set ever”

gets overconfident and skips a step, causing minor panic

absolutely freaks out over missing pieces (they’re not missing, he sat on them)

makes race car noises while testing the wheels

“let’s do another one” 5 minutes after finishing

esteban ocon

reads the instructions like it’s a sacred text

says “wait wait wait” every time you try to jump ahead

makes dramatic eye contact while applying the tiniest sticker

slightly judging you but in a “you’re cute” kind of way

proudest when the tires go on — “now it’s fast.”

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

chill about it until a sticker goes on crooked, then suddenly stressed

“it’s fine” tries to peel it back off for 10 minutes

ends up more invested than he thought he’d be

takes over the trickiest steps so “you don’t get annoyed”

takes 14 pictures of the finished build for absolutely no reason

isack hadjar

talks a big game but lowkey doesn’t know what he’s doing

“i swear this piece doesn’t exist” — it does. it’s upside down.

makes you do the stickers because “your hands are steadier”

gives the car a ridiculous name like “the hadjar hauler”

wants to race it across the table once it’s done

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

chaotic good.

actually good at building, but gets bored halfway and starts joking around

puts the little fire extinguisher piece in the front seat “just in case”

flirtatiously distracts you so he can sneak a piece on your side

once finished: “let’s build another team next”

franco colapinto

giddy like a kid in a toy store

“this is so cool. this is so cool.”

does the engine part twice just to get it extra neat

lets you place the last piece and takes a pic of you doing it

insists the car stays on his nightstand

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

mutters “bloody hell” every time a piece doesn’t snap right

lowkey loves it but refuses to admit it

gets hyper-focused on the tiny spoiler details

ends up building it alone because you gave up and watched

“done. never again. also, let’s get the bigger one next week”

gabriel bortoleto

full golden retriever excitement

“wait this actually looks so good”

applies every sticker with his tongue sticking out in concentration

says “vroom” after every completed step

takes a selfie with the car like he’s on the podium

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vingtetunmars · 20 days ago

Text

Cool Your Engine

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: A summer car breakdown leads to unexpected sparks when you're met with Eddie Munson, the mechanic.

tags: NSFW, mechanic!Eddie Munson, meet cute, hooking up, smut (18+), Eddie is flirty, but reader is equally as flirty, so Eddie gets flustered, things gets steamy. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Here's another one for yall who hasn't moved on from spring 2022 (dw me too). And I have to warn you guys, it's my first time writting smut. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

word count: 3k

masterlist

It happened three songs into your summer mixtape, somewhere between “Jessie’s Girl” and the first crackle of heat warping off the pavement. Your car coughed, shuddered, and gave up like a dramatic theater kid—right in the middle of the road.

“Seriously?” you muttered, pulling off to the shoulder with what little momentum you had left. A few horns honked in passing, but it wasn’t like you’d planned a breakdown in 90-degree weather with no shade, no A/C, and no clue what was wrong under the hood.

You kicked the tire. Like that would help.

Eventually, with sweat creeping down your back and patience fraying, you called it in. The tow truck guy took his time—of course—and an hour later, your car was being dragged into Thatcher Tires, a squat little shop tucked behind a gas station and halfway disguised by trees.

The tow truck rolled to a stop in front of an open garage bay. Music drifted from a beat-up radio inside—Ozzy—and you caught the glint of metal tools scattered across a workbench.

Then he stepped out.

He looked like a movie cliché. Grease-stained jeans, sleeveless band tee clinging to his arms, dark curls tied back with a red rag. There was a smear of oil across one cheek, a socket wrench in one hand, and the swagger of someone who’d definitely been kicked out of detention more than once.

And you knew him.

Eddie Munson.

High school’s resident chaos goblin. All leather jackets, bad reputation, and devil horns. You hadn’t really talked to him back then — different friend groups, different universes — but Hawkins High wasn’t exactly huge. You knew of him. He knew of you.

And now, apparently, he was the one holding your car’s fate in his ring-clad hands.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin, looking you up and down with obvious amusement. “Didn’t expect you to show up here. This some kind of undercover royalty mission?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

He gestured to your car with theatrical flair. “You know. Hawkins High’s golden girl, stranded in the heat. Sounds like the setup to a John Hughes movie. Except I’m pretty sure I’m the bad influence your parents warned you about.”

You stared at him. He was laying it on thick. Bold move.

“…The engine died,” you said coolly, not missing a beat. “Right after I put in gas. Which makes me think maybe it just gave up on life.”

“Tragic,” Eddie said, walking over to pop the hood. “Sounds like it’s got a flare for the dramatic. Can’t blame it. If I had to live off gas station hot dogs, I’d probably give up too.”

He bent over the engine, giving you an unfortunate front-row view of his torn shirt riding up at the back. You fought the urge to laugh.

Then, without looking at you, he added, “So, you come here often? Or do broken engines just bring us together?”

You blinked.

Oh. So he wanted to play this game.

A slow smile tugged at your lips.

You stepped a little closer, just enough that he noticed the shift in space. “Only when the universe decides to throw me at high school delinquents.”

Eddie straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that only made them slightly dirtier. He caught your gaze and faltered for just a second. “Touché.”

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect the engine. “So, you actually know what you’re doing? Or is this where you tell me I need a whole new car?”

He let out a breathy chuckle, tapping the wrench against his palm. “Nah, lucky for you, I’m the best thing that ever happened to this shop. You’ll be back on the road in no time.”

“Good,” you said, shooting him a look. “I’d hate to have to call another mechanic. One that isn’t flirting with me in broad daylight.”

That shut him up.

For a beat, Eddie opened his mouth—then closed it again. He wiped his hands harder. “Uh. Right. Yeah. I’ll, um, go take a look at the engine now.”

You bit your cheek to keep from laughing. This was going to be fun.

Eddie cleared his throat, dragging his focus back to the car like it hadn’t just gotten lightly roasted by someone way too cute to be standing in his garage, in his space, casually dismantling his ability to flirt like a functioning adult.

He leaned over the engine again, muttering something about valves as he poked around with the tip of his wrench. You folded your arms and leaned back against the car next to yours, watching him like he was a particularly entertaining movie.

“So?” you finally asked. “What’s the damage, Doc?”

Eddie popped his head up, giving you a crooked grin. “Well, after a very scientific examination—by which I mean looking at it and poking it a few times—I’d say your alternator’s fried. That, or your battery connections are shot. Could be both. Either way, your engine wasn’t getting the juice it needed.”

You blinked. “English?”

He laughed. “Car no get power. Car sad.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile snuck in anyway. “Got it. And how long does it take to un-sad the car?”

Eddie straightened up fully, wiping his hands on the same greasy rag as before. “If it’s just the alternator, I can probably have it fixed by tomorrow evening. If I gotta order a new part, we’re talking… two days, maybe three. Depends how fast the delivery guy wants to piss me off this week.”

You nodded, pretending to calculate your suffering. “So I’m without a car for at least a day. What a tragedy.”

Eddie shrugged, tilting his head. “Could be worse. At least you broke down near home. And hey, now you get to hang out at Hawkins’ hottest summer destination: the Munson Garage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is that what this place is called now?”

“Unofficially. Only the cool people call it that.” He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck with his oil-slicked hand and instantly regretting it when he smeared grease across his skin. “Which, apparently, now includes you.”

There was a pause.

You smiled again—slow and knowing.

He caught it and groaned. “God, I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with satisfaction.

Eddie chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’m gonna pull the battery and check a few more things. You’re welcome to chill if you want. The office has A/C and a semi-functioning coffee machine. Emphasis on ‘semi.’”

You considered it, then nodded. “Fine. But if that coffee kills me, I’m suing.”

He gave you a mock salute. “Deal. You die, I get sued. That’s the American Dream, baby.”

You pushed off the car and made your way toward the garage office, brushing past him just close enough that his breath hitched—and if you smiled to yourself as you walked away, well…

He didn’t have to know that.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You stared at the buzzing fluorescent light in the garage office. It blinked in uneven spurts, casting a depressing glow over the chipped coffee table, stained carpet, and stack of Auto Weekly magazines no one had touched since 1981. The A/C hummed like it was on its last leg, doing its best to fight off the heat bleeding through the windows.

You checked your watch. Five minutes had passed.

You tried sipping the coffee.

Immediately regretted it.

You set it down and stared at the door leading back into the garage.

You didn’t have to sit here. He’d invited you to stay, hadn’t he?

Yeah. Totally invited. It wasn’t weird. Not weird at all.

With that flimsy justification, you pushed open the door and stepped into the garage again—where the air was hotter, thicker, and scented like motor oil, grease, and faint cologne. Not that you minded.

Eddie was crouched low at the front of your car, hands deep in the engine. He hadn’t noticed you yet, music from a nearby radio low but loud enough to cover the creak of the door.

And yeah—damn.

The band tee he wore earlier had ridden up again, revealing the sharp lines of his back and the tattoos inked along his side, smeared faintly with grease. His arms flexed as he twisted something with a wrench, a loose strand of hair falling across his face. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge across his temple.

You shouldn’t have stared. You definitely shouldn’t have bit your lip.

But it wasn’t your fault he looked like the cover of a very specific kind of magazine right now.

Eddie finally looked up—and startled just slightly when he saw you there. “Back so soon? Office too glamorous for you?”

You shrugged, walking over like your pulse wasn’t doing weird things. “The light was flickering like it was trying to communicate with the dead. And your coffee? Crimes against humanity.”

Eddie grinned. “Told you it was semi-functional.”

You leaned against the worktable beside him, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t definitely watching the way his curls stuck to the back of his neck. “So what’s the verdict? Is my car dead or just in a dramatic coma?”

He wiped his hands off on a rag, then gestured vaguely toward the engine. “Still coma. She’s responding to tests, though. Could pull through with some TLC and a couple hundred dollars in parts.”

“Hmm.” You leaned forward, peering into the engine like you knew what any of it meant. “You really talk about cars like they’re people.”

He looked at you, a flicker of something dancing behind his eyes. “They kind of are. You learn their moods. Their quirks. Some scream for attention, others give you the silent treatment.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Sounds like high school.”

You both laughed, and for a second, the sound softened the space between you.

Then Eddie cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to come out here, you know.”

“I know.” You looked at him, bold enough to hold the stare. “Just figured you were more interesting than a flickering light and expired magazines.”

His smile twitched, but he didn’t look away. “Careful, princess. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You tilted your head, considering him, considering your words. “What if I already do?”

For a split second, his confidence wobbled. A flush bloomed at the base of his neck, just barely visible through the smears of grease and heat.

“Well,” he said, eyes flicking down and then quickly back up, “then I’d say you’re making some very questionable life choices.”

You smirked, leaning a little closer. “Yeah. I tend to do that in the summer.”

Eddie blinked—visibly short-circuiting.

You didn’t press your luck. Just gave him a wink, turned around, and went back to pretending to look at the tools like you hadn’t just broken his brain.

From behind you, you heard him mutter, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

Victory.

You eventually peeled yourself away from the garage — mostly because the heat and Eddie were making it difficult to think straight.

After making a call, you walked back to Eddie, “I’m gonna have to leave her here for the night,” you said, glancing back at your poor, sunbaked car. “I’ve got places to be, and unfortunately none of them include waiting around in a garage for a miraculous resurrection.”

Eddie wiped his hands on that same rag, slinging it over his shoulder like a towel in some kind of car commercial. “I can work on it tonight, if you want. Should have her running by tomorrow.”

You tilted your head. “You offering that as a mechanic or a... friend?”

He gave a soft snort. “Well, the mechanic gets paid. The friend just wants an excuse to see you again.”

You tried not to let your smirk show too much. “Good thing I like both of them, then.”

That time, he definitely blushed — just a flicker, but you caught it.

A car horn sounded from outside. You glanced toward the open garage doors and saw your friend’s car pulling into the lot, waving lazily out the window.

“That’s my ride,” you said, already taking a few steps back.

Eddie nodded, brushing a grease-streaked curl from his cheek. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You paused at the door, hand on the frame. “Don’t let her give you too much trouble,” you said, nodding at your car. “She can be dramatic, but she’s got heart.”

“Sounds familiar,” Eddie said, giving you a little grin — and a little look.

You raised your brows. “Careful, Munson. You flirt like that again and I might think you’re interested.”

He opened his mouth, but whatever clever reply he had fizzled the moment you winked and turned on your heel.

As you slid into your friend’s passenger seat, you couldn’t help but glance back once. Eddie was still standing there, rag over his shoulder, watching you go with a look that made the inside of your chest feel like someone had lit a match.

Yeah. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The next afternoon, you were back — sunglasses perched on your nose, summer breeze tousling your hair as you stepped into the garage.

Eddie was already elbow-deep in the hood of someone else’s car, but the second he looked up and saw you, something in his face lit up. He wiped his hands off and met you halfway across the garage.

“She lives,” he said, nodding toward your car parked by the side. “Got her purring like a kitten. You’re all good to go.”

You gave him a pleased grin, twirling your keys around one finger. “So does this mean I owe you dinner, or just my eternal gratitude?”

Eddie blinked — caught for just a second in that space between flustered and wanting to flirt. “Depends. Are you offering?”

You tilted your head, amused. “I might be.”

He was the one who took the step closer this time. “Careful,” he said, voice low. “You say things like that and I’ll start thinking today’s gonna get even better.”

Something in the air shifted — like it always did when you two were alone.

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Grab the car, say thank you, go. But the way Eddie was looking at you — like you were trouble in the best way — made your pulse kick up.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, but didn’t back away.

“So are you.”

He reached up, gently brushing your sunglasses to rest on top of your head. The moment your eyes met without the tint between them, something snapped.

You closed the distance first — not quite a kiss, but your lips just a breath away from his. “Is now a bad time to say I’ve been thinking about you?”

Eddie exhaled through a laugh, but his voice came out hoarse. “Only if it stops you from doing something about it.”

And then you did.

You kissed him.

It was slow at first — like testing the water — but when his hands found your waist and you backed him against the wall beside the garage’s tool chest, it deepened. His lips were soft but urgent, fingers flexing against your sides like he couldn’t believe this was real.

He broke away just long enough to say, “You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

You smiled against his jaw, lips brushing his skin. “I’m counting on it.”

Clothes stayed mostly on. But hands wandered. A little too long under your shirt, his rings cold against warm skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging a soft noise from the back of his throat that made your stomach flutter.

The garage door was still open.

“I should not be doing this here,” you murmured against his lips, breathless, giggling.

“Tell that to yourself, then,” Eddie said, nipping at your bottom lip.

You kissed him like you meant to stay longer — and Eddie kissed you back like he didn’t want to let you leave.

What started near the open garage doors quickly got too bold, too heated. A quiet moan slipped out before you could stop it, and Eddie froze like a deer in headlights. His eyes darted to the open lot.

“Office,” he mumbled. “Now.”

You both practically stumbled inside, laughing between kisses. The office door shut behind you with a muffled click — suddenly, the hum of the fan was the only sound, and it felt like you were in a different world.

Eddie backed you against the wall first, lips trailing down your neck, one hand resting just above your hip while the other cupped your cheek. He kissed you like he was trying to learn you — slow at first, but full of quiet hunger.

Then he stopped.

His eyes searched yours, lips parted, chest rising and falling. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “With me?”

