#Post Frame Engineer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norrisradio · 1 month ago

Text

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration.

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

2K notes · View notes

bueckets · 4 months ago

Text

Competitive Stamina

Pairing: teammate!Paige x reader

Genre: fuck buddies with unresolved issues, unbearable sexual tension, dom!Paige, strap, degradation, slapping, edging, post-game aggression sex, possessive paige, rough sex that solves nothing, idk just porn w minimal plot (I KNOOOOOW)

WC: 6.3kish?

Bus rides after a loss were a special kind of hell.

The stale air of the charter, the overhead lights too dim to be useful but too bright to let you sink into oblivion, the stiff-backed seats that creaked with every shift—everything grated on your nerves. The taste of failure sat heavy on your tongue, thick and bitter, and no amount of Gatorade could wash it away.

You sat near the back, arms crossed, jaw tight, replaying every goddamn second of the game like a goddamn. masochist. Every blown rotation, every missed shot, every second too slow on defense. It was a fucking disaster.

The low hum of the engine did nothing to drown out the tension hanging in the air. Some of the team sat slumped in their seats, headphones jammed in, pretending like they weren’t reliving the same nightmare. Others were scrolling through their phones, avoiding the inevitable post-game analysis that would come the second you all got back.

And then there was Paige.

Slouched in the seat across the aisle, one long leg stretched out, the other knee bouncing restlessly. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, the muscles in her jaw flexing every time she gritted her teeth. The blue glow of her phone screen flickered across her face, but you could tell she wasn’t actually looking at it. Just brooding.

You tried not to look at her. Tried to keep your glare aimed out the window, at the blur of highway lights cutting through the night.

But the energy rolling off her was impossible to ignore.

Fucking furious. The kind of anger that vibrated beneath the skin, white-hot, impossible to smother. She was pissed in a way that she wouldn’t let go of anytime soon, the kind of loss that would eat at her, keep her up all night, have her in the gym first thing in the morning with her hoodie up and music blasting like she could outwork the ghosts of the game.

Your fingers curled into your palms.

Because yeah, you were mad too. Mad at yourself. Mad at the team. Mad at how fucking avoidable it all had been. But mostly, you were mad at how much you felt it—how the weight of it sat heavy on your chest, suffocating. You knew you wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not because you didn’t want to, but because your brain wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t stop dissecting every mistake, every misstep.

Paige exhaled sharply, a sound more bite than breath.

You glanced over, barely turning your head.

Her fingers drummed against her bicep, rapid, restless, a nervous tick she only ever had when she was barely keeping her frustration in check. Her knee bounced faster.

Then, she turned her head, and her eyes found yours.

Sharp. Burning.

And just like that, you were both back on the court. Back in the moment she’d called the switch and you hesitated a fraction too long. Back in the second where everything unraveled.

The muscle in her jaw flexed. You could practically hear what she wanted to say. The words sat heavy between you, unspoken but loud.

What the fuck was that?

You swallowed hard, refusing to be the one to break first. You weren’t about to sit here and get chewed out on a moving bus, in front of everyone.

But the fire in her eyes told you that this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The door barely slammed shut before Paige was on you, shoving you back so hard your shoulder blades smacked the wall. The cheap dorm drywall rattled behind you, a picture frame nearly toppling off its hook.

Her breath was sharp, jagged, her whole body coiled so tight with frustration it looked like it might snap. She was still in her jersey, the fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, strands of blonde hair stuck to her forehead like she hadn’t even thought about peeling them away. But it wasn’t exhaustion in her eyes. It was fury. Blazing. Undiluted.

“What the fuck was that?” she spat, stepping into your space like she wanted to press you through the goddamn wall.

Your own irritation flared, heat crawling up your spine, but she wasn’t done.

“I called it. I fucking called it. You hesitated." Her voice cut like a whip, her breath hot against your face. “You don’t hesitate.”

Your jaw clenched. “I heard you, Paige. It wasn’t just me. We all fucked up.”

“Oh, fuck off with that.” Her laugh was sharp, humorless, nothing but teeth. “I don’t give a shit about them. You were supposed to have my back. You were supposed to listen to me.”

You bristled, hands curling into fists at your sides. “Don’t act like you’re the only one who fucking cares. You think I wanted to lose? You think I don’t feel like shit right now?”

Paige’s glare burned straight through you. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring, like she wanted to say something even sharper, even worse, but she just looked at you. Like she was daring you to take the blame. To admit it. To fold under her fire.

But you weren’t folding. Not tonight.

“You wanna fight me over this?” you snapped, stepping forward, barely an inch between you now. “Fine. Take a fucking swing, Paige.”

Her breathing hitched. For a half-second, something flickered in her eyes—something reckless, something raw. You thought maybe she would hit you, thought maybe you wanted her to.

Instead, she shoved you—hard. Your back hit the wall again, and this time she followed, grabbed your jersey with both hands, yanking you into her.

And then her mouth crashed onto yours, all teeth and heat and fucking rage.

You gasped against her lips, but she didn’t care—didn’t even give you the space to breathe. Her fingers dug into your jersey, nearly lifting you off the ground as she pressed you into the wall, her body flush against yours, hot and furious and unrelenting.

You bit down on her lower lip, hard, just to make her feel how pissed off you were too.

Paige growled, a low, dangerous sound, and then she was yanking you off the wall, turning, dragging you with her, stumbling toward the nearest surface.

Your hands found her hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her jersey. She was still in her shorts, her body taut with adrenaline, with the remnants of competition. You could feel her heart pounding beneath your palm as you pressed against her, pushing back just enough to let her know you weren’t going to just take it.

But Paige didn’t give a damn about pushback. She just grabbed the front of your shirt, dragging you with her as she stumbled backward, lips never leaving yours. She was all fire, all pent-up rage, and you were more than willing to be the thing she burned through.

“Fucking—” she muttered against your lips, frustration bleeding into something else as her fingers tangled in your hair, nails scraping against your scalp. “You drive me insane.”

“You’re the one losing your shit,” you bit back, but the words barely made it out before she was kissing you again, harder this time, as if she could shut you up with the force of her mouth alone.

The room spun as she shoved you back, barely making it to the couch before you tumbled onto it together. Her body was already on top of yours, pressing you down, thighs tight around your waist. Every inch of her was tense, electric, and you could feel it—the way she trembled, the way her breath came too fast, the way her fingers flexed against your skin like she didn’t know if she wanted to fight you or fuck you.

Maybe both.

Your hands roamed, slipping beneath her jersey, tracing the heat of her back. She sucked in a sharp breath as your fingers ghosted over her spine, but she didn’t stop you. If anything, she leaned in harder, her hips pressing down, mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

“I hate you,” she muttered, but her hands were already working at your jersey, pushing it up, fingers skimming the bare skin underneath.

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah? Feels like something else.”

She growled, actually fucking growled, and suddenly she was yanking your jersey over your head, tossing it somewhere behind her. The air was thick, charged, your bodies too close, too desperate, too much.

“Shut up,” she ordered, and then her lips were on your collarbone, her teeth nipping at sensitive skin, her hands gripping your waist like she was trying to anchor herself—like she was afraid if she let go, she’d lose herself completely.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to stop her or let her.

Your laugh died in your throat the second Paige’s fingers dug into your waist, her grip rough, possessive. Her body was hot against yours, muscles tight with lingering adrenaline, her breath ragged as she straddled you. Every inch of her was taut with frustration, with need, with something far more dangerous than simple post-game aggression.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering, and then your hands were on her hips, squeezing, dragging her closer, feeling the way her thighs flexed beneath your grip.

“Oh, you wanna be a smartass?” Paige growled, her fingers already sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, snapping the elastic hard against your skin. Her eyes were wild, blown wide with something dark, something hungry.

You grinned, challenging. “What are you gonna do about it?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

A sharp crack rang out as her palm met your thigh, the sting immediate, heat blooming across your skin in its wake. You gasped, your body jerking at the impact, but Paige just smirked, her fingers soothing over the mark she’d left behind.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured, and then her hands were pushing at your shorts, yanking them down with the same force as her frustration. “You know what your problem is?”

You arched a brow, breath hitching as she ran her fingers down the inside of your thigh, deliberately avoiding where you needed her most. “Enlighten me.”

Paige hummed, slow, teasing, dragging her nails lightly across your skin before she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “You don’t listen.”

And then her teeth were on your neck, biting, claiming, distracting you just long enough for her fingers to slip lower, tracing over your already-soaked underwear.

Your hips jerked up, chasing her touch, but she pulled back, clicking her tongue.