You nodded, without a second of hesitation. “Are you seriously still asking that?”

A beat passed. Then he muttered, “Okay,” like a promise.

His fingers slid under your shirt again — bolder this time, less cautious — and you tugged at the hem until he helped you pull it over your head. You made quick work of his, revealing the lines of his pale torso, lean and dusted with grease smudges and freckles.

You kissed each other like you were making up for lost time.

Eddie's hands wandered lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you up against the wall, breath hot against your cheek. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.

“It’s not enough,” you whispered back.

That did it. His mouth crashed into yours again — desperate, teeth and tongue and breathless heat.

Then he carried you to the desk, setting you down like you were something fragile. The fan buzzed above as his fingers skimmed over your waistband, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Still good?” he asked.

You answered by kissing him again, and guiding his hand where you wanted it.

His fingers traced gentle shapes over your clit — feather-light at first, almost teasing, like he wanted to hear you beg. When he slipped past the seam and touched you — properly — your breath hitched.

“God, you're soaked,” he whispered. “Is that all for me?”

You nodded, flushed and smiling. “Who else?”

He watched your expression the whole time, eyes dark, lips parted, the tips of his fingers slick with you. “Holy fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so soft…”

Your hands slid down to his belt, tugging at the buckle with shaking fingers. He let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

When his dick pressed against your thigh, hot and heavy even through his boxers, you felt the last of your patience snap. He leaned over you, foreheads touching, both of you half-dressed and frantic.

“Please,” you said, soft, just for him.

He kissed you again before he pushed down his boxers past his knees. When you saw his dick, thick and flushed, your stomach flipped in the best way.

He lined up, pushing in slow — steady, careful, giving you time.

His breath hitched as he slid into your entrance, stretching you in a way that made you gasp into his shoulder. His hands shook a little where they gripped the desk beside your hips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dick buried to the hilt. “You feel… insane. You feel perfect.”

Eddie kissed every inch he could reach — your shoulders, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear. His hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t let go. You tangled your fingers in his hair, nails dragging lightly down his back.

You whispered each other's names like secrets. You clung to him like he was the only real thing in the world.

The desk creaked beneath you with every thrust, the sound swallowed by the way your bodies met, again and again. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I’m—close,” he admitted in a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours.

You nodded, moaning softly. “Me too. Don’t stop, Eds, don’t—”

You came first, thighs trembling, body arching as pleasure rolled through you in slow waves. Eddie followed almost instantly, hips stuttering, arms wrapping tightly around you as he let go with a broken sound against your neck.

For a long time after, the only sounds were your uneven breathing and the faint faint creak of the ceiling fan. He was still buried inside you, arms loose around your waist.

You were still curled up in the mess of discarded clothes and paperwork, your head against his chest, the fan doing a miserable job at cooling the both of you down.

Eddie was blinking up at the ceiling, completely flushed, dazed.

You grinned, breathless. “Don’t worry... I’m still gonna pay for the car.”

He let out a helpless laugh and pressed a kiss to your hair. “That’s not even close to what I’m worried about.”

#kar's fics ☆#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fics #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things

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ari-ana-bel-la · 15 days ago

Note

Hi lovely, I absolutely love your stories. I was wondering if you could write one for Lewis, he has a daughter who is 16-17 and is absolutely smart, like Einstein smart and it's her first time in the Ferrari garage since Lewis moved and she saw a fault in some engineering work and helped fixing it and shocked her father and the whole garage. Thank you

The Future of Ferrari

Ferrari’s Maranello garage was a symphony of whirring drills, clanking tools, and intense Italian chatter. The team was hard at work preparing for the weekend’s qualifying session, red and black suits moving in well-practiced rhythm. Amid the organized chaos, one presence stood out—not because of noise, but because of the absolute silence and awe she left in her wake.

A girl with thick curls pulled into a loose bun and wide, observant brown eyes stood at the edge of the garage. She wore an oversized red hoodie with the Ferrari emblem on the chest, and a lanyard hung from her neck, swinging gently with her movements. Her expression was sharp, analyzing every corner of the room like she was mentally dissecting the internal combustion engine of the SF-24 just by looking at it.

“Daaaad,” she called out, trying not to sound impatient. “Where do you keep the drinks around here? I’m thirsty.”

Lewis turned around, helmet under his arm, his eyes immediately softening at the sight of his daughter. “Over there, near the data screens. Just don’t unplug anything or they’ll have a meltdown,” he teased, pointing her toward the crew’s refreshment corner.

She smirked. “Please, I could rewire this place blindfolded.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the confidence of a teenager with three physics awards.”

“Five,” she corrected, walking off.

As she moved across the garage, a few of the engineers took notice, recognizing her as Lewis’s daughter. Most had heard rumors of her intellect. She had attended MIT lectures for fun while vacationing in the States and was known for winning national-level science competitions in Europe. But seeing her in the flesh, in their sacred garage? That was new.

She sipped a bottle of water and leaned casually against a pillar, eyes drifting over the open rear of the car. Something wasn’t sitting right. She tilted her head, stepped forward a bit, and squinted at the gearbox housing.

A technician walked past her, carrying a tablet. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping closer to the car. “Is that the final mount design for the differential casing?”

The man blinked at her. “Uh… yes?”

She pointed to a specific joint just behind the casing. “That’s going to cause micro-vibrations under torque load. The fastener's alignment is 1.3 degrees off. It’s subtle, but enough to affect the car's handling mid-corner. Especially if it's hot.”

The tech frowned, unsure if he should laugh or worry.

“Sorry, who are you again?”

“Just his daughter,” she replied, nodding toward Lewis, who was now talking with his race engineer.

“Do you want to… maybe sit down?” he asked awkwardly.

But she stepped past him, crouched slightly, and gestured at a younger engineer who was watching curiously.

“Can I borrow your torque data? Just real quick.”

The engineer hesitated, then handed her the tablet.

She began typing, pulling up schematics, calculations appearing rapidly on the screen. Her thumbs moved like lightning, her brow furrowed in concentration. A few other engineers were gathering now, whispering among themselves.

“I recalculated the stress vector. See?” she turned the tablet toward them. “It looks fine in theory, but under compound load—especially with the way the aero package is set up—it’ll shift. You’ll get slight inconsistencies in traction, which is bad news during qualifying laps.”

The older technician who’d first questioned her stepped forward again. “Are you saying we need to rework this section?”

“I’m saying you need to adjust the mounting bracket by 1.3 degrees, shift the load path just slightly to the left, and reinforce it with carbon-composite washers. If you do that, you’ll stabilize the torque vector and improve rear-end consistency in Sector 3.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

“Where did you learn that?” one of the senior mechanics asked, blinking.

She shrugged. “I read a paper about torque distribution in high-speed cornering last week. Got bored on the flight here.”

Someone stifled a laugh. Another said under his breath, “Bloody hell…”

“Oi!” Lewis called, finally noticing the growing crowd. “What’s going on?”

The head of engineering, a stern Italian named Matteo, stepped forward and gestured for Lewis to come over.

“Your daughter,” he began slowly, still sounding amazed, “just found a design flaw we didn’t catch. One that would’ve possibly cost you two-tenths per lap. Maybe more.”

Lewis stared. “Wait. What?”

Matteo pointed at her. “She’s… she’s like a walking CFD simulator. She even pulled up our own torque data.”

Lewis turned to her, his face a mixture of disbelief and fatherly pride. “Sweetheart, what did you do?”

She looked up innocently. “I fixed your car. You’re welcome.”

A round of laughter broke out, but it was warm, appreciative. The crew clapped her on the back, some shaking their heads in awe.

“She’s incredible,” Matteo said to Lewis. “You sure she’s not secretly part of Red Bull’s spy program?”

Lewis laughed. “Trust me, if she were, we’d all be in trouble. She’s probably smarter than half the grid already.”

“I’m smarter than you,” she teased.

“Absolutely no doubt about that,” he replied with a grin, ruffling her hair.

She smoothed it down with a roll of her eyes. “So dramatic.”

The engineers quickly got to work implementing her suggestions. Matteo kept glancing back at her like she was some kind of wizard. Lewis watched with arms folded, his heart swelling.

After a while, she stood beside him, watching the updated component go onto the car.

“So… what did you think?” he asked gently.

She tilted her head. “It’s loud. Smells like oil. Half the men here don’t know how to hold a tablet properly.”

Lewis laughed. “Welcome to Formula One.”

She smiled. “It’s cool, though. I like it.”

He nudged her shoulder. “You ever think about working in this world someday? Engineering, maybe?”

She glanced at him, then back at the car. “Maybe. If they can keep up.”

He chuckled again. “No pressure, but… you made me proud today.”

She looked at him seriously. “You’re always proud.”

“True. But today, I’m blown away. You just walked into one of the most elite garages on the planet and made a critical engineering correction before lunch.”

She gave a shy smile, shrugging. “Just saw something wrong and fixed it.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve always done that. In your own way.”

As the car roared to life for testing, the modified part holding firm, Lewis and his daughter stood side by side, two Hamiltons—one a living legend of the track, the other a rising genius who might just change the sport in her own quiet, brilliant way.

And somewhere behind them, Matteo whispered to a fellow engineer, “Keep an eye on her. She’s the future.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 19 days ago

Text

I Will End You

Bob Floyd x Fem!Mitchell!Reader

The hangar is loud—too loud. The engines hum, tools clang, and voices blur together into a steady, unrelenting noise.

You keep your head down as you walk, clipboard tucked tight to your chest, the weight of it grounding you in the chaos. Your sneakers squeak softly against the concrete, the faintest sound in the sea of noise.

You hate this part.

The crossing of the hangar, the eyes that feel like they linger too long—especially his.

Jake Seresin.

Hangman.

The man with the lazy grin and the sharp eyes that always seem to find you.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

But you feel him, every time.

“Hey there, darlin’.”

The words drift to you like a breeze—soft, teasing, and so unwanted it makes your skin crawl.

You don’t stop.

You don’t react.

But your heart skips. Not for him. Never for him.

For the man you can’t let yourself think about.

Bob Floyd.

You know he’s watching.

You know because you always feel it—

The way the air seems to shift when he’s near.

The way his gaze feels different—not heavy, not sharp, but soft. Warm. Like the sun filtering through clouds.

You catch the faintest glance—barely there.

He’s by the workbench, hands full of tools, glasses slipping down his nose. His eyes flicker to you for a heartbeat, and it’s like the whole world holds its breath.

You want to smile.

You don’t.

⸻

Later—quiet, in the back corner of the hangar—you’re sorting a stack of forms, fingers tight and tense, when you feel it:

A presence.

Bob.

He’s close enough that you can smell the faint scent of soap and oil, warm and familiar.

“Need a hand?” he asks, voice soft, careful. Like he’s afraid to startle you.

You freeze, clipboard pressed to your chest, eyes wide.

Your pulse hammers in your throat.

“I—uh—”

The words stumble out, clumsy, awkward.

Bob shifts, one hand reaching out slowly, like he’s asking permissionwithout saying it. His fingers brush yours, barely there, as he takes the clipboard.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

His touch lingers for half a second too long, warm and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

Your breath catches.

So does his.

There’s a moment—a pause—where you could say something.

Where he might.

But—

“Hey, Bob!”

Jake’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and too loud.

You both flinch.

Bob’s hand drops like it burned him, the moment snapped clean in half.

You step back, heart racing, cheeks burning.

Bob straightens, clearing his throat, a flush creeping up his neck as he turns toward Jake.

“Yeah?” Bob says, voice tight.

Jake grins, oblivious—or maybe not.

“You gonna help me with this checklist, or you just gonna stare at the pretty girl all day?”

Your stomach twists.

Bob’s gaze flicks to you—quick, unsure, like he’s apologizing without words.

And then he looks away, nodding stiffly, moving to follow Jake, leaving you standing there—

Heart pounding, hands trembling, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

The moment is gone.

But it lingers in the quiet places.

You see him—again.

Bob.

Quiet, careful Bob.

Always there, always close enough that it hurts.

He’s across the hangar, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged on his wrist, glasses slipping down his nose.

You should look away.

You should.

But you can’t.

It’s the way his fingers move, slow and precise, steady in a world that never stops.

The way he glances at you sometimes—barely—like he’s not supposed to, like he knows he shouldn’t.

The way his mouth twitches, just slightly, when you catch him looking.

You feel it in your chest—

A pull, soft and aching, that you can’t name.

⸻

“Need a hand?”

His voice is soft when it comes—hesitant, like it’s a question he’s asked himself a hundred times before daring to say it out loud.

You freeze, heart thumping.

Look up.

Meet his eyes—blue, quiet, uncertain.

You nod, barely, and he steps closer.

Not too close.

Not close enough.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes the clipboard from your hands—barely a touch, but it leaves a trail of warmth in its wake.

Your breath catches.

For a second—just a second—

You think maybe he’ll say something more.

Maybe he wants to.

Maybe you could.

But then—

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

Jake.

Loud, easy, grinning like he owns the world.

The moment fractures.

Bob stiffens—like a string pulled too tight—and takes a step back so fast it feels like a rejection.

Your heart aches.

It aches.

Jake leans on the workbench, too casual, too close, all sharp smiles and glinting eyes.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, but the way his eyes flicker between you and Bob—

He did.

He knew.

Bob clears his throat, adjusting his glasses, his hands fidgeting with a wrench like it’s an anchor.

His eyes don’t meet yours again.

And you sit there—

Breath caught in your throat, hands curling into fists, heart aching so deep it feels like a bruise.

⸻

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way Bob’s fingers hesitated against yours.

The way his voice almost said something more.

The way he stepped back.

The way Jake stepped in.

And you think—

If you had just said something.

If you had just reached out.

If he had just stayed.

But it’s too late.

It’s always too late.

You try not to look for him.

You really do.

But it’s impossible.

Bob’s there, always—

Moving quiet through the hangar, sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping down his nose, mouth soft like he’s always thinking of a question he’ll never ask.

And you ache.

You ache for the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—

The way his eyes flick to your mouth, your hands, your face—

Then dart away so fast it feels like you imagined it.

You ache for the way he stands near, but never too close.

The way his hand almost brushes yours when you pass in the hall—almost, but not quite.

You ache for the way he doesn’t say your name—

Like if he says it too soft, too careful, he might give something away.

And the worst part?

Jake sees it.

He sees it all.

⸻

It happens again—

Late afternoon, golden light slanting across the floor.

You’re at the workbench, sorting files. Bob’s there, quiet, handing you a screwdriver you didn’t even realize you needed.

Your fingers brush.

It’s barely anything—

But your breath catches.

You feel the heat of his skin, the calluses on his fingertips—

And for a second, it feels like the world pauses.

Your eyes flick to his.

He’s already looking at you—soft, tentative, like he wants to saysomething.

His lips part—just barely—

And then—

“Don’t let Bob keep you too long, darlin’.”

Jake.

Again.

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, grin sharp and too confident.

His gaze cuts between you and Bob like a knife.

Bob freezes.

You freeze.

The moment shatters.

Bob steps back so fast you feel it like a cold wind.

His voice is quiet, almost small.

“I—uh, I should get back to it.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

Doesn’t say your name.

Just leaves.

And you’re left standing there, hands trembling, heart aching in your chest like a bruise you can’t stop pressing on.

Jake smiles, all easy charm, and leans closer—too close.