“No,” she said, voice sharp, commanding. “You don’t get to be greedy. Not after that bullshit on the court.”

You groaned, frustration curling tight in your stomach. “Paige—”

Another sharp smack against your thigh. You gasped, your body trembling as the sting settled into a dull, aching heat.

“You’ll take what I give you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss over the mark she’d just made. “And you’ll be grateful for it.”

You barely had time to respond before she was moving again, shifting off you just long enough to grab something from her bag. Your breath caught when you saw it—the familiar black strap, the sleek vibrator she loved to tease you with.

Your pulse spiked.

“Color?” she asked, voice low, dangerous.

You exhaled shakily, your body already aching, already desperate. “Green.”

Paige smirked. “Good.”

And then she was on you again, pressing you down, pinning you beneath her as she reached for the harness, her hands sure, practiced.

“Now,” she murmured, buckling it into place, her blue eyes gleaming with something wicked. “Let’s see if you can pay attention this time.”

You barely had a second to breathe before Paige moved—gripping you with both hands, flipping you over like you weighed nothing, shoving you down onto the couch with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

The cushions barely softened the impact.

Your cheek pressed into the rough fabric, your pulse hammering against it, every nerve in your body already on edge, already buzzing with anticipation.

Then—her hands were on you again.

“On your knees,” she ordered, her voice low, firm—no room for negotiation.

A shiver ran through you at the sheer authority in her tone, and you scrambled to obey, pushing yourself up, ass in the air, legs spread just enough to keep your balance. Paige didn’t hesitate. Her hand came down hard against your ass, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment.

You gasped, your whole body jolting at the impact, the sting radiating outward in a hot, delicious burn.

Paige hummed behind you, pleased. “Fuck, I missed this,” she murmured, her fingers smoothing over the mark she’d just left. “You’re so fucking pretty when you take it.”

Another slap. Harder.

Your hands clenched into fists, your breath stuttering as the pain twisted into something dangerously close to pleasure.

“You like that?” Paige taunted, her palm resting on your already burning skin, her fingers digging in. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice unsteady. “Fuck—yes.”

“Good,” she muttered, reaching for something behind you, the couch shifting with her movement. A small click—then the unmistakable slick pop of a cap flipping open. The scent hit first. Sharp, clean, something cool against the heat simmering beneath your skin.

She shifted behind you, knees pressing firm into the cushions, the heat of her body radiating against your back, against the backs of your thighs. Her breath ghosted over your skin—too close, not close enough.

Then—her fingers.

She didn’t give you time to prepare.

A rough fistful of your hair, yanking hard, forcing your spine into an arch so deep your ribs strained, your lips parting in a sharp, unbidden gasp.

The pull was brutal, just shy of painful, the roots of your hair screaming—but the way her grip anchored you, controlled you, owned you—

You swallowed, legs trembling beneath you.

“Stay fucking still,” she warned, pressing the head of the strap between your thighs, teasing, dragging it through your wetness, spreading it around. “I’m gonna ruin this fucking pussy.”

She thrust, pushing in hard, deep, no warning beyond the stretch, the sheer fullness stealing the breath from your lungs.

You whimpered, your arms shaking as you fought to stay upright, your body clenching around the intrusion, the burn sharp, perfect.

Paige groaned behind you, her grip tightening in your hair. “Jesus fuck, you take it so well,” she muttered, rolling her hips, dragging the length in and out, slow at first, teasing, letting you feel every inch.

Then—another crack against your ass. Your moan was shameless, your body jerking forward, only to be pulled back by her grip on your hair.

“Fuck, you sound so good,” Paige rasped, voice thick, wrecked. Her grip on your hip tightened, her fingers digging into your skin like she wanted to brand herself into you. Her thrusts were deep, relentless, knocking the air straight out of your lungs with every snap of her hips. “You like it when I use you like this?”

Like it?

You could barely hold yourself up, fingers curling into the couch, your body betraying you in every possible way—hips arching back without thinking, legs shaking, thighs slick with everything she’d already wrung from you.

Your mind was a haze, a mess of static, the sharp sting of her fingers bruising into your hip mixing with the raw aching stretch between your legs. There was no room for thought, for pride, for anything except the unbearable, devastating need to keep her right fucking there.

She pulled back—almost all the way—leaving you empty, your walls clenching around nothing, a sharp, helpless noise slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Then she slammed back in.

A cry tore from your throat, your body jerking forward with the force of it, pleasure spiking so sharp it hurt.

“Yeah?” she breathed, amusement curling at the edges of her voice, sharp and teasing, like she could feel how fucked out you were, like she loved it. “Fucking say it.”

Say it. Admit it. Let the words fall from your lips and cement exactly how pathetic you were for her.

You clenched your teeth, breath ragged, body trembling beneath her. The stubborn part of you—the part that fought—clawed at your ribs, held your tongue, refused to give her the satisfaction.

Her palm cracked across your ass—sharp, punishing, hot—and your whole body jerked. A strangled whimper escaped you, high and wrecked, and before you could so much as breathe, she yanked your head back by your hair, forcing your spine to arch, forcing your mouth open on a choked gasp.

“You wanna fucking test me?” she growled, voice low, dangerous, pressing in—so deep you felt it in your fucking stomach.

Your pulse slammed in your throat. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, every muscle locking tight, refusing to give her the satisfaction, refusing—

“I love it,” you gasped, your voice breaking as she spanked you again, making you clench around the strap, making your whole body shake. “Fuck—Paige, please—”

She growled, a low, feral sound, and suddenly her hand left your hip, reaching for the vibrator she’d left on the couch.

“You wanna beg?” she taunted, flicking it on, pressing the toy right against your swollen clit. “Then fucking beg for it.”

Paige yanked your head back by your hair, making your back arch, making your ass push up even higher, exposing everything to her. The stretch in your scalp sent shivers straight down your spine, the sharp pull mixing with the brutal way she was pounding into you. Deep. Hard. No mercy.

“Look at this greedy fucking pussy,” she growled, voice dripping with filth, eyes locked on where she was splitting you open. “You’re dripping all over my cock, fucking yourself on it like a desperate little slut.”

Your moan was ragged, broken, the force of each thrust knocking it right out of your lungs. Your arms trembled, struggling to keep you up, but Paige didn’t give a fuck. She loved seeing you like this—wrecked, used, hers.

She shifted behind you, digging her nails into your hip as she slammed into you harder, deeper, making the couch creak under both of you. Every thrust sent wet, obscene sounds echoing through the apartment, slick, filthy, undeniable.

“Listen to this messy fucking hole,” she hissed, smacking your ass again, fingers digging into the flesh right after. Your skin was burning, tingling, the heat radiating through your whole body. “You love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Like a dumb little slut, letting me wreck you.”

You gasped, nodding frantically, not trusting yourself to speak—not when every thrust hit something devastating inside you, making you whimper like you’d lost your mind.

“Use your fucking words,” Paige snapped, yanking your hair harder, forcing you to arch so much you thought you might break in half. “Tell me what you are.”

“Y-Your slut,” you choked out, the words barely making it past your lips before she spanked you again, harder than before, the sting rocketing through you, making your whole body twitch.

“Damn right you are,” she muttered, her breath hot against your ear as she leaned over you, still fucking into you, still ruining you. “So fucking wet. So fucking tight. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice high, needy, desperate.

Paige groaned, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, making you scream. Your arms collapsed, your face pressing into the couch, your body unable to hold itself up anymore—but she didn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck no,” Paige laughed, dark and wicked, reaching for your wrists and yanking them behind your back, pinning them there. “You don’t get to tap out now. I’m not done with you yet.”

You sobbed against the cushions, pleasure and overstimulation crashing over you in waves. The way she had you—spine arched, arms pinned, completely fucking helpless—made your head spin. And then—fuck—she reached for the vibrator again, pressing it right against your clit.

You howled, your whole body jerking at the sudden intensity, at the way she wouldn’t fucking let up.

“Oh, you’re squirting for me, huh?” Paige teased, her voice full of pure fucking ego as she felt the mess dripping down her thighs. “Can’t even handle my cock without making a mess, can you?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out—just a sharp, shuddering breath, a wrecked sound that barely made it past your lips. Your throat felt raw, your body trembling, pushed beyond its limits but still, still chasing more.

Paige’s smirk deepened, her amusement curling at the edges of your desperation. She leaned in close, her breath rolling hot against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. The tip of her nose ghosted over your jaw, her lips brushing the shell of your ear—not a kiss, just enough to taunt, to tease.

“Pathetic little thing,” she murmured, her voice all velvet and cruelty, her words sinking deep into the mess she’d made of you.