You flinch.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

You look away—

But your eyes follow Bob.

They always do.

⸻

You don’t know how much more of this you can take.

The silence.

The ache.

The almost.

You think maybe you’ll break—

And that’s when it happens.

That’s when Maverick walks in.

You’re at the hangar again—

It’s late, the light dim and soft, the world humming quiet.

Bob’s there, working on a checklist, sleeves rolled, hands steady.

You stand beside him, close but not too close, just watching—

Letting the air between you ache.

It’s too much.

You ache for him—

For the way his voice goes soft when he talks to you, the way his eyes flicker down to your hands, then dart away, cheeks flushing pink.

You ache for how careful he is.

And you hate the way Jake knows.

The way he leans against the table, grinning like the world is his, like you’re just another prize to chase.

“Darlin’, you keep hangin’ around Bob like that, he’s gonna start thinkin’ you like him,” Jake teases, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Your cheeks burn.

Bob’s head snaps up—

Eyes wide, lips parting like he’s about to say something—

And then—

“Hey!”

Maverick’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unmistakable.

The whole room freezes.

Your stomach drops.

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—

And he’s looking right at Jake.

Right at Bob.

Right at you.

“Enough.”

His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a danger in it—

A warning.

Bob steps back instinctively, hands raised like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

Jake smirks, tilting his head like he’s about to make a joke—

But Maverick cuts him off.

“You.”

His gaze locks on Jake, sharp as a blade.

“She’s off-limits.”

The words drop like a bomb.

The air cracks with tension.

Your heart stops.

Bob’s eyes widen, mouth parting in shock.

Jake’s grin falters, just for a second—

Then he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head like he doesn’t get it.

“Off-limits?” Jake echoes, a slow, dangerous smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Why’s that, Mav?”

And then—

“She’s my daughter.”

The words are sharp, final, echoing through the room like a gunshot.

Silence.

Total, absolute silence.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Bob’s eyes snap to yours, wide and uncertain.

Jake lets out a low whistle, backing off with a smirk—

But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

Something like regret.

You stand there, frozen, feeling the weight of it all crash down on you—

Your heart pounding, your hands trembling, Bob’s stunned expression burning into your skin.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to ask Bob if this changes everything.

Because it does.

You can feel it.

And in the corner of the room—

Maverick watches, arms crossed, jaw tight—

Like a man who’s been holding onto this secret for too long.

Bob doesn’t say anything.

He just—

Stands there.

For a second—one second—

You see it on his face—

The way his eyes soften, the way his lips part like he’s about to say your name, like maybe he’s about to stay.

But then he steps back.

And it hurts.

He tugs at his sleeves, clears his throat, and—without a word—he walks away.

Out the door, down the hall, like he can’t get away from you fast enough.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

And you—

You snap.

You turn on Maverick, voice sharp, chest heaving.

“You really had to say that?!”

The words echo across the hangar—

Your voice loud, cracking, raw with something you can’t name.

Everyone’s watching.

The guys in the background—

Hondo, Payback, Fanboy, the whole room—

They’re all staring.

And you feel it—

The heat in your cheeks, the burn behind your eyes—

The weight of it all, crashing down on you like a storm.

“Now the whole base is gonna know!” you snap, hands clenched into fists, voice shaking.

Maverick’s expression tightens—

He’s trying to look calm, but you see it—

The guilt, the worry, the way his jaw ticks as he crosses his arms tighter across his chest.

“I’m your father,” he says, voice low, steady, like that explains everything.

But it doesn’t.

Not to you.

Because you’re standing there—

Heart pounding, breath shaking, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest—

And all you can think about is Bob.

Bob, who stepped away.

Bob, who didn’t say anything.

Bob, who left like you didn’t matter.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe that’s what this changes.

Everything.

You don’t say anything else.

You can’t.

You just stand there, blinking hard, feeling the ache in your chest like a bruise.

And somewhere down the hall—

Bob’s gone.

You barely make it through the door before the tears start.

The second it closes behind you, the walls feel too tight, the air too heavy.

You drop the files on the kitchen table—your hands still shaking—and press your palms to the cool surface, head hanging low as the tears spill over.

You don’t want to cry.

You try so hard not to—

But it’s like the ache won’t stop.

Because you know.

You know what it looked like—

Bob leaving, the way his face fell, the way he couldn’t even look at you.

You think you ruined it.

You ruined everything.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, chest heaving as you sink into the chair, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

You don’t even hear the knock at first.

It comes soft, then sharper, like whoever’s outside is trying not to pushbut can’t help themselves.

You sniff, wipe your eyes, and stumble toward the door.

It’s Maverick.

Of course it is.

He’s standing there, arms crossed, a faint frown tugging at the corners of his mouth—

But his eyes…

His eyes are soft.

Worried.

Fatherly.

“Can I come in?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate, but then step aside.

He walks in, glancing around like he hasn’t been in your little apartment a hundred times before.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you, hands on his hips, like he’s waiting.

And you crack.

“I’m fine, Dad,” you mutter, wiping at your eyes furiously, trying to hold it together.

But he doesn’t buy it.

“You’re not,” he says softly.

“You’ve been upset since the hangar.”

He crosses his arms tighter, gaze narrowing a little.

“Is it about what I said?”

You swallow hard, biting your lip, the tears threatening again.

You want to say no.

You want to brush it off.

But you can’t.

Because it’s not just what he said.

It’s what it means.

It’s Bob.

And your voice—

It breaks.

“I just—” you start, and then it tumbles out, barely above a whisper.

“I think I might have feelings for Bob.”

The words hang in the air—

Heavy, quiet, raw.

You don’t look at him, can’t—

Your eyes burn, your heart pounds.

You wait for him to yell, to lecture, to tell you you’re being stupid.

But he doesn’t.

He’s silent.

For a long, long moment.

And then, in a voice so quiet you barely hear it—

“Bob’s a good one.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

You look up at him, wide-eyed, heart aching.

He just gives you a small, knowing nod, like he’s been watching you two all along.

And then, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the most important conversation of your life, he grins—

“I’m getting pizza for dinner.”

A soft, teasing glint in his eye, like he’s trying to lighten the mood.

“Anything you want on it?”

You blink, tears still in your eyes, and for the first time all day—

You smile.

⸻

But what you don’t know—

What you can’t know—

Is that when Maverick leaves to get that pizza…

He calls Bob.

His voice is low, tight—like a warning, like a threat.

“Trainee Floyd. Meet me at the base. Now.”

Bob’s heart jumps.

He hears it in Maverick’s voice.

He knows.

Bob shows up—nervous, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes wide.

He stands at attention, back straight, like he’s facing a court martial.

Maverick leans against the desk, arms crossed, looking at him like a man who’s seen too much.

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

And then—

“You like my daughter.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

Plain.

Final.

Like there’s no point in Bob denying it.

And Bob—

He can’t lie.

So he nods.

Once.

Sharp.

Honest.

Because he means it.

Maverick’s jaw tightens.

His gaze sharpens, voice low and dangerous.

“If you hurt her…”

A pause, heavy as the ocean.

“I will end you.”

Bob swallows hard.

“I won’t, sir,” he says quietly, voice steady despite the fear curling in his chest.

“I promise.”

Maverick stares at him for a long, long time.

And then—

“Good.”

A pause.

A faint, almost-smile, just for a second—

Before he claps Bob on the shoulder, maybe a little harder than necessary, and mutters—

“Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

Bob nods, hurrying to leave, his heart racing—

But his mind is spinning.

Because now he knows.

Maverick knows.

And maybe—

Maybe there’s a chance.

It happens two days later.

You’re in the breakroom, mindlessly stirring your coffee, eyes fixed on the swirl of cream in the dark liquid—

Lost in the ache that hasn’t left you since Bob walked away.

You hear the door open—

Feel it, before you see it.

That familiar, gentle presence.

You glance up.

It’s Bob.

Your breath catches.

He stands there, quiet as ever, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes soft and hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here.

The silence stretches, thick between you.

You should say something.

You should break the quiet.

But you can’t—

Because your throat feels tight, like if you open your mouth, it’ll all spill out.

So you don’t.

You just stare, waiting for him to leave again.

But this time…

He doesn’t.

He steps closer.

Not too close, just—enough.

And in a voice so soft you almost miss it—

“I didn’t mean to walk away.”

Your chest tightens.

You stare at him, breath shallow, your heart pounding.

You don’t want to hope—

You can’t.

Not when it hurts this much.

“I thought—” you whisper, your voice catching, barely audible.

“I thought you were upset… that you didn’t want to—”

He shakes his head—fast, like it hurts to even let you think that.

“I was scared,” he says quietly.

His eyes flicker to yours—blue and honest and aching.

“I was scared because… you’re Maverick’s daughter.”

You swallow hard, feeling the tears prick at your eyes again.

“Yeah, well… so what?”

He takes a step closer now.

A breath away.

You can feel the warmth of him, the gravity.

“I like you,” he says, barely a whisper.

Like it’s breaking him open.

Like it’s the truth he’s been holding onto for too long.

“I like you a lot.”

Your breath shakes.

Your hands are trembling.

You blink up at him, heart aching, voice small and scared.

“I like you too.”

The words hang between you—fragile, tender, like they might shatter if you breathe too hard.

Bob’s eyes soften—

His whole face softens—

And for a second, it feels like the whole world slows down.

You both take a breath—

Careful, cautious—like you’re not quite sure how to hold this new thingbetween you.

And then, in the quiet, Bob smiles.

Soft.

Shy.

Like maybe he’s been waiting for this moment for longer than you’ll ever know.

You smile too—

Small, shaky, but real.

It’s not a kiss.

Not yet.

But it’s a beginning.

460 notes · View notes

bbybhr · 3 months ago

Text

♡°•|Gears and grace|•°♡

Mechanic!sevika x pastor's daughter! reader

The arrival of the new neighbor wasn't subtle to say the least. The rumble of a heavy moving truck disturbed the usual quiet of the street, followed by the sharp clang of metal ramps hitting asphalt and the gruff shouts of movers. You were standing on the porch, two houses down, watching with quiet curiosity. Your mother, watering the flowers, tutted softly. "Bit of a commotion, wouldn't you say?" You hummed.

Then she emerged from the cab of the truck. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back severely. Even from this distance, the glint of metal replacing her left arm was unmistakable, catching the morning sun. A thick cigarillo was clamped between her lips, smoke curling lazily upwards as she gestured emphatically at the movers, her voice a low, authoritative rumble that carried easily down the street. Dark ink snaked visibly up her exposed right arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her tank top. She hefted a heavy box herself, biceps straining, moving with a brusque efficiency.

Your mother clicked her tongue again. "Well, everyone needs a place to live, I suppose. Bless her." There was a tightness in her voice, a familiar blend of piety and judgment that made you frown a little.

Later that afternoon, after the worst of the noise had subsided, your mother placed a foil-covered dish on the kitchen table. Perfectly baked blueberry muffins, still warm. "dear, be a good neighbor and take these over to... to the new arrival. A welcome gesture." Her eyes held a warning. Be polite. Be proper. Don't stare.

Clutching the warm dish, you walked the short distance, quietly. The house looked much the same, but the open garage was a stark contrast to the manicured lawns surrounding it. Tools lay scattered across a workbench, engine parts were piled in organized chaos,some boxes were still sealed on the ground and the air smelled faintly of oil and metal.

And there she was, wiping grease from her mechanical hand with a rag. Up close, she was even more imposing. The tattoos were intricate, dark patterns against her tanned skin. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flickered over you as you approached the edge of the driveway. You felt suddenly very small, very... plain.

"Um, hello," you managed, holding out the dish as if shielding yourself infront of her gaze that seemed to capture everything. "My mother... we live down the street. She baked these. As a welcome." Your voice sounded breathy, unsure. You never had problem talking with strangers, you loved it in fact!but somehow your new neighbors had an...effect!

She paused, her gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, taking in your attire. It wasn't unkind, exactly, but it was intense, appraising. She took the dish, her organic fingers brushing yours briefly. A strange jolt went through you at the contact that she didn't miss...she was seasoned woman she knew she had this kind of...effect, but you didn't seem to be one of those girls who would get effected, Not by her,not with the modesty that clinged to your style and every move even in your nervous state! well, don't judge a book by it's cover.

"Right. Thanks," she muttered, her voice rough, smoke-tinged. She didn't smile, didn't offer small talk. She just nodded curtly, turning back to the boxes, the muffins seemingly forgotten on the workbench.

You retreated, feeling oddly breathless, your cheeks warm which made your brows frown in confusion. She was unlike anyone you'd ever met. Rough, intimidating, undeniably powerful in a way that was both frightening and utterly captivating. Maybe that was the subject of your...nervousness.

That first encounter set a pattern. Drawn by an invisible pull you didn't understand, you found your way to her garage at least once a day. A pitcher of lemonade on a sweltering afternoon ("Mom made too much"). A plate of cookies ("Church bake sale leftovers"). the chain on your old bicycle conveniently slipped just as you were riding past her house. (You certainly didn't have a part in it). Soon enough because of your bike brave sacrifices you learned way more than just her name...

Your bike was a good excuse everytime that you didn't brought something over. Sevika would look up from welding something, visor flipped up, eyes narrowed behind protective goggles. You would explain the problem, feeling foolish but determined. Without much comment, she'd gestur for the bike, fixing it in minutes with deft, efficient movements of both her hands. You’d thank her profusely. She’d just grunt.

Through all these visits, You sat quietly on an overturned crate just inside the garage beside the work bench, observing her work. The focused intensity, the sure way she handled tools, the mesmerizing blend of human flesh and complex machinery in her arm. You noticed the details ... the way her muscles flexed, the calluses on her human hand, the occasional frustrated sigh when a part wouldn't cooperate. You learned to read the subtle shifts in her expression, even though she rarely spoke directly to you.

Sevika, for her part, noticed you too.picking up a fact or two about your family, your demeanor, and your preferences whenever your quiet voice filled the garage. She registered your quiet presence, the way you never seemed to fidget, your hands always neatly folded in your lap, a calmness that was unlikely in her world. She noted the modest, proper clothes,your shiny Mary Jane that never seemed to get dirty, your way of doing your hair that looked effortlessly neat, again, so different from anything in her own world. And beside this things she absolutely noticed the unwavering admiration in your eyes. It was plain, undisguised, and it stroked a part of her pride she hadn't realized was listening. The pastor's daughter, all innocence and propriety, looking at her like that.

When she found herself thinking about that quiet admiration that seemed to drop from your eyes whenever they layed on her,thinking about what might be in your mind, she wanted to laugh.It was absurd. Hilarious, even. Her and the preacher's kid? Two worlds separated by an unbridgeable chasm. Oil and holy water. Grit and grace. Impossible. Impossible?

And perhaps that was the crux of it. Sevika didn't do impossible. The very notion grated against her core. If something, or someone, seemed unattainable, it wasn’t a barrier! Oh no! it was a challenge. A puzzle to be solved, a situation to be controlled, dominated. The quiet admiration was flattering, yes, but the impossibility… that was intriguing. That sparked something deliberate within her. She would prove herself wrong. Or rather, prove the situation wrong.

One Saturday afternoon, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and summer heat, you were watching her wrestle with the stubborn engine of an old sedan. You sat in your usual spot, lost in the rhythm of her work.