Her hips rolled, the strap dragging slow, deliberate, pressing deeper just as the vibrator ground into your swollen, aching clit. The sensation sent a violent tremor through you, your fingers clenching into useless fists, every nerve frayed and screaming.

Paige hummed, pleased.

“What if I just kept you like this?” Her tone was almost thoughtful, but there was something darker beneath it, something that made your stomach flip, made the heat between your legs flare so violently it nearly hurt.

She rocked her hips again, slower this time, grinding the strap deep, her other hand pressing the vibrator harder, no mercy, no relief.

Your back arched, legs twitching, your body caught between pain and unbearable pleasure. Your mouth opened again, but the sound that tore from your throat was nothing human—a choked, broken whimper, your breath catching on the sheer force of it.

Paige’s grip tightened at your hip, steadying you, owning you.

“Kept you bent over,” she murmured, almost absentminded, like she was imagining it, like she was picturing every second of it. “Stuffed full, dripping all over me, shaking so fucking hard you can’t even hold yourself up.”

Your muscles seized, heat crashing through you like a live wire. Your nails scratched at the couch, desperate, useless, but Paige just laughed, feeling the way your body convulsed, the way you clenched down tight around the strap, your walls fluttering, trembling, breaking.

“Go ahead, baby,” she groaned, biting down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. “Cum on my cock. Fucking scream for me.”

Paige laughed as she felt your body convulse beneath her, as she felt your cunt squeeze down around the strap, milking it like it was real, like you couldn’t help yourself. The moment your orgasm tore through you, she didn’t stop—kept fucking into you through it, kept the vibrator locked tight against your clit, holding you down as you twitched and shook, your body betraying you.

You screamed, legs kicking, but Paige just grinned, watching you break.

“Fuck, this is so hot,” she muttered, dragging her lips over your spine, biting down hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to own you. “Look at this greedy little hole—still clenching, still soaking my cock.”

Your brain was fried, barely able to process the overstimulation, your whole body shaking, but Paige didn’t care.

She pulled out slowly, dragging the strap through your swollen, ruined folds, making you feel every inch as she left you empty, used, gaping. Your thighs were soaked, your pussy wrecked, your skin hot and buzzing from the spankings.

Then—another slap, this time right over your dripping folds, her palm catching the mess you’d made.

You jerked, gasping, pleasure and pain crackling through you at once.

Paige chuckled, sliding her fingers through your wetness, gathering it up before shoving them into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.

“Suck,” she ordered, and you obeyed, wrapping your lips around her fingers, your tongue swirling over them, licking up every drop.

She groaned, watching you, eyes burning.

Paige dragged her fingers from your mouth, slow, deliberate, her touch lingering just long enough to make you chase it—your lips parting instinctively, tongue flicking out as if to pull her back in.

Wet pop.

The slick, obscene sound echoed in the space between you, and Paige exhaled, something dark, something satisfied curling at the edges of her breath.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” she murmured, her voice thick, heavy, sinking straight into your bones. Her fingers brushed over your cheek, smearing the mess she’d just pulled from your mouth, her thumb pressing against your lip, teasing, taunting.

Then—she moved.

Fast. Unyielding.

Hands at your hips, gripping tight, flipping you like you weighed nothing, like you were just another thing for her to use. The cushions barely had time to register your weight before she was spreading you open, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, pushing until there was nothing hidden from her.

You barely processed the shift before cool air hit your soaked, swollen skin, the contrast so sharp it sent a full-body tremor through you.

Your thighs were quivering, slick shining under the dim lights of the apartment, your pussy swollen, throbbing. Paige ran her fingers over it, barely touching, watching the way you twitched, still overstimulated.

“God, you look fucking ruined,” she smirked, gripping the base of the strap, tapping the tip against your still-sensitive clit, making you jump. “Think you can take more?”

Your breath was ragged, your body wrecked, but fuck—fuck, you needed it.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Please.”

Paige’s eyes darkened.

“Then spread those fucking legs wider,” she commanded.

And you did.

Paige smirked as you obeyed, spreading your legs wider, exposing yourself completely—flushed, dripping, needy despite how wrecked you already were. But she didn’t give you anything. Not yet. Instead, she pressed the tip of the strap just against your entrance, teasing, not pushing in, just barely letting you feel the pressure.

Her fingers traced lazy circles over your trembling thighs, pressing down on the spots she’d spanked raw, making you flinch, making you feel every mark she’d left on you.

“You really think you deserve more?” she taunted, dragging the tip of the strap through your soaked folds, never giving you enough. “After that fucking disaster on the court?”

You whimpered, your body twitching, desperate for more friction, but Paige just smirked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“You cost us that game,” she murmured, her voice low, dangerous. “Didn’t you?”

You swallowed, cheeks burning.

“I—”

Slap.

Paige’s palm met your inner thigh, hard, making you jolt, making you yelp.

“Try again,” she said, her grip on your chin tightening, nails digging in. “Say it.”

You shuddered, your body betraying you, thrumming under her control, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“I—I lost us the game,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Paige hummed, pleased, dragging the strap down again, teasing, but still not giving you what you wanted. “Louder.”

You whimpered, your face burning hotter.

“I lost us the game,” you gasped, the words tasting like shame, like submission.

Paige grinned. “Yeah, you fucking did.”

And then she thrust in, hard, no warning, splitting you open in one smooth, devastating motion.

You screamed, your back arching, your whole body shaking at the sudden stretch, the sudden fullness.

Paige groaned, rolling her hips, making you feel every inch of it. “That’s what a fucking loser like you deserves, huh?” she muttered, one hand gripping your throat, the other pressing the vibrator right against your clit. “Getting fucked like a brainless little toy.”

You sobbed, your body already teetering on the edge, too much, too fast, but Paige just grinned, watching you struggle, watching you break.

Then—she stopped.

Everything.

No movement. No friction. The vibrator still humming against you, but not pushing enough to get you there.

You whined, your hips bucking, trying to chase it, but Paige held you down, her grip on your throat tightening.

“Oh, no,” she mocked, tilting her head. “You think you’re getting off that easy? After you fucked up my game?”

You gasped, your body shaking, the pleasure so close, so unbearable—

But Paige just smirked, lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “You’re not cumming until I say you can.”

Your breath hitched, your entire body screaming for release, your skin hot, your muscles tight, that unbearable edge turning into something sharp, almost painful. Paige was still inside you, thick and unyielding, the vibrator right there, your clit swollen, throbbing—but she wasn’t moving. Just watching. Waiting.

Fuck. Fuck.

You needed it, needed her to just move, just do something, but the moment your hips jerked forward, chasing friction, Paige’s hand tightened around your throat, pressing down just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your back arched, your body helpless, caught between pain and pleasure, oxygen slipping from your grasp.

“You don’t listen,” Paige murmured, shaking her head, like she was disappointed in you. “I told you—you don’t get to cum yet.”

Her grip eased up just enough to let you breathe, let you speak.

Your jaw clenched. Your pride flared—some stubborn, defiant part of you that hated being told what to do, even if your body was betraying you, even if you were dripping around her, desperate for more.

Fuck that.

Your hands snapped up, grabbing at her wrist, trying to pry her fingers away from your throat.

Paige’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

“Oh, you wanna fight now?” she taunted, laughing at you, mocking you, like you weren’t even a threat, like you were nothing more than her plaything.

Rage flared in your chest, heat curling in your gut, fueled by humiliation, by desperation. Your nails dug into her wrist, and you bucked your hips hard, trying to throw her off, trying to gain some kind of control.

Bad fucking idea.

Paige growled, low and dangerous, and before you could blink, she had your wrists pinned above your head, her weight pressing you down, her breath hot against your ear.

“That was fucking stupid,” she muttered, her voice dark with something dangerous, something predatory. “Now I’m gonna make you beg for it.”

You struggled, tried to fight back, but she was stronger, her grip iron, her body unshakable.

“You love this,” she whispered, grinding her hips down, making the strap press deeper, making you whimper. “You love being under me. Love getting used. Love being my little fucking toy.”

You clenched your teeth, shaking your head, your breath ragged.

“N-No—”

Slap.

Paige’s hand cracked across your face, your head snapping to the side, heat blooming across your cheek.

Your gasp was sharp, shocked, but the second she grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at her, forcing your eyes to lock with hers, your stomach dropped.

Because she knew.

She saw it. Felt it.

The way your pussy clenched around the strap. The way your thighs trembled. The way your lips parted, breath hitching, body betraying you entirely.

Paige smirked.

“Oh, you liked that,” she mocked, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, making you jolt, making you whimper. “Fucking filthy.”

You hated how right she was.