Suddenly, her voice cut through the clatter of tools. Calling you.

You blinked, startled. She rarely addressed you so directly. She’d slid out from under the car, wiping grease on her jeans. Her mechanical hand rested on her hip.

"Yeah?" you squeaked.

"You just gonna sit there gawking all day?" Her tone was gruff, but lacked its usual edge. "Might as well learn something useful. Hand me that 10-mil wrench. No, the socket wrench."

Hesitantly, you stood up, your legs feeling stiff. As you stand up turning towards the workbench, she described the tool. You found the it on the cluttered workbench and walked cautiously towards her. Both of your figure now hidden behind the car from the street. The space felt charged, smaller than usual.

"Here," you offered it.

Instead of just taking it, Sevika reached out, her human hand closing over yours as you held the tool. Her skin was rough, calloused, grease ingrained in the lines, yet surprisingly warm. her thumb brushing against your knuckles as she talked. "Now, look here."

She guided your hand towards the engine block, pointing out a specific bolt. You were acutely aware of her closeness, the scent of metal and something uniquely her... smoke, maybe leather? Your breath hitched. Your mind, usually so ordered, felt scattered, unable to reconcile the strict teachings of your upbringing with the thrilling, terrifying proximity of this woman. Guilt pricked at you for reading too much into it, a familiar sting, but it was drowned out by a confusing wave of… excitement? Fascination?

Sevika demonstrated how to fit the wrench, her instructions low and steady, but her eyes weren't entirely on the engine. They flickered to your face, noting the flush on your cheeks, the slight tremble in your hand beneath hers, the wide, confused gaze you directed at her. The control she felt in that moment was intoxicating.

"You gotta... apply steady pressure," she murmured, her mechanical fingers brushing against your arm as she adjusted your stance slightly. The contact, metal against the soft fabric of your sleeve, sent a shiver down your spine. Time seemed to slow. The sounds of the neighborhood faded, replaced by the hammering of your own heart.

You looked up, needing to understand the shift, the sudden intensity crackling in the air. Your eyes met hers. Sevika's gaze was dark, unreadable, yet held a spark of something possessive, challenging. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken tension. Confusion warred with a strange, burgeoning awareness within you.

In that stretched moment, with your hand still held loosely in hers over the cold metal of the wrench, Sevika leaned down. There was no hesitation, no warning. Just a deliberate, decisive movement. Her lips met yours.

It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was firm, demanding, tasting faintly of smoke and something else entirely foreign that made your knees weak and your grip loose over the tool. The kiss was a claim, a spark igniting in the forbidden space between your two worlds, and your mind went utterly blank, consumed by the shocking, impossible reality of Sevika kissing you. Her lips moved ever the slightest on yours, it wasn't like her to kiss like that! But she knew it wasn't like you to have any experience in that filled...she was taking it slow, for your sake.

The kiss broke as deliberately as it had begun. Sevika pulled back, not far, just enough to observe you. For you, the world felt tilted off its axis. Your lips tingled, hypersensitive, the taste of her cigarillo that she smoked hour ago now was on your lips. Your lungs burned from lack of air you hadn't realized you weren't taking, and heat bloomed across your face, a tell-tale blush you desperately wished you could control. It had been… overwhelming. A clumsy, shocking collision on your part, met with a practiced, undeniable expertise on hers. You hadn't known how to respond, simply frozen under the sudden, firm pressure of her mouth.

Sevika, in stark contrast, looked entirely steady. Her breathing was even, her stance relaxed, mechanical hand leaving your arm and now resting once more on her hip. One dark eyebrow arched slightly, and a ghost of amusement flickered in her assessing eyes as she took in your disheveled state looking down on you face with the wide, stunned eyes, the slightly parted lips, the ragged catch in your breath. She saw the shock of a first kiss etched plainly across your features. Hooked, a low, satisfied voice murmured in the back of her mind.

"Well, " she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through the charged air between you. "Someone looks like they just got kissed for the very first time." She said feigning shocked.

Her words were a teasing prod, hitting the nail squarely on the head. Heat flared brighter on your cheeks. It was your first kiss, a monumental, terrifying, exhilarating first. But admitting that? Showing her just how profoundly she'd rocked your carefully ordered world? No. Some instinct, buried deep beneath the panic and the strange, fluttering excitement, urged you to mirror her coolness, to pretend this wasn't the earth-shattering event it felt like. You swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure, acutely aware that only the bulk of the sedan shielded this moment from any curious neighborhood eyes. If she wasn't standing right there, pinning you with that knowing gaze, you might have actually screamed, or maybe jumped up and down from the sheer, terrifying novelty of it all.

"Don't know what you're talking about," you managed, the words sounding thin even to your own ears. You avoided her gaze, focusing instead on a grease stain on the concrete floor.

Sevika merely smirked, a slow, confident expression that said she knew exactly what she was talking about, and knew that you knew it too. She didn't push it further then, just turned back to the engine with a grunt, leaving you reeling in the sudden silence, the ghost of her kiss burning on your lips.

Days bled into weeks. The garage, once just a place of curious observation, became a space charged with a different kind of tension. The dynamic shifted, subtly but irrevocably. Sevika began to punctuate the greasy silence not just with the clang of tools, but with kisses. They were unpredictable, never announced. Sometimes, while you were handing her a wrench, her hand would linger on yours, fingers brushing deliberately against your skin before she leaned in for a brief, firm press of lips. Other times, she might corner you against the workbench, the kiss deeper, more demanding, leaving you breathless and shaken.

She was terrifyingly good at reading you. Sevika seemed to possess an innate understanding of just how far she could push before genuine panic set in, before the ingrained guilt and fear instilled by your upbringing threatened to overwhelm the burgeoning, addictive thrill of her attention. She learned the subtle tells ...the hitch in your breath that signaled anticipation, the slight widening of your eyes when she crossed a boundary, the way you’d unconsciously lean into her touch despite your obvious nervousness. She played this knowledge expertly, doling out affection and intimacy with calculated precision, always keeping you slightly off-balance, always wanting more.

She knew exactly what she was doing, the practiced ease of her touches, the confidence in her kisses, designed to unravel you. A part of her, the arrogant, prideful part, relished the idea of someone seeing the pastor's pious daughter, willingly entangled with someone like her. It would be a delicious scandal, a testament to her power of influence. But she also recognized the brittle fear beneath your fascination. Pushing you into the public eye too soon would likely shatter the delicate connection she was forging, send you scurrying back to the safety of your prescribed world. So, for now, she granted you the privacy of the garage, the shared secret intensifying the illicit thrill for both of you.

Today felt different. An edgy anticipation hummed beneath your skin. You hadn't seen Sevika yesterday, a planned church event keeping you occupied, and the day before that, she'd been engrossed in a complex wiring job, offering no more than curt instructions and ignoring your hopeful glances. The absence of contact, after the growing pattern of unpredictable intimacy, left an annoying ache, a restlessness you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You were leaning against the workbench, watching her meticulously clean a carburetor part. She moved with that same focused intensity, her mechanical fingers surprisingly dexterous with the small components. The late afternoon sun slanted through the open garage door, casting long shadows. You traced a pattern on the dusty bench with your finger, trying to appear nonchalant.

Sevika straightened up, wiping her hands on a rag. She needed something from the higher shelves behind you. She moved towards you, her proximity instantly setting your nerves on high alert. Your breath caught. Is she…? She leaned in close, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and smoke filling your senses. Her face was inches from yours; you could see the faint lines around her eyes, the dark intensity of her gaze as she reached past you for a can of cleaner on the shelf.

Your heart, which had leaped into your throat, plummeted with disappointment. She pulled back, turning away without a word, without even a glance.

An involuntary sound, a small huff of frustration, escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Sevika paused, halfway back to her task. She turned slowly, that knowing, slightly cruel smirk playing on her lips again. "Something bothering you, Pastor's kid?"

You flushed, caught out. "No. Nothing."

"Really?" She took a step closer, invading your space again, her presence magnetic and intimidating. "Sounded like you were expecting something." Her eyes glittered with challenge. "If you want something," she said, her voice dropping lower, rougher, "you need to learn to ask for it."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Ask for it? Ask her? For a kiss? The very idea sent a wave of heat crawling up your neck. Your strict upbringing, the ingrained modesty, the sheer audacity of voicing such a desire warred with the memory of her touch, the addictive thrill of her attention, the frustrating ache of wanting it now. Embarrassment tightened your throat, but her challenging stare, the sheer force of her personality, pushed you.

"I... I just..." The words tangled on your tongue, thick with mortification. You couldn't look at her. "Maybe... could you...?"

Before the full, humiliating request could stumble past your lips, Sevika moved. Her human hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up forcefully. Her mouth crashed down onto yours, harder than before, a kiss that wasn't teasing but staking a claim, punishing your hesitation and rewarding your tentative compliance all at once. It stole the air from your lungs, demanding a response you were barely capable of giving, lost in the sudden onslaught. You would plead more often if this is the reward you'll be getting.

But then, just as you felt yourself start to sway, the kiss shifted. Her lips left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, down the sensitive column of your throat. You gasped, your head instinctively tilting back, granting her access. It was uncharted territory, a shocking escalation that sent shivers racing across your skin. She paused there, her breath warm against your pulse point, her eyes, dark and intense, searching yours. It wasn't a question asked in words, but the query was unmistakable: May I?

Every warning bell from your past screamed 'no,' screamed 'danger,' screamed 'sin.' But the feeling of her lips against your skin, the possessive grip on your jaw, the raw, predatory focus in her eyes… it silenced everything else. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel the frantic beat of your heart against her proximity. You didn't pull away. Your eyes fluttered shut.

That was answer enough.

Sevika smirked against your skin before her mouth closed firmly over the juncture where your neck met your shoulder. You jolted at the sharp, sucking pressure, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper escaping you. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was intense, startling, possessive. She lingered for a moment before pulling back slightly, her thumb brushing over the spot.

She surveyed her handiwork, a dark, blooming mark against your skin, a visible sign of her claim. A low sound of satisfaction rumbled in her chest. She leaned close to your ear, her voice a rough whisper that sent another wave of shivers through you.

"That's right," she murmured, the words a praise for you bravery of coming out of your comfort zone. "Good girl. Now you will know who you belong to everytime you look into the mirror."

Weeks passed, sevika ever the presistor never let the mark leave your neck, you had to constantly choose clothing with high collar but the smile on your lips screamed "worth it". Dinners at your parents’ house was usually a quiet affair, governed by polite conversation and the rhythmic clinking of silverware. Tonight, though quiet, felt different inside you. A secret warmth curled in your stomach, a buoyancy that made it hard to keep the corners of your lips from twitching upwards. You kept your eyes mostly on your plate, the high, stiff collar of your blouse feeling both protective and suffocating against the sensitive skin of your neck. The dark marks hidden beneath were a constant, thrilling reminder of Sevika, a secret language only the two of you shared.

"Mrs. Gable mentioned seeing you chatting with our new neighbor quite often, " your mother commented casually, placing a serving spoon back in the mashed potatoes "Sevika, wasn’t it?"

The sudden mention of her name made you inhale sharply, a piece of roast potato lodging itself in your throat. You coughed, eyes watering, as a strangled gasp escaped you. Your father immediately passed you the water glass, patting your back gently.

"Goodness, dear, careful," your mother fussed, though her expression held only mild concern, misinterpreting your reaction as simple surprise. "I was just saying, it’s nice you’re being so welcoming. Perhaps," she continued, turning a thoughtful look on you, "you could invite her to service this Sunday? It would be a kind gesture. Show her some community spirit."

Your father nodded approvingly. "That’s a fine idea," he said to your mother than after a pause he turned back to you "I’m really proud of you, dear, for looking past appearances and extending friendship. That’s true Christian spirit."

Guilt twisted sharply in your gut, mingling uncomfortably with the secret thrill. Spirit? Friendship? If they only knew. The image of Sevika’s lips against your neck, the possessive heat in her eyes, flashed in your mind. "Oh. Um, yes. Maybe I could," you mumbled, agreeing weakly. The thought of Sevika, Sevika with her utter lack of reverence for anything, stepping foot inside your father’s church was terrifying.

The next afternoon, back in the familiar territory of the garage, the anxiety from last night returned tenfold. You perched on your usual crate, watching Sevika work, but your usual quiet observation was replaced by a nervous fidgeting you couldn’t control something so out of ordinary for you. Your mind was occupied, What if she laughed in your face? What if she said no and thought you were trying to force your beliefs on her? Worse, what if she said no, and your parents took it as a sign she wasn’t receptive to ‘friendship’ and curtailed your visits?

Sevika, predictably, noticed immediately. She put down the wrench she was cleaning, her sharp eyes narrowing on your tense posture. She wiped her hands on a rag and walked over, stopping far too close, that familiar invasion of your personal space that still made your heart hammer. Her human hand came up, calloused thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, a gesture that had become unnervingly familiar, a prelude to intimacy.

"Alright, Pastor’s kid," she said, her voice low. "Spit it out. You’ve been wound tighter than a spring nut since you got here.”"

Her closeness, the casual intimacy of her touch, momentarily scattered your thoughts. You took a shaky breath. "My parents… they, uh… they want me to invite you to church. On Sunday." The words tumbled out in a rush, braced for refusal or mockery.

Sevika’s expression didn’t change much, perhaps a flicker of surprise deep in her eyes, quickly masked. Church? Her? The idea was ludicrous. She hadn’t stepped inside one since… well, she couldn’t even remember. Honestly, she couldn’t care less about stained glass and sermons. But then she looked at you, properly looked. Saw the genuine anxiety knotting your brow, the way you chewed on your lower lip, the plea in your wide eyes. Seeing you this worked up, this vulnerable… fuck it. How bad could one boring hour be? Besides, the image of walking into his domain, the pastor’s holy ground, with his daughter marked and claimed by her… the sheer audacity appealed to her confrontational nature. But it wouldn’t be Sevika if she didn’t make you work for it, just a little.

She pulled her hand back, folding her arms, leaning against the workbench with feigned contemplation. “Hmmm, church,” she drawled, tapping her mechanical finger against her bicep. "Don’t know. Not really my kind of place, you know? Lotta judgment, usually."

"No, it’s not like that!" you rushed to assure her, desperation making your voice high-pitched. "Everyone’s really nice, and Dad’s sermons are… well, they’re good! Please, Sevika? It would make my parents happy..." and I don't know what will happen if you decide not to you though to yourself.

Sevika watched your earnest pleading, a slow smirk building. She already knew she was going, but the game was too enjoyable you were too adorable to resist like this. She pushed off the workbench, to lean in close again. Her eyes dropped pointedly to the high collar of your shirt. Before you could react, her fingers deftly hooked under the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to reveal the fading, but still visible, mark she’d left days before. Her head dipped, and her lips attached themselves firmly to the spot, a deliberate, possessive reclaiming. You gasped, hands automatically coming up to grip her forearms, clinging as the familiar heat and pressure sent tremors through you. She lingered, tasting her claim, reinforcing her ownership right there in the greasy light of the garage.

She lifted her head, eyes dark and intense. The smirk was gone, replaced by smoldering satisfaction. "Okay," she said, her voice rough. "I’ll go." She released your collar, letting it snap back into place, hiding the freshly renewed evidence. Her gaze held yours. "But you owe me one, Pastor’s kid. Big time. One day, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me, and you’re gonna do it. No questions asked. Got it?"

Staring into those commanding eyes, feeling the phantom heat of her mouth on your skin, you didn’t really know what else you could possibly give her, what favor she could possibly want that she hadn’t already begun to take. But trapped in the force of her will, you could only nod dumbly. "Got it."

Sunday morning arrived with a nervous flutter in your stomach. You stood near the entrance of the church with your parents, greeting familiar faces, your eyes constantly darting towards the heavy wooden doors. And then, she arrived.

Sevika stood framed in the doorway, a stark contrast to the pastel dresses and neat suits surrounding her. She wore dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a plain, dark button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal both her mechanical arm and the intricate tattoos snaking up her human one. She looked… out of place, yes, but also undeniably powerful, her usual intimidating aura somehow amplified in this setting of quiet reverence.

Your father, ever the gracious host, stepped forward immediately, hand outstretched. "Sevika! Welcome, welcome! We’re so pleased you could join us."

Sevika took his hand, her grip firm. "Pastor," she acknowledged, her voice neutral. Her eyes, however, immediately found yours across the small space. And they widened, just slightly.

You wore a simple white dress, knee-length, with short sleeves and a modest neckline it was your typical Sunday attire but sevika had never seen it. seeing you like this, bathed in the soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows, your hair neatly done, a gentle, almost shy smile gracing your lips as you met her gaze… Sevika felt an unexpected jolt. You always looked neat, proper. But today, surrounded by the trappings of your faith, you looked… breathtaking. Ethereal. An innocence so potent it was almost provocative. That kind smile, directed at her… damn it all, she wanted to drag you out of here right now, push you against the ancient stone walls and kiss you senseless, wipe that serene look right off your face and replace it with the dazed flush she was becoming addicted to.

The service began, and you found yourselves sitting side-by-side in a wooden pew. You felt Sevika’s restlessness beside you, the slight shifting, the way her mechanical fingers tapped silently on her knee. You assumed it was discomfort the unfamiliar hymns, the prayers, the sheer foreignness of the environment for someone like her. You risked a small glance; she wasn’t looking at the altar or your father in the pulpit. She was looking at you. Specifically, at the way your hands were clasped loosely in your lap as you bowed your head in prayer, your expression earnest and focused. Adorable. Utterly, maddeningly adorable.

Leaning closer during a moment swallowed by the organ’s swell, Sevika’s lips brushed your ear. Her warm breath sent shivers down your spine despite the sacred surroundings. "Where's the Restroom?" she whispered, her voice a low, rough command against the delicate shell of your ear. "End of the hall." You whispered back gesturing with a tilt of your head to the direction. "Great, yo have five minutes to come after I go" she voiced in a stern tune that didn't allow any argument.

You jolted, turning wide eyes to her. Now? Here?

Sevika merely raised a knowing eyebrow, a silent reminder of the debt you owed. Pride flared in her chest ... cashing in the favor so soon, so brazenly, right under the nose of the Pastor himself. She gave your knee a quick, firm squeeze under the cover of the pew, then stood smoothly and slipped out into the side aisle, heading towards the back.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was insane. Sacrilegious. But the memory of her kiss, the weight of her promise, and the undeniable pull she exerted overrode everything else. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only two agonizing minutes, you mumbled an excuse about needing water to your mother and slid out of the pew, legs trembling as you followed Sevika’s path.

The restroom was small, utilitarian, smelling faintly of bleach and old plumbing. Empty. The lock clicked shut behind you, loud in the sudden silence. Before you could even take a breath, Sevika had you backed against the cool tile wall, her mouth descending on yours in a hungry, almost frantic kiss. It was all pent-up frustration from the service, the forced restraint, the maddening sight of you looking so pure and untouchable.

Her hands were immediately busy, fingers fumbling with the small pearl buttons at the neck of your white dress. One, two, three gave way, exposing the smooth skin of your collarbone and the tops of the marks she’d already left. Her lips abandoned yours, attaching themselves to your neck with bruising intensity, licking, sucking, biting lightly, drawing a choked gasp from you.

"So damn beautiful," she muttered against your skin, praising the way you trembled under her assault. Her hands roamed, sliding over the fabric of your dress, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, then drifting higher to cup your breast through the material. She was trying to maintain some semblance of control, trying to just "put out the fire," as she’d thought of it, but touching you, marking you here, in this forbidden place, was intoxicating.

Her mouth moved lower, leaving a trail of fire across your collarbone, then lower still, finding the delicate skin just above the swell of your breast, hidden by the loosened dress. She nipped gently, then soothed the spot with her tongue, leaving another dark bloom against your skin.

She pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, her eyes blazing with a barely contained inferno. Her mechanical hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to hers. You looked dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide and dark, the picture of illicit surrender.

"You’re making me crazy, Pastor’s kid," she growled, her voice thick with desire. "Making me want things I shouldn’t, especially not here." She leaned her forehead against yours for a second, trying to regain control. "God help you when I finally stop holding back."

And with that lingering threat, that promise of future intensity hanging heavy in the small, sterile room, she released you, leaving you trembling against the wall, marked and claimed within the very heart of your father’s church.

An: do we want pt2? (•-•)

#sevika #sevika reader #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #wlw #corruptions #arcane fanfic #au #suggestive

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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 5 months ago

Note

Heyy, could you maybe do an age difference reader x Toto Wolff or sunshine x grumpy, where he has one of his headphone breaking moments and she scolds him in the middle of the garage? Like I’d find super funny like his smaller, younger wife yelling at him for breaking his headphones and the fans and media eating that up haha. Please and thanks!! <3

The hum of the Mercedes garage was as familiar as it was chaotic, a rhythm of voices, machinery, and focused intensity. Engineers moved swiftly, the clatter of tools punctuating their discussions as mechanics fine-tuned the car for the upcoming race. Amidst the organized chaos, you stood by the monitors, scanning data with a calm focus that contrasted sharply with the frenetic energy around you.

Then it happened.

“Verdammt!” Toto’s voice boomed from the other end of the garage, startling even the most seasoned team members. Heads turned to see him, towering as always, but now radiating frustration. His expression was a storm cloud, and in his hands were the remnants of his latest pair of Bose headphones, the poor device snapped clean in two.

You let out a sigh, half amused, half exasperated. Your husband—the esteemed team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas, feared and respected across the paddock—had once again succumbed to his infamous headphone-breaking habit.

“Oh no, not again,” you muttered under your breath. You handed your tablet to a nearby engineer and strode across the garage, weaving through the maze of equipment and personnel. The team parted like the Red Sea as you approached, sensing what was about to unfold.

Toto stood there, oblivious to the audience he had attracted. His broad shoulders heaved as he tried to rein in his temper, the broken headphones dangling from his massive hands. He looked every bit the grumpy giant he was known to be, but to you, it was just another Friday.

“Toto Wolff,” you began, your voice sharp enough to cut through the air. His head snapped up, and his stormy gaze softened—just a little—when it landed on you. But his sheepish expression did nothing to quell your determination.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, planting your hands on your hips. Despite being significantly shorter and younger than him, you had no trouble commanding the attention of a man who could intimidate entire boardrooms.

“They broke,” Toto said, as if that explained everything. He held up the shattered headphones as evidence, his Austrian accent thick in his defense.

“Oh, really?” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Did they break, or did you break them? Because I’ve lost count of how many pairs you’ve destroyed this season alone. What is it now, five? Six?”

A snicker rippled through the garage, and you caught George trying to suppress a grin from where he stood by the car. Even the media personnel hovering near the entrance couldn’t hide their amusement, cameras clicking furiously to capture the moment.

Toto’s ears turned red, a rare crack in his composed demeanor. “It was… a stressful situation,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

“Stressful?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “And snapping your headphones in half helps how, exactly? Are you planning to intimidate Red Bull with broken electronics now?”

The garage erupted in laughter, and Toto’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a smile. He shifted awkwardly, the 6’4” team principal suddenly looking very much like a schoolboy caught red-handed.

“You need to control your temper, mein Liebling,” you said, softening your tone but not your resolve. “You’re setting a terrible example for the team. And for the record, I’m not buying you another pair. You can use the cheap earbuds like everyone else until you learn some self-restraint.”

Toto’s eyes widened, the horror of your words sinking in. “Not the earbuds,” he said, as if you’d suggested he race barefoot.

“Yes, the earbuds,” you confirmed, folding your arms. “Consider it a lesson in anger management.”

Another wave of laughter rippled through the team, and even Toto couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He looked down at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and affection.

“You’re terrifying when you’re angry,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Good,” you replied, poking a finger into his chest. “Maybe you’ll finally listen to me.”

As you turned to walk away, the garage buzzed with whispered commentary and stifled laughs. The moment had been caught by every camera in the vicinity, and you had no doubt it would be all over social media within the hour.

A shadow loomed over you, and you turned to see Toto standing there, an apologetic smile on his face. In his hand was a hastily repaired pair of headphones, held together with duct tape.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “No more broken headphones.”

“Good,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Because next time, it’ll be the earbuds and no kisses for a week.”

He groaned dramatically but nodded, retreating to his post with his makeshift headphones. You shook your head, a fond smile tugging at your lips. He might be a grumpy giant with a penchant for breaking expensive electronics, but he was your grumpy giant. And if keeping him in line meant scolding him in front of the entire team, well, you were more than up to the task.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #toto wolff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x y/n

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kathlare · 25 days ago

Text

bad reviews

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: In the dazzling chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, a surprise appearance from the past threatens to shake Amelie’s confidence and peace.

Wordcount: 5.6 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

May 24th, 2025 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

liked by chaoticwags, ferrarigirlieee, and others

f1wagsgossip: Amelie Dayman arriving at the Monaco GP paddock today 💐✨

Miss Dayman herself back in her natural habitat — in heels, glam, and giving Monaco MAIN CHARACTER energy. The hair, the walk, the look?? She’s not here to play, she’s here to slay (and maybe distract a certain someone before quali 👀)

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chaoticwags: lando locking in p1 just bc he saw her walk in like that 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags he saw the brunette bombshell and remembered his purpose 💅 → gridgirlies: @chaoticwags he’s not racing, he’s fighting for his life rn 😭

ameliesno1fan: if i was lando i’d be kissing her feet rn no bc that entrance was OSCAR worthy → chaoticwags: @ameliesno1fan he probs already did that last night 😵‍💫 → wifeylan: @chaoticwags canon.

lanxmeliecore: Lando is not making eye contact with anyone but her and it shows 💀 → helmettales: @lanxmeliecore man’s locked in on his real trophy 😭

lanmelieupdates: amelie touching down in the paddock like a runway model??? lando stay focused pls 😭 → paddockclownery: @lanmelieupdates he’s using every brain cell not to trip in front of her rn

f1hotmess: magui showing up to the paddock the same day is WILDLY unserious → helmetbby: @f1hotmess girl the timing is insane i smell drama and hairspray

softlanmelie: imagine being magui seeing THAT walk in… i’d simply leave → paddocktea: @softlanmelie no bc Amelie’s heels alone ended that whole storyline

wifeyworn: Lando saw her and forgot what gear he was in 😭 → lanmelifan69: @wifeyworn he’s been stuck in “in love” since miami

gridglamour: Amelie owning the paddock like she built it herself 💅

gridtensionnn: magui in the paddock while amelie’s out here looking like monaco royalty?? someone call hbo → dramaonthegrid: @gridtensionnn this season of Drive to Survive writing itself i fear 😭

ameliewifed: THE STRUT. THE SUNGLASSES. THE HAIR. she didn’t walk she glided → paddockpower: @ameliewifed magui could never sorry not sorry

teawiththelads: not Lando ignoring the engineers cause she showed up mid-briefing 😭

yachtseason: she’s not just attending the GP, she IS the GP → lanlovr4ever: @yachtseason everyone else is just racing around HER

lanmeliedaily: Lando gonna post her later with a caption like “lucky me” just wait → paddockheartthrob: @lanmeliedaily and we’re gonna scream like it’s the first time 😭💘

brunettebarbie: brunette Amelie in Monaco… it’s giving ✨final boss energy✨ → lanlovr: @brunettebarbie lando’s ACTUALLY fighting for his life and the championship now

-------------

The Monaco sun was as unforgiving as the press that clung to every corner of the paddock, and Amelie’s sunglasses weren’t doing much to protect her from either. She adjusted them anyway, fingers grazing the delicate chain hanging from her neck—the one Lando had given her in Japan when she told him his new hoodie design was “kind of ugly, but he looked hot in it.” He’d kissed her so hard for that one.

She smiled to herself, walking between the team garages, the buzz of activity—power tools, shouting engineers, the low hum of engines—thrumming in the air like a second heartbeat. On either side of her, Cisca and Adam Norris flanked her like proud but casual escorts, dressed effortlessly chic, both beaming as if she were already family. Well. She basically was.

Amelie wore a hot pink flower dress, her hair loosely falling against her back. She looked like Monaco royalty without even trying. Cameras had definitely noticed. But all she cared about was seeing her boyfriend—her stupid, ridiculous, annoyingly hot boyfriend.

—You nervous for quali?— Adam asked, breaking through her thoughts.

—Not for him. For the Ferrari strategists, yes. For Lan? Never.— She grinned.

Cisca laughed softly, placing a gentle hand on Amelie’s back as they reached the narrow stairs leading to the McLaren Hospitality. Amelie stepped toward the first step—then suddenly, someone grabbed her wrist.

Hard.

Before she could react, she was yanked sideways, into a narrow alley between two stacks of hospitality containers. She barely had time to register what was happening before her instincts kicked in and her fist almost flew...

—Ames, bloody hell!— Lando yelped, catching her wrist mid-air, his eyes wide.

—What the fuck, Lan?!— she hissed, her heart thundering. —You nearly got punched in the dick. Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?—

He was breathless, grinning, all boyish charm and ruffled curls. His race suit was peeled halfway down, the fireproof top sticking to his torso. God help her.

—You were forgetting something,— he said, voice low and teasing, eyes sparkling as he jutted his lips toward her. —A proper send-off kiss. For luck.—

She raised a brow, folding her arms.

—You don’t deserve a kiss after dragging me like that, idiot.—

Lando pouted. Actually pouted.

—C’mon, Ames. I’ve been so good. I even let Benny steal my toast this morning.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, suppressing the smile threatening to burst through.

—That’s between you and Benny.—

—He growled at me.—

She giggled. Of course he did.

—Fine. One. But only ‘cause I like you a little.—

She leaned up and kissed him, quick and soft—just a peck. But Lando was faster, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, deepening it until her fingers were in his hair and her knees felt a little weak. His mouth moved over hers like he knew her in every lifetime. When they finally pulled back, flushed and breathless, Lando pressed his forehead against hers.

—You always kiss me like you’re saying goodbye,— he murmured.

—Maybe I just miss you a little too much, even when I’m with you,— she whispered back.

They stayed like that for a beat. Then Lando sighed dramatically.

—Okay, okay. Back to the real world. I’ve got to pretend I’m not obsessed with you for the next hour.—

—Good luck with that, simp.—

He smacked her ass lightly and she yelped, glaring at him.

—Rude!—

Lando was already grinning and jogging toward the garage.

—Worth it!—

Amelie huffed, cheeks pink, and smoothed her outfit before stepping back out. As she climbed the stairs to McLaren Hospitality, she felt her heart settle, still warm from him. The doors swung open and instantly—she knew.