Hated that you were fucking soaked, your body burning, your pride cracking under the.

She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear, her voice slow, teasing, cruel.

“Say it,” she whispered, rolling her hips, dragging the strap out of you, just enough to make you ache, to make you chase it.

You clenched your teeth, fighting it, fighting her.

She laughed, mocking, pressing the strap just against your entrance, right there, but not inside, not giving you what you needed.

“Say it,” Paige murmured again, her voice slow, dragging over the syllables, rolling them over her tongue like she relished the sound. Like she knew she had you. Like she owned you. “Say you love it.”

Her tone was laced with something dark, something dangerous, but it was her eyes that truly wrecked you—those piercing blue irises locked onto yours, drinking in your desperation, your humiliation, your surrender.

You shook, your entire body trembling, every nerve burning with the unbearable edge she had you dangling over. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, aching, needing her to just move, to just fucking fuck you, but she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t give it to you until you admitted it. Until you broke completely.

Your fists clenched above your head where she still had them pinned, nails biting into your own skin as you tried to fight it, tried to hold on to the last shreds of your pride.

But it was slipping.

You could feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, your body betraying you, betraying everything, and fuck—fuck, she knew. She could see it.

Her smirk deepened, her fingers tightening around your wrists, pressing them harder into the cushions, her body looming over you, suffocating in the best fucking way.

She waited.

She didn’t repeat herself. Didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, your thighs quivering where they were still spread wide open for her, still needy, still so fucking wrecked.

And then—

“… I love it.”

The words were barely a whisper, barely more than shame slipping from your lips, and the moment they left your mouth, Paige fucking grinned.

Her fingers released your wrists, only to slide down, wrapping around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur, to make your breath stutter.

“Good fucking girl,” she purred, her voice thick with pride, with ownership, with pure fucking satisfaction.

And then she slammed back in.

Hard.

No warning. No buildup. Just a brutal, unrelenting thrust that forced a wrecked cry from your lips, your back arching, your body convulsing under her.

She didn’t ease you into it. Didn’t fucking care that you were still trembling, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive. She just used you, fucking into you with brutal, merciless strokes, making your breath punch out of you with every thrust.

Her hand tightened around your throat, her other hand grabbing your hip, holding you still, forcing you to take it, to accept it, to submit completely.

“Say it again,” she growled, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice dripping with sin, with dominance, with something feral.

You whimpered, your whole body wrecked, already tipping toward that unbearable edge again, already so fucking close.

Her hips snapped harder, her cock splitting you open, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, ruining you.

“Say it again,” she snarled, her grip on your throat tightening, the vibrator pressing harder against your clit, sending a white-hot shock through you.

Your entire body twitched, fire spreading through your veins, through every nerve—

And then—

“I love it—fuck, I fucking love it.”

Paige moaned, deep and guttural, her hand sliding up, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at her, forcing you to see how much she was enjoying this. How much she loved seeing you like this—ruined, helpless, hers.

“That’s fucking right,” she spat, pounding into you harder, her fingers digging into your cheeks, her nails biting into your skin. “You fucking love it. Love getting used. Love being my little fucking slut.”

You sobbed, pleasure crashing through you, your whole body convulsing as she fucked you through it, as she held you down and forced you to take every second of it.

And fuck—fuck—she wasn’t stopping.

She had you right where she wanted you—under her, wrecked, body trembling, clenching around the strap, soaking both of you. She was fucking you through another orgasm, grip tight on your jaw, vibrator still pressed to your swollen, abused clit, your body unable to do anything but take it.

Her breath hitched, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips as she watched you fall apart.

“God damn,” Paige grunted, her gaze locked on the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers clawed at her forearms, the couch cushions, fucking air—like there was anywhere to go, like she wasn’t going to hold you right there until you had nothing left.

“You’re so fucking pathetic like this.”

You sobbed, every nerve fried, pleasure tipping past unbearable, white-hot static frying your goddamn brain—

BANG BANG BANG.

Your whole body seized. Paige froze.

For a second, the only sound in the room was the both of you panting—loud, breathless, soaked—

Then—

“HEY!”

A voice from the other side of the door. KK. Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my fucking god,” you whispered, mortified, pure horror crawling up your spine.

Paige, though? She fucking laughed.

“Yeah, we’re serious,” she called out, still breathless, still inside you, still fucking smug. “What do you wan?”

A groan. Another thud of a fist against the door.

“It’s two in the fucking morning! Some of us don’t wanna listen to your freaky-ass sex life all fucking night!”

You covered your face with your hands. Paige grinned, completely unbothered, shifting her hips just enough to make your breath hitch, like this was funny, like this wasn’t the worst moment of your entire fucking life.

“Maybe you should get some fucking earplugs,” she shot back, smirking.

“Or maybe you should go fuck in a soundproof basement like a normal goddamn person!”

Paige snorted, her body shaking from how hard she was holding back laughter.

“Not my fault this bitch is loud as fuck.”

You kicked her.

Hard.

Paige cackled, her whole body shaking on top of you.

“Jesus Christ!” KK groaned, slamming the door one last time before stomping away, voice trailing off as she disappeared down the hall. “Fucking lesbians, man…”

Silence.

Then, Paige propped herself up on her elbows, grinning down at you, still breathless, still flushed, still inside you.

“Well,” she smirked.

She rocked her hips—slow, teasing, devastating.

“Where were we?”

A beat.

Then, from the depths of your absolute humiliation, you mustered the last bit of strength in your body—

“KK! YOU’RE GAY TOO, BITCH!”

Silence.

A door slammed down the hall.

Paige lost her shit, laughing so hard she actually collapsed on top of you, her whole body shaking, still breathless, still inside you.

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. “I hate you.”

Paige propped herself up, still grinning like an absolute psycho, eyes gleaming.

“No, you don’t.”

2K notes · View notes

ari-ana-bel-la · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! Can I please request a fic where the reader is the young daughter of an F1 driver (you can pick who if you want), and one day she steals his phone in the paddock and starts running around filming everything like tyres, garages, the cars, even some drivers and she’s making the cutest little comments the whole time? A team social media admin notices and just lets her take over filming for them, and they post the video later and it becomes the most popular thing the team’s ever posted because everyone falls in love with her commentary? (The video from admin can be the drivers walking in or a tour of one of the teams garage)

Future Film Maker

The sun was shining down on the paddock, and the familiar low hum of activity buzzed through the air. It was Friday morning, and George had arrived bright and early — but this time, he wasn’t alone.

"Alright, sweetheart, you ready for a big weekend?" George asked as he lifted little Yn out of her car seat.

The three-year-old beamed up at him, her eyes bright with excitement. She wore a miniature Mercedes team shirt that practically swallowed her tiny frame, and her hair was pulled up into two tiny buns on either side of her head. A lanyard with her name and a VIP pass swung around her neck.

"Race cars!" she squealed.

George laughed, kissing her forehead. "Yes, race cars. But you have to promise to be good while Mama’s working, okay?"

Yn nodded very seriously, though George knew that promise would be short-lived.

The paddock was bustling with mechanics, drivers, and media personnel as George walked through, Yn perched securely on his hip.

"Hey! Look who’s here!" Alex said, walking over with a big grin. He bent down to Yn’s level. "Hello, Miss Trouble."

"Hi, Uncle Lex!" Yn giggled, holding her arms out. George passed her over with a fond sigh.

"You’ve got five minutes before she gets bored and starts plotting something," George warned.

"That’s five more than last time," Alex joked.

Yn looked around the garage, then spotted something shiny. "Tyres! Big tyres!"

"You want to see the tyres?" Alex asked. Yn nodded furiously, so he carried her over to the tyre stacks.

George watched, amused, but soon got pulled into his engineering briefing. Carmen had been swamped with back-to-back shoots and meetings, and George hadn’t hesitated to take Yn for the weekend. It wasn’t even a question — he adored any excuse to spend time with his daughter.

What he didn’t know was that while he sat through fuel data and sector times, a small storm was brewing.

Yn, ever the explorer, was now back in the garage sitting on a little stool with George’s phone — which she had sneakily taken from his bag.

"Cameraaa…" she whispered as she tapped on the screen until the video app popped up. She grinned.

"Hi! It’s me. Yn. I’m at Daddy’s work. Look!" She panned the camera dramatically to the floor. "That’s a shoe. It’s Uncle Lex’s shoe. Very fast shoe."

The camera wobbled as she got up and toddled around the paddock. She pointed it at a mechanic’s back. "That’s… um. I dunno who that is. But he’s workin’. So shhh."

A few meters away, one of the Mercedes social media admins, Mia, blinked in surprise as she noticed the toddler filming.