All eyes were on her. Not in the sweet, friendly way she was used to. No. This was colder. Quieter. Calculating.

She blinked. Kept walking. Cisca and Adam were near the balcony, talking with someone blonde in a sharp suit. She made her way toward them, but just as she reached the hallway leading out to the terrace, a hand slipped around her arm.

—Come with me. Now.— Lily, Oscar’s girlfriend, whispered through a too-sweet smile, tugging Amelie toward the bar.

—What the fuck is happening?— Amelie muttered under her breath, confused.

Lily didn’t answer. She just smiled at the barista and ordered two iced lattes.

—Lily. Seriously. What the fuck?—

—Just… don’t turn around yet,— Lily said softly.

So of course, Amelie turned.

And froze.

Magui.

What the actual fuck.

Standing by the McLaren hospitality windows like she belonged there. Like she hadn’t fucked Lando over.

Magui looked right at her. Smiled.

Smiled.

Amelie’s stomach twisted. Her nails dug into the coffee cup in her hand.

No. Not today.

Not when everything had been so calm, so easy with Lando. Not when she’d finally let herself breathe a little again. Not when he had looked at her earlier like she was the only girl on this damn planet.

She took a slow breath.

Then turned to Lily.

—Tell Cisca and Adam I’m sorry. Tell them I’ll see them after quali. I’m watching from Ferrari.—

—Amelie—

—Please, Lils. I can’t. Not today.—

Lily nodded softly, eyes sympathetic. Amelie set her coffee down untouched and turned, walking out of McLaren with her head high and her jaw clenched.

She could feel Magui’s gaze on her back.

Let her look.

Let her wonder what it’s like to lose Lando Norris.

Because Amelie? She wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of falling apart. Not today.

Not ever again.

-------------

liked by chaoticwags, lanmelieupdates, and others

f1gossipgrid: things are getting spicy in monaco 👀👀 Amelie was spotted watching quali from the Ferrari hospitality today — just hours after fans clocked Magui Corceiro hanging around McLaren 😬 the girlies are playing chess not checkers this weekend 🫣🍿

View all 205,719 comments

chaoticwags: not amelie sitting in ferrari hospitality looking like she bouta drop the most savage verse of 2025 😭 → pitlaneprincess: @chaoticwags drop the album girl we’re READY 💅

lanmeliesupremacy: lando better be sprinting across the paddock w flowers rn bc she looked 2 secs away from burning monaco down

soft4lanmelie: her face said “try me one more time” and i believe her → maxchaosmode: @soft4lanmelie magui breathing the same air as her? yeah i’d be pissed too

amspaddockdiary: no smile. no peace. just vengeance. → notmclarenadmin: @amspaddockdiary someone get my girl a spritz and lando on a leash

speedyspicetea: not amelie choosing violence by sitting in ferrari with a straight face 💅 → lanmelifever: @speedyspicetea she said "i could smile, but i won’t"

gridgossipgirlie: why do i feel like she made eye contact with magui and didn’t blink 😭 → chaoticwags: @gridgossipgirlie girl she was channeling her inner villain era i fear

dramainthepaddock: someone check if lando’s sweating yet → lanmelieupdates: @dramainthepaddock he’s probably watching from the garage like 👁️👄👁️

lanmelieupdates: i just know lando saw that and texted her “where tf are you” in .02 seconds 💀

gridtea: she’s so real for switching teams when his ex pulled up → chaoticwags: @gridtea the power move of it all

amelieupdates: the way she’s visibly not having fun… where is lando. FIX IT KING → lanlover24: @amelieupdates bro probably stuck in media duties while his gf is beefing in silence 😭

paddockbabes: why is this giving “you told me she wouldn’t be here” energy 😭😭 → gridratbaby: @paddockbabes not the passive aggressive hospitality switch 💀

fanf1edits: all i’m saying is… if looks could kill magui would’ve dnf’d already

lanmelie4ever: you know it’s real when she chooses ferrari over mclaren out of spite → pitlaneprince: @lanmelie4ever lando crying in orange rn 🧡💔

-------------

—So… are we gonna pretend you didn’t purposely exile yourself to Ferrari today or do you wanna spill?— Alex asked casually, sipping a lemonade with her sunglasses still on, legs crossed like she wasn’t waiting for the answer—but Amelie knew better.

They were sitting in a quiet corner of the Ferrari hospitality, overlooking the paddock as Monaco’s golden light started melting into late afternoon. Pascale had just gone to grab something sweet from the dessert table. It was peaceful, deceptively so. And Amelie’s silence was too loud for Alex to ignore.

Amelie shifted in her chair, fingers fiddling with the ring Lando gave her a few months ago — a tiny gold band with a small sapphire. She sighed.

—Fuck. Fine. You wanna know the truth? I saw her. Magui. In McLaren.—

Alex’s head whipped toward her, sunglasses coming down just enough to reveal the sharp raise of her eyebrow.

—Wait, what?—

—Yeah, I walked in with Lan’s parents and then suddenly Lily’s dragging me to the bar like it’s some covert op, and there she is. Blonde. Tanned. Perfect. Like she walked out of a goddamn Vogue cover to haunt my Saturday.—

Alex blinked in disbelief, processing the name, then scoffed.

—What the fuck is she doing here?—

—That’s what I asked Lily. She didn’t say a thing. Just... gave me coffee like that was gonna fix anything.—

Amelie dropped her head back against the chair, arms crossed. The pressure in her chest hadn’t let up since she walked out of there. Not even with the sea breeze and Alex’s presence. It still felt like her throat was tight, like her lungs couldn’t expand all the way.

Alex narrowed her eyes.

—You shouldn’t have left.—

—I didn’t wanna make a scene.—

—And what? Let her think she still has power? No, bitch. No. Tomorrow you're gonna walk your hot little ass into that hospitality, hold Lando’s hand, kiss his stupid mouth in front of everyone, and remind every blonde bitch who’s boss here.—

Amelie let out a watery laugh.

—You really think I can pull that off?—

—You dated a guy who simps for you so hard he flew from China to Milan on a whim. You can absolutely pull it off.—

Before Amelie could respond, the door swung open, and Charles stepped in, still in his white suit, unzipped halfway. His expression was unreadable—serious, a little broody. P2 looked good on paper, but it clearly wasn’t what he wanted today.

His gaze flicked around the room, landed on Alex and Pascale, and then...

—Amelie?—

Amelie froze.

Charles hadn’t seen her in Ferrari hospitality in months. Not since everything with Lando went public. Since she swapped red for papaya. The last thing she wanted was to explain herself, but Charles’s frown deepened immediately.

Alex gave him a subtle look. One he understood instantly.

Something was off.

He kissed his mum on the cheek, gave Alex a brief hug, and turned to Amelie.

—Come with me, chérie.—

—Charles, I...—

—Now.—

She sighed, knowing there was no point in fighting it. Charles Leclerc was sweet, charming, and most of the time chill—but when he got protective, there was no arguing.

They walked through the hallway in silence until they reached his driver’s room. He closed the door gently behind them. The quiet was suffocating.

Amelie bit her lip, looking at the floor. Her arms wrapped around herself like armor.

—You gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to call someone?—

That broke her. Not in a funny way. In the way that cracked something wide open inside her chest.

She didn’t even realize the tears were coming until her voice cracked and her shoulders trembled.

—I don’t know, Charles, I just… I walked in and she was there and it felt like… like I don’t know. And everything just got tight. And I...I haven’t felt that in a while. I was doing so well. With the food. With everything. And then she looked at me and I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe.—

Her voice broke completely, and Charles was already there, pulling her into his arms.

—Hey. No. None of that. You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just a bad moment, not a bad life, okay?—

She gripped his suit with shaking fingers.

—It’s stupid. I don’t even care about her. Not like that. But I feel so fucking uncomfortable in my own skin right now and I hate it, Charlie. I hate it.—

Charles rubbed her back in slow circles, grounding her.

—It’s not stupid. You were blindsided. And you’ve come so far, Amelie. You’re allowed to feel like shit sometimes. That doesn’t undo all the progress.—

She sniffled, wiping under her eyes.

—I didn’t wanna cry.—

— You always cry with me, don’t lie.—

That made her huff a breath that was almost a laugh.

—Shut up.—

He grinned.

—There’s the attitude.—

She stepped back, eyes still glassy but steadier.

—Thanks, Charlie.—

—Anytime, chérie. But tomorrow… don’t run. You belong there more than anyone.—

Amelie nodded, biting her lip. She didn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes said enough.

Tomorrow, she’d walk back into that hospitality and remind every single person exactly who the hell she was. Especially Magui.

But for now, she let herself breathe. Just a little.

-------------

liked by ameliecore, lanmeliefansunite, and others

f1gossipgrid: Amelie via IG stories serving yachtcore Barbie realness in her pink dress after the Monaco GP 💖💅 girl said qualy day but make it fashion. the prettiest wag in the paddock and on the water 🛥️✨

View all 78,239 comments

lanmeliesupremacy: she’s not on a yacht. she’s on a throne 😭

f1gfdiaries: pink dress + monaco + yacht = WAG OF THE YEAR 🔥 → paddockbabes: @f1gfdiaries let’s be honest she’s been wag of the century since miami last year

lanmelieupdates: lando locking in P1 just to flex for yacht girl gf 😭 → gridgirlz: @lanmelieupdates he said “she watched from ferrari, now watch me go faster” 💀 → ameliesbrows: @lanmelieupdates i would’ve flown off the track trying to impress her in that dress ngl

f1wagscentral: amelie in that pink dress?? lando didn’t even need DRS, he had motivation → softforlando: @f1wagscentral fastest lap powered by love and delusion 💕

norilover88: lando seeing magui in mclaren and amelie in ferrari like 😐 → chaoticwags: @norilover88 he’s on the radio like “can someone swap the wags?” → wags4life: @norilover88 pls he’s fighting for his LIFE

ameliecore: she looked mad earlier but now she’s sipping rosé on a yacht like a queen → lanmelieslut: @ameliecore the mood swings are sponsored by monaco ✨

f1gossipgirl: not her outshining the entire grid just by standing there 😭 → amsfan420: @f1gossipgirl she’s not even trying bro she’s just built like that

ameliesarmy: pink dress slaps harder than lando’s overtakes 😍 → lanbabe101: @ameliesarmy outfit got me wanting to see her on the podium too

gridgossip: magui at mclaren but amelie at ferrari?? dramaaaa → lanmelieforever: @gridgossip lando holding it down like “she’s mine, chill”

pitstoppatrol: yacht vibes, pink dress, and lando’s girl?? Monaco just peaked

lanmeliefansunite: no way anyone steals her from him now, he’s literally got a hand on her everywhere → chaoticwags: @lanmeliefansunite “hands on the prize” is their new motto 😭

f1queenbee: pink dress slaps harder than lando’s last lap omg → gridchic: @f1queenbee pink power move, watch out monaco

paddockdrama: magui at mclaren, amelie at ferrari, lando stuck in between like ??? → lanmielover: @paddockdrama lando probably wishes he had DRS for this mess

no1trollzone: can’t believe ppl forgetting lando has p1 potential AND a stunning girlfriend in pink? → chaoticwags: @no1trollzone they’re both winning, just different podiums

-------------

The radio crackled faintly through the McLaren motorhome’s glass door as Lando stepped inside, his bag of takeout in hand, the weight of qualifying P1 still buzzing in his chest. He was fresh from the showers and dressed comfortably, ready for one thing: to go home. To see Amelie. The only person he wanted after a long day locked in the whirlwind of the track and flashing cameras.

But the place was quiet. Too quiet.

He dropped the bag on the counter and scanned the common area, eyes darting through the dim, expecting to see her. But she was nowhere.

Then, from the hallway, he spotted his parents, their faces bright but tense. Relief flooded him—familiarity. He made his way toward them, heart lifting.

And then, like a shadow he wished to ignore, there was Magui.

Lando’s stomach clenched. His parents moved to hug him, warm and grounding, but Magui stepped forward with that too-bright smile and arms open wide. Lando awkwardly returned the hug, stiff and uneasy.

—Where’s Amelie?— he asked, voice low.

His mother’s smile flickered, but his father answered gently.

—She wasn’t feeling well before qualifying. Said she was going to the Ferrari motorhome.—

Magui’s voice dripped with saccharine sarcasm, clearly not meant to soothe.

—Oh, poor her. Must be so hard to miss all this excitement from over there.—

Lando’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what she was doing. Planting seeds, trying to get under his skin.

—Right, well… thanks.— He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned and pushed open the motorhome door, stepping back out into the paddock.

The paddock buzzed in the golden hour—soft chatter, camera flashes, the distant whirr of generators—but Lando barely heard it. His strides were sharp, purposeful, the takeout bag still swinging at his side as he cut through the crowd like a current against the tide.

His mind was already halfway to her.

He shouldn’t have let her go alone. Should’ve noticed. Should’ve felt it when something was off. But he’d been too wrapped up in post-qualy adrenaline and media bullshit and...

He spotted the familiar red jackets up ahead and didn’t stop until he reached the Ferrari hospitality. The staff at the door blinked in surprise as he approached, eyes darting to the papaya logo on his jacket.

—Sorry, mate,— he said quickly, hands up in surrender, —I know I can’t come in. I’m just looking for Amelie.—

A beat. Then...

—Lando.—

He turned. Charles stood a few feet behind him, his hair still damp from the shower, polo slightly rumpled. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath since qualifying ended.

Lando’s heart kicked.

—Have you seen her?— he asked, tone already frayed with worry.

Charles’s expression softened. And that alone made Lando’s pulse stutter.

—She’s not here anymore. She left a little while ago with Alex and my mum. They went to the yacht. She hadn’t eaten all day. Wasn’t really talking much.—

Lando exhaled, but it wasn’t relief. It was something heavier.

Charles motioned for Lando to follow.

—Come on. I’ll take you there.—

They walked in silence, footsteps echoing over pavement as they left the paddock behind. The Monaco sunset bathed the harbor in gold, yachts glinting like jewels. Lando kept one hand gripped around the takeout bag, knuckles tight. The other itched to reach for his phone, to call her, to just hear her voice—but he didn’t. Something told him she needed presence, not texts. And he needed to see her. To see with his own eyes that she was okay.

Because right now, nothing felt okay.

They reached the dock and removed their shoes, Charles dropping his with a practiced ease before nodding toward the familiar white yacht bobbing just ahead.

—She’s with my mum and the rest. They're having dinner. Or trying to.—

Lando followed him onto the gangway, barefoot and silent, heart hammering like he was approaching the starting grid again. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the way his chest cracked the moment he saw her.

Amelie.

She sat near Pascale, a plate in front of her mostly untouched. Her fingers toyed with a piece of bread, movements slow, absent. She smiled at something Pascale said, but her eyes...

Her eyes were red.

His throat tightened.

She had cried.

And still, even like this, she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Their eyes met instantly across the deck.

Lando barely blinked as their gaze locked. Her body stiffened for a second like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t—like feeling. But the second he stepped forward, something in her relaxed, even if just slightly.

He crossed the deck in a few long strides, past Pascale and Arthur, past Alex who gave him the smallest nod of encouragement. The takeout bag was still in his hand, swaying gently by his side.

When he reached her, he didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned down, brushed a kiss to the top of her head like a promise, and murmured softly, —Hey baby.—

Her eyes closed at the sound of his voice.

—Can you come with me for a minute?—

He offered his hand.

No hesitation. Her fingers slid into his like they always did—like muscle memory, like home. She gave a quiet excuse to the table, Pascale nodding warmly and squeezing her hand before letting her go.

Lando led Amelie carefully across the deck, their joined hands grounding them both. The yacht rocked gently beneath them, the sound of silverware and soft conversation behind them fading as they slipped toward the private cabin at the rear.

Once the door clicked shut, Amelie leaned back against it, her fingers still entwined with his.

He didn’t let go.

She gave him a soft smile—small, tired, real.

—P1. I should be throwing confetti at you or something.—

Lando let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing the hollows beneath her eyes where the skin was still a little pink.

—Right now, I couldn’t give less of a shit about that.—

Her breath caught.

—Lan…—

—Don’t— he said, voice low but firm —Don’t downplay what happened. I saw your eyes. I know you cried. And I know exactly why. And I’m so fucking sorry you had to deal with that on your own.—

She blinked fast, her throat bobbing.

—I didn’t want to ruin your day.—

—You could never ruin my day. You are my day.—

That undid her a little. Her fingers clutched his shirt, pressing her forehead into his chest. He held her like he always did—tight, safe, like the world outside the door could go to hell and he wouldn’t care as long as she was here.

—She’s not gonna be there anymore,— he whispered against her hair. —I’m going to talk to Zak and the team. After this weekend, she’s done. No more McLaren invites, no more media passes, no more fucking surprises.—

Amelie pulled back just enough to look up at him.

—You’d do that?—

—In a heartbeat.— His eyes burned with something fierce and protective. —You think I’m gonna let someone waltz into your space and make you feel small? Not a chance. You didn’t deserve that. You never deserve that.—

Her lips parted—words forming and dissolving too fast to catch. She didn’t need to say them. He already knew.

And maybe that’s why the kiss that followed wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Their mouths collided like it was the only way they knew how to breathe. Her hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer, and his arms wrapped around her waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go again. The takeout bag hit the floor with a dull thump. The door was locked, the world forgotten.

His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, her fingers already finding the buttons of his, and for a moment, they both gave in to the ache, the tension, the overwhelming need to feel something that wasn’t confusion or insecurity.

But reality caught up.

Lando pulled back with a breathless groan, pressing his forehead against hers.

—Fuck. We shouldn’t. Not here. Not in Charles’s mum’s yacht.—

She laughed softly, breath mingling with his.

—I know. I know. God, I just…—

—I know.—

They stood there for a beat, hearts pounding, still tangled in each other. Then, slowly, Lando knelt down, picked up the bag from the floor, and opened it.

—Truffle fries, veggie dumplings, those stupid little bao buns you love. And a chocolate tart I had to bribe someone for.—

Her eyes went wide, and a little shine returned to them.

—You really did all that?—

—I was planning to feed you like a queen at home, yeah. Still am, if you’re up for it.—

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

—I’m more than ready to go home. Just us.—

Lando grinned.

—Good. ‘Cause I’m kidnapping you the second we step off this boat.—

She rolled her eyes but smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

—Let’s go home, Lan.—

And with fingers laced tight and takeout in hand, they slipped out of the cabin, back into the golden Monaco night—not looking back once.

Their apartment was dim when they stepped inside, the last streaks of sunset filtering through the curtains and bathing the living room in warm amber hues. Lando toed his shoes off by the door while Amelie, still in one of her oversized crewnecks, padded toward the kitchen with the bag of takeout swinging from her arm.

Benny meowed lazily from the windowsill, tail flicking, while Björn launched himself off the couch and tore across the hallway like a gremlin possessed.

—We’re keeping them out here,— Amelie called over her shoulder, eyes narrowing at the blur of fur. —They’re absolutely feral tonight.—

—Agreed,— Lando replied, chuckling as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the armchair. —I love them, but I don’t trust Björn not to start chewing on my toe at 3am again.—

They shared an easy smile as Amelie brought out the food, setting it all on the coffee table. The TV clicked on, some random romcom she didn’t even register playing as she curled into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her. Lando sat close, thigh pressed against hers, head falling back with a soft sigh as he reached for a bao bun.

She watched him quietly for a moment, chin rested on her knuckles.

—You okay?—

Lando nodded, chewing slowly. But the way his eyes lingered on the screen without focus, the occasional twitch of his jaw—Amelie knew better.

Tomorrow was everything. Monaco. Pole. Pressure.

And Magui hadn’t helped.

So she took it upon herself to fix it. To give him the kind of peace only she could.

She leaned in and nuzzled his shoulder lightly, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt.

—Wanna talk about it? Or want me to talk about literally anything else to distract you? I can give a full TED Talk on why Björn is definitely plotting our deaths.—

Lando huffed a soft laugh, eyes finally flicking toward her.

—I’m okay. Just… my brain won’t shut off.—

—Then let me hijack it,— she murmured with a grin, tossing a dumpling into her mouth and dramatically chewing like it was the greatest thing she'd ever eaten. —Mmm. Sensational. You sure you don’t wanna become a chef after F1? I could be your sous-chef. Burn toast. Break blenders. Seduce the head chef. All the classics.—

He grinned, finally. A real one.

—You’d be the worst sous-chef of all time.—

—And you’d love every second of it.—

—Can’t deny that.—

They finished dinner slowly, her mission clear: keep his brain as far away from tomorrow as possible. He stretched out across the couch while she sprawled half on top of him, feet tangled and fingers brushing. The movie faded into background noise, just warmth and closeness taking over.

Eventually, she sat up with a sleepy sigh, yawning as she glanced toward the hallway.

—I’m gonna shower. You gonna go over your data stuff?—

He nodded, already reaching for his iPad.

—Yeah. Just for a bit.—

She kissed his forehead and disappeared down the hall, the sound of running water soon echoing faintly. Lando settled into the cushions, scrolling through his telemetry, noting sector times and tire degradation. But his mind drifted—again and again—to the girl humming off-key in the bathroom.

He was still scrolling when the door opened.

And there she was.

Hair damp, face fresh, wearing nothing but one of his old McLaren shirts that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. His breath caught for the briefest second as she padded barefoot into the room and slid under the covers beside him.

—You’re still reading numbers. Babe,— she whispered, curling into him. —It’s bedtime. Monaco pole-sitters need sleep.—

—Can’t shut it off yet,— he murmured, brushing her knee with his thumb.

She frowned at the tension in his voice. The way his body was here but not really here.

And she couldn’t sleep if he couldn’t.

So she shifted, turning to face him, fingers threading gently through his curls. He hummed softly, eyes fluttering shut as she toyed with his hair, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

—I’m not gonna sleep if you’re still wired,— she whispered. —So now it’s my problem too.—

—Sorry, love,— he said, voice hoarse, lips grazing her forehead.

But it wasn’t enough. She could feel it in him—the pressure building like a storm behind his ribs. And something inside her itched to draw it out. To replace it.

So she kissed his jaw. Slowly. Then his cheek. Then his temple.

—Still thinking about tomorrow?— she whispered.

He nodded.

Amelie didn’t say another word.

Instead, she shifted, slow and purposeful, straddling his hips until she was sitting on top of him, her thighs bracketing his waist beneath the sheets. Lando’s eyes opened instantly, pupils dilating at the sight of her above him, moonlight casting soft shadows across her cheekbones.

Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw.

—I need you to focus on me now,— she murmured.

And then she kissed him.

Deep. Intentional. Like every brush of her lips was a command to pull him out of his own head.

He groaned into her mouth, hands instinctively finding her hips beneath the blanket, grounding himself in the feel of her, the taste of her. She shifted slightly, just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

But she wasn’t done.

Amelie pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

And then her lips dipped to his neck.

Lando's breath caught.

—Ames…—

She shushed him, kissing beneath his ear, then lower—just where his pulse beat strongest.

And she bit.

—Jesus Christ—

—She wants to play dirty, I’ll play dirtier,— Amelie muttered against his throat, kissing the red bloom already forming before moving to the other side.

He groaned, his grip on her hips tightening.

—You know I’ve got media duties in the morning.—

—I know.—

Another kiss. Another bite.

—And a race. Sponsors. FIA photos.—

—Mhm. You’ll look hot covered in proof you’re mine. Let her see.—

Lando’s head fell back against the pillow with a sharp breath, and Amelie just kept going, leaving a constellation of hickeys from his jaw to his collarbone. She didn’t care if the team stylist had to panic tomorrow. Or if Magui’s eyes went wide when the cameras zoomed in.

Let her see.

Let them all see.

He was hers.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d sleep better knowing that was unmistakably clear.

By the time she finally pulled back, Lando was breathless, wrecked, his eyes half-lidded and hands roaming her thighs like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

—You’re evil,— he whispered.

She grinned, tracing the marks she'd left.

—You love it.—

—God help me, I really do.—

They didn’t say much after that.

Eventually, she rolled off him and nestled into his side, her head resting against the chest now littered with bruises, her hand stroking his arm gently. Lando held her close, calmer now, his brain finally quiet. The glow of the city flickered beyond the windows, and the occasional distant meow from the hallway signaled their cats still hadn’t surrendered to sleep.

But inside their room, it was quiet. Warm.

Real.

—Goodnight, pole-sitter,— she whispered, already drifting.

And this time, Lando fell asleep first.

218 notes · View notes

actuallybean · 22 days ago

Note

I had a cute idea with Supernatural. Maybe slightly early seasons Castiel, who doesn't understand his feelings for Reader, and he sees Dean popping her back after a hunt or something. Cas hears the pops and freaks out a little like 'oh my god you just broke her back' kinda thing? Idk i think its funny 🤣

Ahhhh! I loved this idea and I loved writing it! Hope you love it as much as I did writing it :)))

✦

Crack Me Open

Castiel’s still learning the rules of human weirdness — and one unexpected crack might just break his calm for good. Pairing: Castiel x reader *Descriptions of back cracking, fluff, overprotective!Castiel, and early seasons!Castiel Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @scary-noodlesblog Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The motel room reeked of antiseptic, old leather, and whatever deep-fried monstrosity the diner next door had incinerated into oblivion. The wallpaper peeled in corners like it was trying to escape, the ancient AC unit rattled like it had bronchitis, and a suspicious stain shaped like Florida adorned the carpet. Another day, another salt-and-burn, another near-death experience in a room with cigarette burns on the nightstand.

You sat hunched on the edge of the bed, back stiff and throbbing, grimacing with every twitch of your shoulder. Your hoodie was smeared with soot and ghost guts. You’d gone flying mid-hunt—some angry, restless bastard of a spirit had decided you looked like a particularly throwable rag doll. Now your spine felt like a slinky someone had twisted too many times.

Dean hovered nearby like a mechanic eyeing a busted engine. His sleeves were rolled, his hands flexing like he was about to break out the power tools.

“Alright, come on,” he said, squatting behind you and cracking his knuckles with the enthusiasm of a man who’d done this before and probably regretted it afterward. “Just like Bobby used to do it. Hands on the shoulders, deep breath, then—crack! You’ll be singing show tunes by breakfast.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder. “Dean, I trust you with a shotgun. I trust you behind the wheel. Hell, I even trust you with my favorite playlist. But my spine?”

Dean smirked, already maneuvering your arms into position like you were some stubborn action figure. “You’ll live. Probably.”

“Comforting.”

Across the room, Castiel stood statue-still by the scratched-up motel table. He looked wildly out of place in this setting—like someone had dropped a Byzantine cathedral into a truck stop. His trench coat was immaculate as always, somehow untouched by blood or dust, and his eyes tracked every motion with unsettling intensity. His hands were folded in front of him like he was waiting to officiate a funeral.

You glanced up at him, catching his gaze. “Hey, Cas,” you said, grinning crookedly despite the ache in your neck. “You ever cracked a human before?”

He blinked. “Cracked…?”

“Like, a back. Alignment. Pop goes the vertebrae.”

He frowned. “No.”

“Well, now you’ll get to see it firsthand,” Dean announced behind you. “Hold on tight, sweetheart. Time to get fixed the old-fashioned way.”

You groaned. “God help me.”

Dean chuckled. “One. Two—”

CRACK. POP. POP-POP.

The sound that followed was part orchestra, part demolition site, and entirely horrifying. Your entire spine lit up like fireworks, a sharp symphony of relief and shock that had you exhaling in something like religious ecstasy.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, slumping forward. “I think I saw Heaven.”

And then—like some divine curse descending from above—

“DEAN.”

Castiel’s voice was not human. It was thunder and earthquake, fury dressed in gravel. You flinched instinctively as his wings—not visible, but somehow felt—seemed to unfurl in the space between heartbeats.

He crossed the room in two steps. Two. Trench coat flaring, eyes wild with alarm, the kind of chaos that made old gods tremble.

Dean leapt back like Cas had just whipped out an angel blade. “Whoa, whoa—Cas?!”

“You broke her,” Castiel snapped, falling to his knees at your side as if you were the broken body of Christ himself. “I heard it. Her spine—it snapped.”

“Wait, what?” you croaked, looking between the angel and the hunter.

“It was an adjustment!” Dean protested. “She’s fine!”

“She made the sound of pain.”

“I also said I saw Heaven,” you said weakly, raising a hand like a student hoping not to be called on.

Castiel’s head whipped toward you. “You saw Heaven?”

Dean groaned. “Not literally! It’s a saying, Cas.”

Cas ignored him, focusing solely on you with eyes full of tragedy. “You should not see Heaven. Not yet.”

“I’m not dead, Cas.”

“You made the noise,” he insisted again, a little more mournfully now.

There was a beat of silence. The ice machine groaned outside, spitting out half-frozen cubes like a dying animal. Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh but was also worried about spontaneous combustion. Cas hovered near your side, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or perform a resurrection ritual.

You gently reached out and wrapped your fingers around his, grounding him.

“Hey,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “I’m okay. Really. That’s just what backs do sometimes. They pop. It’s a good thing.”

He stared down at your hand in his like it was a delicate relic, ancient and sacred. When he finally met your gaze, his brows were tight with worry, and something deep and raw flickered behind his eyes.

“…You are truly unharmed?” he asked, voice rough with emotion he barely understood.

You nodded. “Yeah. Better now, actually.”

He didn’t let go of your hand. Just stared at you, as if reassuring himself you were still breathing.

Dean took that as his cue to evacuate. “Alright,” he muttered, already edging toward the door, “I’m gonna go grab a six-pack and not be here for whatever the hell this is.”

The door slammed behind him.

Silence returned, warm and a little buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

You looked at Cas, whose hand was still wrapped around yours like a lifeline. “You really thought Dean broke my back?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “The noise was deeply alarming. It reminded me of the time I witnessed demons tear a man’s vertebrae apart during an exorcism. The sounds were… similar.”

You stared. Then laughed—loud and wheezy. “Oh my God. Okay, yeah, when you put it that way…”

Cas frowned. “Why would you allow such a thing?”

You shrugged—winced—and then grinned. “Because it helps. Sometimes humans just need a little help putting themselves back together.”

He watched you like you were a miracle he didn’t quite know how to pray to.

Then, quietly: “May I learn?”

Your smile faltered. “Wait… what?”