She crouched down gently beside Yn. "Hey there, Miss Yn. Whatcha doing?"

"Makin’ a movie," Yn replied confidently, still filming.

Mia smiled. "That’s cool. Want some help holding the phone so it’s not so wobbly?"

"Yes, please. You have nice shoes," Yn said.

Together, they held the phone steady as Yn continued her documentary. "This is the garage. It’s loud. My ears go beep beep when it’s loud. This is a car. It’s my daddy’s car. It’s very very fast. Vroom."

From behind, Charles approached, sipping on a water bottle. "Is our little Spielberg directing something today?"

"Uncle Cha!" Yn squealed, abandoning the phone momentarily to run into his arms.

Charles caught her easily, lifting her into a hug. "Are you being a good girl today?"

"I’m makin’ a movie! Want to be in it?"

Charles chuckled. "Of course. Should I smile? Pose like this?" He made a silly face that had Yn giggling uncontrollably.

Mia took the phone and kept filming as Yn directed him.

"Say: ‘I go zoom zoom!’"

Charles played along, throwing his hands up. "I go ZOOM ZOOM!"

"Cut!" Yn yelled dramatically.

Later, she ran into Lando, who was talking with one of his engineers.

"Uncle LaLa! I’m filming! Be in it?"

Lando turned and knelt. "Of course I will. What’s my line, Miss Director?"

"Say: ‘I’m cool.’"

"Easy. I am cool," he said with exaggerated flair.

Yn nodded. "Okay, you can go now."

Lando laughed. "Tough crowd."

In the hospitality tent, Toto was enjoying a quick lunch when he felt a small tug at his pant leg.

"Hi, Mr Toto! Can I have a bite?"

He turned, surprised, and found Yn looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Of course," he said with a warm smile, offering her his fork. "Don’t tell your papa I gave you his favorite part."

She chewed thoughtfully. "Tastes like chicken. But not chicken. Fancy chicken."

He burst out laughing, and Mia — still filming — made a note to keep that clip.

All around the paddock, drivers began noticing the little girl toddling around, narrating things in her high-pitched voice.

"That’s Uncle Lew. He laughs lots. That’s Oscar. He’s my friend. He smells like soap."

"This is a helmet. I can’t wear it. It’s BIG. Like my head is in a spaceship."

Drivers smiled, stepping aside to let her pass, sometimes walking behind her to make sure she didn’t trip or get too close to anything dangerous. Carlos followed her at one point for ten minutes straight, just in case.

By the end of the day, Mia had collected over thirty minutes of Yn’s footage.

"I’ve never seen anything like it," she told her colleague. "She’s gold."

George eventually found his daughter curled up on the couch in the media room, his phone still in her hand.

"Hey, you," he whispered, lifting her carefully.

"Dadda," she mumbled, already half-asleep. "I made a moovie."

"I heard," he said with a chuckle. "Can’t wait to see it."

The next morning, Mercedes’ social media posted a five-minute cut of the video with the caption: A day in the paddock through the eyes of our smallest team member: Yn.

Within minutes, it exploded online.

Fans flooded the comments:

This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Give her the camera every weekend, I beg.

Uncle Lex’s shoe is iconic now.

Fancy chicken. DEAD.

Even rival teams reposted it with heart emojis and laughing reactions.

George held Yn on his lap as he scrolled through the comments. "You’ve gone viral, love."

Yn blinked at him sleepily. "I’m famous now."

He laughed. "You sure are."

By Sunday, drivers kept stopping by with snacks and toys for Yn. She sat in a little chair beside the engineers, wearing oversized headphones, proudly pointing things out to anyone who’d listen.

"That’s the telemetry. It goes beep. Daddy says that’s good."

Even Lewis came by, kneeling beside her. "Heard you’re the boss around here now."

Yn nodded seriously. "I make movies. Maybe you can be in my next one."

"Only if you let me wear cool sunglasses," Lewis grinned.

She thought about it. "Deal."

George just smiled from a few feet away, heart full.

His girl, his world — and now, apparently, the internet’s too.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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

-💚🐍

1K notes · View notes

5sospenguinqueen · 8 months ago

Text

Forgetful Flirtation - Toto Wolff x Wife! Reader

Summary: A heavy celebration leads to a husband forgetting his wife. And a team who won't let him forget it.

Warnings: Fluff. Swearing. Slight age gap.

Requested: Yes by anon.

F1 Masterlist

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by kimi.antonelli, valterribottas and others

mercedesamgf1 LEWIS HAMILTON WINS THE BRITISH GRAND PRIX 🇬🇧

13,331 comments

totowolff you did us proud. you deserved this, lewis. enjoy

landonorris congrats mate

yn_wolff oh, lewis, what an amazing drive. well deserved. i’m so happy for you

→ mercedesamgf1 we can confirm that she cried

→ lewishamilton 🫶🏾

pierregasly congrats champ!

roscoelovescoco well’s done’s dad’s

�� yn_wolff it was the luck of roscoe in the garage. maybe we should have him every weekend

→ mercedesamgf1 we agree

georgerussell63 you deserve it, mate 🍾 i’ll buy you a round later

→ user1 are they going out together later?

→ user2 wouldn’t surprise me if the whole team celebrated this win

yn_wolff just posted

liked by iamrebeccad, carmenmmundt and others

yn_wolff team dinner to celebrate hubby’s, and especially lewis’, success

3,644 comments

totowolff meine schöne frau

→ yn_wolff i love you

francisca.cgomes oh okay so we’re dressing hot tonight?

→ yn_wolff i know you’re complimenting me but don’t make it sound like we didn’t compare outfits for tonight. you even know what kind of underwear i’m wearing!

→ francisca.cgomes i enjoyed those pictures

→ pierregasly pardon?

→ user3 yn is such a girl’s girl

user4 that hand placement though 🤤

→ user5 she’s really not good for toto’s reputation

→ user6 she’s making it look like he’s groping her

→ user7 can you blame him? look at her. she’s hot liked by yn_wolff

user8 um, anyone else find it really unprofessional that she’s publicly admitting to sending images of her underwear to people?

→ francisca.cgomes one person, and i’m her friend?

→ user8 it just reflects badly on her husband who has an image to maintain

→ totowolff no, it doesn’t. she is her own person

user9 unlike you crying bitches, i love that toto is married to someone slightly younger so that we get this content

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Weaving through the throng of bodies, you scowled as you dodged another couple gyrating against each other near the entrance to the VIP section. Your glass was empty and your shoes kept sticking to the floor, tacky from a cocktail of spilled drinks. Scanning the crowd, you scowled as you made your way over to the bar. How was it possible to lose a 6’5 billionaire in a crowd of shorter drivers?

Gesturing wildly to a crowd of people, the man of the day caught your eye and you hurried over to him.

“Lewis, have you seen Toto anywhere? I can’t find him.” You nibbled anxiously at your bottom lip.

“Last I saw, he was with Bono asking the DJ to play 80s music,” laughed Lewis, recalling the image of his team principal and engineer swaying together, a feather boa draped across the pair of them.

You thanked him before turning and continuing on your crusade. All around you, familiar faces were wrapped around their partner’s (or women they had just met), dancing to the music or whispering in their ears. Alcohol had been flowing freely for the past three hours and the majority of the people in the club were more than inebriated. The hours had passed and you were ready for a warm shower and for your husband to tuck you into bed. Yet, he had decided to elude you.

Toto’s dress shirt hung loosely off your frame, having been draped around you earlier whilst you stood outside for some fresh air. You had simply rubbed a hand down your arm, trying to dispel the goosebumps that appeared, and there he was, bundling you up. That had been an hour ago and you hadn’t seen him since. Inhaling deeply, his scent surrounded you. The only comfort you had as you began to wonder whether he’d left you here in his drunken state.

Lando was up on the platform flapping his arms in a dramatic manner and messing around with the decks, directing you to where you thought you’d spotted a tall figure shrouded in the shadows.

“Yn!” Bono greeted, beaming at you through the pink feathers enveloping his face.

“Having a good night, Bono?” You asked, smiling at the sight of him. “Toto, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Well, hello there,” your husband drawled, peering down at you with a heated gaze. “Come here often?”

“What?” You laughed, leaning closer to hear him over the music. Surely you had misheard.

“I would’ve remembered seeing a woman as beautiful as you before.”

Beside you, Bono was shaking with silent laughter, gesturing wildly at someone in the distance. Probably summoning more people to bear witness to the peculiarity happening before you. Sidling up to him, you wrapped a hand around his bicep under the guise of stabilising yourself. You felt the muscle under your hand flex.

“Careful, Mr Wolff. If you keep being nice to me, I might have to take you home.”

His arms wrapped around your lower back, pulling you close against him. A heart stopping smile filled his face. “I don’t think I’d object to that. I would, however, like your name first.”

“Is he being serious?” Somebody whispered behind you, earning a wave of raucous laughter from the Mercedes team that had gathered.

“You smell nice.” Toto continued, nose nuzzling into the ticklish spot under your ear. You arched against his touch. He may not remember your marriage certificate but he clearly knew where best to tease you.

Running your fingers down his arm, you grabbed his left hand, tracing circles across the back of it. His wedding ring - part of a matching set - glistened in the strobe lighting. Fiddling with his fingers, you raised your hand up to your face, pulling it into his periphery. You twisted the band around his finger, letting it catch the light and his eye.

“I’m sorry but I don’t date married men.”

You dropped your husband’s hand, sliding out from his hold. Turning away from him, you snaked through the crowd and away from him. Dazed, Toto looked at his left hand in bewilderment. He slid the band off his finger, looking at the date engraved inside. Opposite him, his team continued to cackle at his misfortune. He was in so much trouble tomorrow.

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_wolff added to her story

liked by mercedesamgf1, francisca.cgomes and others

georgerussell63 replied to slide 2 at least he remembers you there → yn_wolff you keep teasing him about that and you might seriously find yourself without a seat next season → georgerussell63 don’t say that. i know you’d protect me → yn_wolff don’t push your luck → i’ll see you for dinner on thursday though? → georgerussell63 wouldn’t miss it

francisca.cgomes replied to slide 3 how are you awake enough to do all that? → i feel like i’ve died. pierre keeps bringing me cups of tea but i can’t even lift my head to drink them → yn_wolff tbf, kiks, you drank far more than i did 😂 → plus toto has been doing everything for me despite looking like death himself → i think he feels bad for forgetting i was his wife → francisca.cgomes at least you know even drunk you’re the only woman he wants?

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and others

mercedesamgf1 the silver arrows know how to party

4,463 comments

georgerussell63 yeah and our team principal knows how to forget his wife

→ totowolff george, would you like to stay with mercedes next season?

→ yn_wolff don’t threaten your drivers online, dear

→ georgerussell63 i’m only speaking the truth

→ user10 george, you don’t look like you were in any state to remember things either

yn_wolff can somebody blow that photo up and print it off for me. i think i need it in my bedroom

→ user11 you get to go home with the real thing, leave the photo for us

→ yn_wolff i almost didn’t

→ totowolff not you as well, liebling

→ user12 what does this mean?

lewishamilton hell of a party

pierregasly maybe don’t let your team principal join next time

alex_albon happy wife happy life probably isn’t working for toto right now

maxverstappen1 i think we should get toto drunk before race weekends, maybe he’ll forget his strategies

→ user13 what does this mean? let us innnnn

totowolff i’ll be speaking to all your team principals tomorrow about your behaviour

→ charles_leclerc yes, dad

→ landonorris oh, no. now we’ve done it

→ georgerussell63 who do you talk to about mine?

yn_wolff you forgot your wife, mein herz, i don’t think your scary boss act is going to work today

→ user14 he did what?!

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Requests open for smau's

Tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius

2K notes · View notes

mrsvante · 2 months ago

Text

Bad Decisions

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genre: biker au, secret relationship, pfp filth

summary: by day, jeongguk is the youngest heir of the noble seven—untouchable, lethal, and born into power. by night, he’s the ghost on a matte black Husqvarna, tearing through city streets with recklessness only royalty can afford. but there’s one thing he can’t control: you. the girl he’s been sneaking around with in stolen hours and secret places. when a high stakes race throws you back into his path, a charged game of cat and mouse ignites—your biting words matched only by the heat in his stare.

later that night, you find yourself exactly where you swore you shouldn’t be—underneath him, breathless and begging for more. but what starts as a heady, sweat slicked surrender spirals into something neither of you expect. in the quiet between moans and the hush that follows release, something shifts. words are whispered that neither of you can take back.

warnings: motorcycle racing jeongguk, role playing? you act like strangers in public, light bdsm, bondage, blindfold, cumming lots of cumming, breeding kink? jeongguk loves filling you up (wrap it up kids), boob job, jeongguk calls you princess 🫠 (i’m weak for it SUE ME), anal sex, soft dom weak for his princess jeongguk, fingering, they’re just a freaky ass couple who’re obsessed with each other

word count: 5,903

Introducing: The Consequences

The first time you see Jeongguk is at a street race near the east side of town, where the Reapers’ territory bleeds into the Titans’ stretch of concrete

Neutral ground. Or at least, that’s what everyone pretends it is.

It’s not the best place to be after dark—but not the worst either. That’s the thing about the city. Whether you’re in a luxury high rise or posted on the block, you keep your head on a swivel. No exceptions.

Jeongguk rolls in on a black and chrome Kawasaki Ninja H2 Carbon, the engine purring like a predator with too much money and nowhere to be. The bike looks custom, vicious. So does he. His black leather jacket clings to his frame like it was stitched directly onto his body. One you’ve heard about in rumors passed between girls with loose lips and tighter jeans.

Flanking him are the rest of the Noble Seven. Heirs of the seven families who run the country from behind velvet curtains and bloodstained ledgers.

“My god,” Keira breathes, her voice low and reverent. “It’s like the universe said, ‘Hmm, what would sex on legs look like?’ and dropped them here just to fuck with us.”

You laugh. It’s such a Keira thing to say.

But she’s not wrong.

“Hey.” Pierce’s voice cuts through your amusement like a whip, authoritative. You and Keira both stiffen as he approaches, already pulling his helmet on. “Don’t go far. And don’t talk to anyone.”

You fake a gag, just in time to catch him yanking Keira toward him by the belt loop of her jeans.

“Good luck kiss?” he grins at her. You roll your eyes and tune them out, shifting your attention back to the growing crowd of riders and onlookers. It’s the first night out you’ve had in weeks.

The shop’s been busier than ever with the warm weather—more cash in your pockets, sure, but less time to enjoy it.

A cold rush skims up your spine.

Someone’s watching you.

You scan the crowd from beneath your lashes, discreet but alert. You’re not in the mood for a fight tonight.

Your breath falters in your chest when you find the source.

Jeongguk’s gaze locks with yours; dark, curious, and far too direct for comfort. His eyes glitter like onyx under the flickering neon lights. He says something low to the man beside him without breaking eye contact. Park Jimin follows his line of sight and smirks, slow and dangerous.

Nope.

You whip your head away.

Pierce said don’t talk to anyone. You’re pretty sure that includes body language.

“Come on,” Keira says, tugging your arm. “Let’s grab drinks and find seats before the race starts. You should flirt with Baekhyun—he’ll let us watch the drone footage.”

“We can just stream it on our phones,” you grumble, trying not to trip as she drags you along “And Baekhyun’s like a brother. That’s weird.”

“Ugh. Everyone is like a brother to you. When are you gonna stop friend zoning dick and swallow some?”

“Hyunwoo wasn’t like a brother.”

Keira side eyes you, tongue sliding over her teeth. “No…no he was not.” You both dissolve into giggles as you join the line at concessions.

—

The second time you see Jeongguk, it’s through the grainy feed of Baekhyun’s drone—high above the treacherous backroads of Howlers Mountain, where one wrong move means a broken body or worse.

You’re sitting on the roof of the camper, knees pulled to your chest, drink sweating in your hand. Keira’s next to you, vibrating with adrenaline.

“Who the hell takes a curve at that angle?” she yells, nearly spilling tequila down your jeans.

“Apparently, Jeon fucking Jeongguk,” Baekhyun mutters from his monitor below.

The camera pans to a blur of black gear, tires screaming around a cliffside, the rider leaning in like he’s bulletproof. Your breath catches as gravel spits from his rear tire—he’s inches from the edge.

You hate how your chest clenches.

Hate more the thrill that curls in your belly.

He’s reckless.

Stupid.

Beautiful.

And completely in control.

“He’s okay,” you say quickly, pointing at the screen as the rider regains balance. “He’s okay.”

Your own cocktail sloshes over the rim of your cup, ice rattling.

“Keep it down, ladies,” Baekhyun mutters from behind his controller. “I’m working.”

“Sorry, Bacon!” you and Keira chorus, teasing him in sync. He groans like he regrets inviting you, which only makes you laugh harder.

Your attention drifts back to the sleek shadow slicing through the mountain pass—black bike, black gear. Jeongguk.