“This practice. The cracking. If it alleviates your pain, I wish to understand it. So I may assist next time.”

You blinked. Your heart did something strange and fluttery, like a moth waking up inside your ribcage.

“You want to learn how to… adjust my back?”

“I want to learn how to help you feel better. In every way I am able.”

You stared at him, lips twitching upward in an expression you couldn’t hold back even if you wanted to.

“That’s… actually kind of sweet, Cas.”

He tilted his head, blue eyes studying your face like a map of something important. “It’s not sweetness,” he said. “It’s… devotion. I feel it stir whenever you are hurt. My grace reacts. I want to fix you. Protect you. Hear your laughter. Not… the sounds of your spine being manipulated.”

You laughed again, breathless. “Cas, you’re adorable when you’re panicking.”

You decided to lighten the mood — and, admittedly, to have a little fun with the angel’s adorably rigid demeanor.

“So,” you said, voice casual and laced with mischief, “you think Dean breaking my back was scary? Watch this.”

Before Castiel could respond, you lifted your chin and slowly tilted your head to the side, exaggerating the movement with an almost theatrical stretch.

Then — POP.

The sharp, unmistakable crack of your neck slicing through the quiet motel room was loud enough to make even you wince a little.

Castiel’s head jerked up instantly, eyes wide as saucers, fixed on you with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“You… you cracked your neck,” he whispered, voice trembling like you’d just set a small fire in the room.

You tried — and failed — to keep a straight face. “Yeah, Cas. You know, like humans do. It’s… normal.”

His lips parted slightly, searching for words, but none came. Instead, his gaze dropped to his folded hands as if willing himself not to faint.

You chuckled softly, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “I’m kidding. But seriously, it helps. And it’s not dangerous. Promise.”

He blinked rapidly, still looking as if he’d just seen a ghost—or worse, a demon with a cracked spine.

“Why would you do that intentionally?” he asked, voice still tight.

You shrugged, grinning wider now. “Sometimes, you’ve gotta freak out your angel. Besides…” you gave a dramatic sigh and rolled your neck back the other way, producing another crisp pop, “it feels so good.”

Castiel flinched again, eyes darting between your neck and your face like you’d become some kind of mysterious creature who enjoyed self-inflicted injury.

“You humans are very strange,” he muttered, finally sinking back onto the bed, but his fingers still twitched in mild distress.

You laughed warmly, loving how earnest and vulnerable he could be. “Yeah, but that’s why you stick around, right? To keep me in line when I’m being ridiculous.”

His blue eyes met yours, soft and steady now, like the quiet anchor you hadn’t known you needed.

“I will do my best,” he said quietly, voice steady but with an unmistakable tenderness. “Even if it means enduring strange… cracking noises.”

You squeezed his hand and smiled.

“Deal.”

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

Text

“The Fagin figure leading Elon Musk’s merry band of pubescent sovereignty pickpockets”

This week only, Barnes and Noble is offering 25% off pre-orders of my forthcoming novel Picks and Shovels. ENDS TODAY!.

While we truly live in an age of ascendant monsters who have hijacked our country, our economy, and our imaginations, there is one consolation: the small cohort of brilliant, driven writers who have these monsters' number, and will share it with us. Writers like Maureen Tkacik:

https://prospect.org/topics/maureen-tkacik/

Journalists like Wired's Vittoria Elliott, Leah Feiger, and Tim Marchman are absolutely crushing it when it comes to Musk's DOGE coup:

https://www.wired.com/author/vittoria-elliott/

And Nathan Tankus is doing incredible work all on his own, just blasting out scoop after scoop:

https://www.crisesnotes.com/

But for me, it was Tkacik – as usual – in the pages of The American Prospect who pulled it all together in a way that finally made it make sense, transforming the blitzkreig Muskian chaos into a recognizable playbook. While most of the coverage of Musk's wrecking crew has focused on the broccoli-haired Gen Z brownshirts who are wilding through the server rooms at giant, critical government agencies, Tkacik homes in on their boss, Tom Krause, whom she memorably dubs "the Fagin figure leading Elon Musk’s merry band of pubescent sovereignty pickpockets" (I told you she was a great writer!):

https://prospect.org/power/2025-02-06-private-equity-hatchet-man-leading-lost-boys-of-doge/

Krause is a private equity looter. He's the guy who basically invented the playbook for PE takeovers of large tech companies, from Broadcom to Citrix to VMWare, converting their businesses from selling things to renting them out, loading them up with junk fees, slashing quality, jacking up prices over and over, and firing everyone who was good at their jobs. He is a master enshittifier, an enshittification ninja.

Krause has an unerring instinct for making people miserable while making money. He oversaw the merger of Citrix and VMWare, creating a ghastly company called The Cloud Software Group, which sold remote working tools. Despite this, of his first official acts was to order all of his employees to stop working remotely. But then, after forcing his workers to drag their butts into work, move back across the country, etc, he reversed himself because he figured out he could sell off all of the company's office space for a tidy profit.

Krause canceled employee benefits, like thank you days for managers who pulled a lot of unpaid overtime, or bonuses for workers who upgraded their credentials. He also ended the company's practice of handing out swag as small gifts to workers, and then stiffed the company that made the swag, wontpaying a $437,574.97 invoice for all the tchotchkes the company had ordered. That's not the only supplier Krause stiffed: FinLync, a fintech company with a three-year contract with Krause's company, also had to sue to get paid.

Krause's isn't a canny operator who roots out waste: he's a guy who tears out all the wiring and then grudgingly restores the minimum needed to keep the machine running (no wonder Musk loves him, this is the Twitter playbook). As Tkacik reports, Krause fucked up the customer service and reliability systems that served Citrix's extremely large, corporate customers – the giant businesses that cut huge monthly checks to Citrix, whose CIOs received daily sales calls from his competitors.

Workers who serviced these customers, like disabled Air Force veteran David Morgan, who worked with big public agencies, were fired on one hour's notice, just before their stock options vested. The giant public agency customers he'd serviced later called him to complain that the only people they could get on the phone were subcontractors in Indian call centers who lacked the knowledge and authority to resolve their problems.

Last month, Citrix fired all of its customer support engineers. Citrix's military customers are being illegally routed to offshore customer support teams who are prohibited from working with the US military.

Citrix/VMWare isn't an exception. The carnage at these companies is indistinguishable from the wreck Krause made of Broadcom. In all these cases, Krause was parachuted in by private equity bosses, and he destroyed something useful to extract a giant, one-time profit, leaving behind a husk that no longer provides value to its customers or its employees.

This is the DOGE playbook. It's all about plunder: take something that was patiently, carefully built up over generations and burn it to the ground, warming yourself in the pyre, leaving nothing behind but ash. This is what private equity plunderers have been doing to the world's "advanced" economies since the Reagan years. They did it to airlines, family restaurants, funeral homes, dog groomers, toy stores, pharma, palliative care, dialysis, hospital beds, groceries, cars, and the internet.

Trump's a plunderer. He was elected by the plunderer class – like the crypto bros who want to run wild, transforming workers' carefully shepherded retirement savings into useless shitcoins, while the crypto bros run off with their perfectly cromulent "fiat" money. Musk is the apotheosis of this mindset, a guy who claims credit for other peoples' productive and useful businesses, replacing real engineering with financial engineering. Musk and Krause, they're like two peas in a pod.

That's why – according to anonymous DOGE employees cited by Tckacik – DOGE managers are hired for their capacity for cruelty: "The criteria for DOGE is how many you have fired, how much you enjoy firing people, and how little you care about the impact on peoples well being…No wonder Tom Krause was tapped for this. He’s their dream employee!"

The fact that Krause isn't well known outside of plunderer circles is absolutely a feature for him, not a bug. Scammers like Krause want to be admitted to polite society. This is why the Sacklers – the opioid crime family that kicked off the Oxy pandemic that's murdered more than 800,000 Americans so far – were so aggressive about keeping their association with their family business, Purdue Pharma, a secret. The Sacklers only wanted to be associated with the art galleries and museums they put their names over, and their lawyers threatened journalists for writing about their lives as billionaire drug pushers (I got one of those threats).

There's plenty of good reasons to be anonymous – if you're a whistleblower, say. But if you ever encounter a corporate executive who insists on anonymity, that's a wild danger sign. Take Pixsy, the scam "copyleft trolls" whose business depends on baiting people into making small errors when using images licensed under very early versions of the Creative Common licenses, and then threatening to sue them unless they pay hundreds or thousands of dollars:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

Kain Jones, the CEO of Pixsy, tried to threaten me under the EU's GDPR for revealing the names of the scammer on his payroll who sent me a legal threat, and the executive who ran the scam for his business (I say he tried to threaten me because I helped lobby for the GDPR and I know for a fact that this isn't a GDPR violation):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/13/an-open-letter-to-pixsy-ceo-kain-jones-who-keeps-sending-me-legal-threats/

These people understand that they are in the business of ripping people off, causing them grave and wholly unjust financial injury. They value their secrecy because they are in the business of making strangers righteously furious, and they understand that one of these strangers might just show up in their lives someday to confront them about their transgressions.

This is why Unitedhealthcare freaked out so hard about Luigi Mangione's assassination of CEO Brian Thompson – that's not how the game is supposed to be played. The people who sit in on executive row, destroying your lives, are supposed to be wholly insulated from the consequences of their actions. You're not supposed to know who they are, you're not supposed to be able to find them – of course.

But even more importantly, you're not supposed to be angry at them. They pose as mere software agents in an immortal colony organism called a Limited Liability Corporation, bound by the iron law of shareholder supremacy to destroy your life while getting very, very rich. It's not supposed to be personal. That's why Unitedhealthcare is threatening to sue a doctor who was yanked out of surgery on a cancer patient to be berated by a UHC rep for ordering a hospital stay for her patient:

https://gizmodo.com/unitedhealthcare-is-mad-about-in-luigi-we-trust-comments-under-a-doctors-viral-post-2000560543

UHC is angry that this surgeon, Austin's Dr Elisabeth Potter, went Tiktok-viral with her true story of how how chaotic and depraved and uncaring UHC is. UHC execs fear that Mangione made it personal, that he obliterated the accountability sink of the corporation and put the blame squarely where it belongs – on the (mostly) men at the top who make this call.

This is a point Adam Conover made in his latest Factually podcast, where he interviewed Propublica's T Christian Miller and Patrick Rucker:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_5tDXRw8kg

Miller and Rucker published a blockbuster investigative report into Cigna's Evocore, a secret company that offers claims-denials as a service to America's biggest health insurers:

https://www.propublica.org/article/evicore-health-insurance-denials-cigna-unitedhealthcare-aetna-prior-authorizations

If you're the CEO of a health insurance company and you don't like how much you're paying out for MRIs or cancer treatment, you tell Evocore (which processes all your claim authorizations) and they turn a virtual dial that starts to reduce the number of MRIs your customers are allowed to have. This dial increases the likelihood that a claim or pre-authorization will be denied, which, in turn, makes doctors less willing to order them (even if they're medically necessary) and makes patients more likely to pay for them out of pocket.

Towards the end of the conversation, Miller and Rucker talk about how the rank-and-file people at an insurer don't get involved with the industry to murder people in order to enrich their shareholders. They genuinely want to help people. But executive row is different: those very wealthy people do believe their job is to kill people to save money, and get richer. Those people are personally to blame for the systemic problem. They are the ones who design and operate the system.

That's why naming the people who are personally responsible for these immoral, vicious acts is so important. That's why it's important that Wired and Propublica are unmasking the "pubescent sovereignty pickpockets" who are raiding the federal government under Krause's leadership:

https://projects.propublica.org/elon-musk-doge-tracker/

These people are committing grave crimes against the nation and its people. They should be known for this. It should follow them for the rest of their lives. It should be the lead in their obituaries. People who are introduced to them at parties should have a flash of recognition, hastily end the handshake, then turn on their heels and race to the bathroom to scrub their hands. For the rest of their lives.

Naming these people isn't enough to stop the plunder, but it helps. Yesterday, Marko Elez, the 25 year old avowed "eugenicist" who wanted to "normalize Indian hate" and could not be "[paid] to marry outside of my ethnicity," was shown the door. He's off the job. For the rest of his life, he will be the broccoli-haired brownshirt who got fired for his asinine, racist shitposting:

https://www.npr.org/2025/02/06/nx-s1-5289337/elon-musk-doge-treasury

After Krause's identity as the chief wrecker at DOGE was revealed, the brilliant Anna Merlan (author of Republic of Lies, the best book on conspiratorialism), wrote that "Now the whole country gets the experience of what it’s like when private equity buys the place you work":

https://bsky.app/profile/annamerlan.bsky.social/post/3lhepjkudcs2t

That's exactly it. We are witnessing a private equity-style plunder of the entire US government – of the USA itself. No one is better poised to write about this than Tkacik, because no one has private equity's number like Tkacik does:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

Ironically, all this came down just as Trump announced that he was going to finally get rid of private equity's scammiest trick, the "carried interest" loophole that lets PE bosses (and, to a lesser extent, hedge fund managers) avoid billions in personal taxes:

https://archive.is/yKhvD

"Carried interest" has nothing to do with the interest rate – it's a law that was designed for 16th century sea captains who had an "interest" in the cargo they "carried":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/29/writers-must-be-paid/#carried-interest

Trump campaigned on killing this loophole in 2017, but Congress stopped him, after a lobbying blitz by the looter industry. It's possible that he genuinely wants to get rid of the carried interest loophole – he's nothing if not idiosyncratic, as the residents of Greenland can attest:

https://prospect.org/world/2025-02-07-letter-between-friendly-nations/

Even if he succeeds, looters and the "investor class" will get a huge giveaway under Trump, in the form of more tax giveaways and the dismantling of labor and environmental regulation. But it's far more likely that he won't succeed. Rather – as Yves Smith writes for Naked Capitalism – he'll do what he did with the Canada and Mexico tariffs: make a tiny, unimportant change and then lie and say he had done something revolutionary:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2025/02/is-trump-serious-about-trying-to-close-the-private-equity-carried-interest-loophole.html

This has been a shitty month, and it's not gonna get better for a while. On my dark days, I worry that it won't get better during my lifetime. But at least we have people like Tkacik to chronicle it, explain it, put it in context. She's amazing, a whirlwind. The same day that her report on Krause dropped, the Prospect published another must-read piece by her, digging deep into Alex Jones's convoluted bankruptcy gambit:

https://prospect.org/justice/2025-02-06-crisis-actors-alex-jones-bankruptcy/

It lays bare the wild world of elite bankruptcy court, another critical conduit for protecting the immoral rich from their victims. The fact that Tkacik can explain both Krause and the elite bankruptcy system on the same day is beyond impressive.

We've got a lot of work ahead of ourselves. The people in charge of this system – whose names you must learn and never forget – aren't going to go easily. But at least we know who they are. We know what they're doing. We know how the scam works. It's not a flurry of incomprehensible actions – it's a playbook that killed Red Lobster, Toys R Us, and Sears. We don't have to follow that playbook.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/07/broccoli-hair-brownshirts/#shameless

#pluralistic #Maureen Tkacik #the american prospect #corporate sociopaths #pixsy #luigi mangione #propublica #doge #coup #elon musk #guillotine watch #adam conover #private equity #citrix #tom krause #looters #marko elez

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