“Let’s go, silver surfer!” Keira yells as Pierce takes the lead, cutting past Jeongguk in a clean maneuver.

You glance at the route map—tight turn coming up. That’s usually where the race is won or lost.

Pierce surges ahead, dressed in head to toe white like a declaration of war. It’s too on the nose. Too symbolic. But your brother loves a metaphor.

Your heart skips when another rider, Marcus, skids out, bike sliding across the asphalt with a sharp screech. He tumbles, helmet shattering as the other riders swerve to avoid him.

“Fuck, that was close,” Baekhyun breathes.

You’re already out the door, feet pounding the steps of the camper, Keira hot on your heels as the thunder of engines rushes toward the finish line.

Jeongguk crosses first.

Pierce is a breath behind him.

The crowd goes feral.

Jeongguk revs his engine, slowing just enough to pull up directly in front of you. The way he swings off the bike is criminal—helmet in one hand, jacket clinging to his chest like a second skin. His eyes rake up your body: chunky heels, cargos, crop top. He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about your chest.

“Now this is a first place trophy,” he says over his shoulder to Jimin, who’s lounging nearby with his helmet under his arm.

You scoff. Loudly.

“Even if winners did get trophies, it definitely wouldn’t be me.”

Keira tugs your sleeve, whispering not to antagonize a member of the Noble Seven. You couldn’t care less. Arrogance doesn’t look good on anyone—even if he wears it well.

Jeongguk laughs, the sound warm and rich, but edged with something colder.

He plants his helmet on the seat, closing the distance between you in two strides. His frame is massive up close, all sculpted muscle and quiet dominance.

He smells like leather and bergamot, and the scent wraps around your senses before you can brace against it.

“And what kind of winner do I have to be,” he murmurs, “to win you?”

His voice curls around your spine like a promise or a threat. Maybe both.

You meet his gaze evenly, only your lip caught between your teeth betraying the flutter in your chest. You lean in, just enough that your breath ghosts over his lips. You hear him inhale.

Good.

Two can play this game.

“I’m not won, Jeon,” you whisper, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear. “I’m earned.”

Then you step back, grab Keira’s hand, and vanish into the crowd.

His laughter follows you like smoke.

“I know you’ve heard the rumors,” he calls after you. “That I don’t like to lose.”

You pause but don’t turn. You don’t have to.

“I’ll admit it. I’m a bit of a sore loser.”

His tone shifts—silken, dangerous.

“Just know whatever they told you about me? Lies,” he says, the crowd swallowing him in a sea of noise and flashing lights. “I’m much worse.”

Your skin prickles. Your breath catches.

You keep walking.

Hopefully, your little show doesn’t bite you in the ass later.

“Damn,” Keira whistles beside you. “He’s definitely not like a brother.”

You squeeze her hand tighter. “Is he still looking?”

“He’s doing more than looking, sister friend.”

— — — — —

The door slams shut behind you.

In an instant, Jeongguk has you pinned—his palm wrapped around your throat, pressing you flat to the wood like he owns you. His other hand works between your thighs, fingers curling deep inside your dripping pussy with unrelenting rhythm.

Your legs tremble as your slick soaks through ruined lace. His knee knocks yours apart, kicking your cargos across the hallway.

“You said I have to earn you, huh, princess?”

Words escape you. Your tongue feels swollen and useless, lolling helplessly against your lips as your mouth parts in silent cries.

His fingers find your g-spot, hook into it like he’s done this a thousand times, and your body convulses. The edge of your orgasm looms, sharp and sudden, white-hot pressure blooming behind your eyes.

“Answer me.” His voice is a growl against your ear, his body the only thing keeping you upright.

“J-Jeongguk—I’m gonna—please—”

His fingers don’t relent. If anything, they move faster. The obscene sound of your arousal fills the air, each wet squelch making your cheeks flush. You clench desperately around his hand, right there on the edge—

Then nothing.

He pulls out.

Your orgasm evaporates into a scream of frustration, your nails dragging down the door. Tears spring to your eyes as the emptiness between your legs throbs violently.

“Fuck!” you cry out.

Jeongguk lifts his slick-covered fingers to his mouth, moaning shamelessly as he licks them clean. His hand tightens around your throat, thumb stroking the column of your neck as he forces you to watch.

“Did you really think you could get away with saying that shit to me?” His voice is low, deadly, nearly amused.

You shake your head, lips trembling. He leans in, his lips grazing your ear.

“Use your fucking words. Or I’ll play with this pussy until the sun comes up. Is that what you want?”

“No—no! Please, let me cum, baby—please.”

His lips crash into yours, swallowing your plea. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes your pussy clench in need, your whole body arching for more.

He breaks the kiss with a dark chuckle. “Did you have fun teasing me, princess? Standing there in front of everyone, looking like my own personal goddess? Thinking I wouldn’t make you pay for it?”

“I wasn’t—!” you gasp, but your protest dies on your tongue when his thumb circles your clit, rough and fast.

You writhe, your legs locking around his hips, chasing any sensation that’ll give you what he keeps stealing.

“You’re a horrible fucking liar,” he snarls. He yanks your panties aside and plunges his fingers back into your soaked heat. “Let’s try again. Be a good girl. Tell the truth. Now.”

“Y-Yes—I did, I was teasing,” you gasp, shame and need tangling in your throat. “Gguk, please—!”

“Such a bad girl,” he tsks. “Teasing me in front of Keira, in front of your brother? It’d be wrong of me to bend you over my bike and fuck the attitude out of you, wouldn’t it?”

You moan, head rolling back as his fingers fuck you ruthlessly. You’re so close it feels like dying.

“Gguk…”

“What? You wanna cum?” he mocks, voice syrupy with false sympathy. “My baby wants me to let her cum?”

You nod frantically, lips parted, mind unraveling.

He grins.

And then he wrecks you.

His thumb finds your clit again, and the combination sends lightning through your veins. Your orgasm builds like a storm surge, fast and furious, until it’s the only thing you can feel.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make you cum, princess. And then I’ll keep going—until you remember who you belong to.”

When it hits, it devastates you.

You scream his name as your orgasm slams through your body, collapsing every muscle with it. Your vision whites out, your walls fluttering around his fingers, spasming again and again as tears pour down your cheeks.

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it—past it—ruthless, merciless. His hand tightens around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to make your lungs burn, and the overstimulation mutates into a new kind of hunger.

“You’re so sexy like this,” he growls against your cheek, “looking all innocent in front of Keira and your brother. But we both know better, don’t we, pretty girl?”

“Jeongguk—!”

“You love it.” His voice is hoarse with desire. “Getting all stupid on my fingers, going cock drunk before I even fuck you. I should make you cum again just like this.”

You claw at him, your thighs trembling as you try to pull away, but he catches your waist and holds you still.

“Fuck, baby—you want me to cum in my pants?” he groans, rutting into your thigh. “Shit, you’re dripping down my wrist.”

“N-No—I—I want you in me,” you whimper.

He inhales sharply, and it’s all over.

He drags you to the living room, drops onto the couch, and pulls you into his lap like he can’t bear to wait another second.

“Can I fuck you now? Please, baby—I need to feel you.” His hands are trembling as he unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, leaking.

You fall to your knees, hungry.

“Need to suck your dick,” you pant, reaching for him.

But Jeongguk grabs your wrists. “Not now,” he growls. “Need you riding me.”

His eyes burn into yours as he tears your panties from your body, lips parted in awe as he stares at your soaked, puffy folds.

“Come here, princess. Sit on my cock.”

You straddle him, guiding the thick head of his dick to your entrance. You both gasp when he slips in, walls stretching to accommodate him.

“So wet… ‘m gonna cum just from you sitting on me.”

You whimper as you sink down, inch by inch, until he’s seated fully inside you.

“F-fuck,” he hisses. “Love your pussy, princess.”

He cups your breasts, pulling your bandeau down with a groan. Your nipples are hard, begging to be tasted. He wraps his mouth around one, tongue flicking while his other hand kneads the other breast.

You ride him slowly, grinding your hips in lazy circles that drive him mad.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, switching to the other nipple, suckling greedily. “Wanna live right here forever. Just like this.”

You start to move faster, hips bouncing, skin clapping against skin. His cock hits deep with every drop, the stretch addictive.

“I’m close,” you pant.

“I know, baby—I feel it. Fuck—you’re squeezing me so good.”

He grips your hips and thrusts up into you, punching into your cervix with brutal precision. Your orgasm builds fast and hot.

“Harder!” you beg. “Please, Jeongguk—harder!”

He slams into you, over and over, and suddenly he’s everywhere—his mouth on your tits, his hands bruising your waist, his cock claiming every inch of you.

You scream when you cum again, whole body shaking as you collapse into him, trembling in his arms.

But he’s not done.

He lifts you and flips you onto the couch. “No—please, Gguk, I can’t—”

“You can,” he croons, lining himself up again. “You will.”

He thrusts into your overstimulated cunt and sets a ruthless pace, eyes wild as he watches your eyes roll back.

“So wet, so fucking warm—shit! Gonna fill you up, okay? Gonna fuck you right, princess.”

You cry out, clawing at the cushions, unable to form words anymore. Just please and more and don’t stop on loop.

His rhythm stutters. His face contorts in pleasure. He shoves in deep, holding you down as he empties inside you with a broken groan.

His cum floods your walls, thick and hot, and it makes you moan again, your legs twitching around his waist.

He leans in, kissing your lips softly now. Passionately. Worshipful.

“You’re mine, baby,” he breathes, brushing your sweaty hair back from your forehead. “All mine.”

And in the wreckage of your shared desire, you believe it.

Feel it in your bones.

—

You find yourself in Jeongguk’s bedroom, sprawled across 800 thread count Egyptian cotton. The sheets are cool against your flushed skin, a poor remedy for the heat coursing through you—made worse by the steady chill of the air conditioning he always insists on.

Your vision is cloaked in black silk, blindfolded and vulnerable beneath the weight of his desires. Every creak of the bed frame, every shift in the air feels magnified, your heartbeat pounding in your ears like a warning—or a promise.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head, princess?”

His voice cuts through the silence like velvet over steel, coming from your right. You gasp, your body tightening reflexively around the sound.

A whimper escapes you, helpless and raw. After making you cum on the couch downstairs, Jeongguk had carried you upstairs over his shoulder—his toned ass on display the whole way—then bound your wrists to the bedposts with soft cotton rope.

Now you lie there, spread open, waiting.

“Gguk…”

You strain to hear, to locate him. But there are no footsteps, no shifting weight. Just a vast, mysterious silence.

It used to terrify you, this surrender of control. When Jeongguk first introduced you to the world of blindfolds and bondage, the loss of sight had been a seismic jolt to your nerves. But with time—and with him—you learned to trust. And Jeongguk? He always took care of you.

Your body flinches when something cool and leather trails up your thigh. A heartbeat later, the riding crop slices through the air and lands on your skin with a sharp crack.

“Ahh—”

The sound that spills from your lips is more moan than cry, your body arching in response. You’re trembling, sensitive and aroused, a lit fuse waiting to be touched.

“I asked you a question,” he murmurs, his voice brushing your cheek like a phantom kiss. “You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

You chase the heat of his breath, desperate for a kiss, a graze, anything—but he withholds, as always.

“I was thinking…” You’re panting now, your breath catching in your throat. “Thinking about you… and this.”

Even now, you’re bashful—unable to shake the taboo feeling, even with how deeply you’ve fallen into his world. Kinks, bondage, the blurred lines of pleasure and pain. You crave them, but speaking them aloud still feels like standing naked before a crowd.

He hums low in his throat. The riding crop returns, this time ghosting over your chest. Your nipples stiffen instantly, and you jolt when he flicks them with the tip.

“Do you want to stop?”

His tone changes—no more teasing or dominance, only calm and care. Sincere. He always checks in. Always offers an out.

This is about trust first. Pleasure second. Always.

You shake your head vigorously, the blindfold shifting slightly with the motion. “No. Please… don’t stop.”

Another sharp crack. You jolt, the pleasure bursting through you like sparks.

“Then use your words, princess. Why am I repeating myself so much tonight?”

You cry out again when the crop strikes your swollen clit, sticky with need. Strings of your arousal stretch and snap with every motion.

“N-No. Please, please don’t stop.”

He blows lightly against your exposed cunt, the breeze making you squirm.

“Maybe I should tease you until sunrise. You’ve had your fun, haven’t you? Now it’s my turn.”

“Gguk… please…” You don’t even know what you’re begging for—release or denial, more pain or mercy. All of it. None of it. Just him.

“Always begging. Always wanting. What about me, princess?”

You’d give him anything if he asked. The moon. Your soul. His name, carved into your skin.

The bed dips near your legs. Jeongguk straddles you, his thighs bracketing your own. His heat is molten, almost unbearable. You feel him shift again near your head, then—

A hot, wet tongue swipes across your nipple.

You choke on a gasp. Your body, already oversensitive from the teasing, lights up like a live wire. He sucks and bites, lavishing attention on your breasts until you’re nothing but tremors and whimpers.

“Fuck, I love your tits,” he groans, voice strained.

He sits up, sliding forward until he’s perched just above your ribcage. He presses your breasts together, thumbs circling your aching nipples while one hand reaches back to dip between your thighs.

You cry out at the sensation, hips jerking instinctively. But he doesn’t fuck you. He just strokes your folds, coating his fingers in your slick.

You hear him groan. Then he grabs his cock, stroking himself with a hiss, smearing your arousal over his length.

“Gonna cum all over these pretty tits, okay, princess?”

You feel the weight of him settle on your chest, the head of his cock dragging along your sternum. Your mouth waters. You still haven’t tasted him yet—and he knows it.

“What’s your color?”

“Green.”

“Good girl.”

He begins to move, sliding his cock between your breasts. You tilt your head down to flick your tongue over the tip whenever it emerges from your cleavage.

“Oh fuck, baby. Keep doing that—shit,” he grits out, his rhythm faltering for a moment as your tongue teases him.

Your clit throbs, aching for attention, but even this—just his cock, your tongue, his voice—is enough to have you teetering on the edge.

“Fuck, your tits are so soft. So perfect. Fuck—”

You moan, drunk on the way he uses your body for his pleasure. Drunk on him.

“I’m gonna cum. You’re gonna make me cum, princess.”

You whimper, tongue flicking greedily. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, until—

“Shit, shit, I’m cumming—”

He groans deeply, cock jerking as hot ropes of cum spill across your chest, painting your skin in thick streaks. You feel one hand release your tits, fingers dragging through the mess before they press against your lips.

“Open.”

Your mouth falls open instinctively, tongue rolling out to receive the offered gift. He lets the cum drip onto your tongue, then slides his fingers into your mouth.

“What do we say when we get a treat?”

“Thank you,” you mumble, words slurred.

“Now swallow. Show me.”

You obey. His breath catches when you swallow around his fingers and reveal an empty mouth.

“Fuck. Now you want to behave, huh? What happened to the brat from the racetrack?”

You whimper, still aching. Your thighs press together in search of friction—but he notices. Of course he does.

A sharp slap lands on your pussy.

“Thought you could sneak one past me?” he growls. “Pretending to be a good girl? I guess I’ll have to edge the disobedience out of you.”

“Gguk—no, please! Please let me cum—need it so bad,” you sob, pride long since abandoned.

“I said shut up, fucking cumslut.”

He returns like a shadow, one hand wrapped around your throat, a knee wedging between your legs, grinding against your clit.

“Am I not enough for you? Don’t I give you everything you need?” he hisses, the slap of his hand against your soaked folds punctuating every word.

“Yes! Yes, you do! You’re all I need, Jeongguk—please, let me cum, I need to cum!”

He lets go of your throat. You gasp for breath, trembling with desperation.

But he’s already gone again, vanished into the quiet once more—leaving you writhing, needy, and dripping for him.

The ropes fall away from your wrists first, then your ankles, leaving behind a tingling sensation like ghost chains. You barely have a moment to breathe before his voice rumbles low and commanding.

“Turn over.”

You obey, the air cool against your sweat slicked skin as you roll onto your stomach. A firm grip on your wrists draws them behind your back once more—retied, restrained. The plush wedge that’s slid beneath your hips lifts you just so, ass perched high in the air, back arched in offering.

“Gguk, what are we—”

“Did I say you could speak?” His interruption slices through the dark like a blade. You bite down on your lip, choking back the moan that bubbles up your throat. Anticipation skitters down your spine like an electric current. You feel feral for him—need thrumming in every vein, your heart beating out a rhythm your body can’t ignore.

“You want me to fill you up, princess? Need dick that badly, huh?” He’s behind you now, one hand gripping the swell of your ass while the other parts your cheeks, exposing your drenched folds and twitching hole to the cool air.

“Yours,” you pant. “Only want you.”

Jeongguk groans low, pleased and ravenous. He knows what you need before you ask for it. He always does.

“Yeah? My greedy little thing.” His thumb trails through your slick, spreading it up over your tight ring of muscle. “Wanna be stuffed so full you feel me in your throat, huh?”

You shiver, a hot sound escaping as he circles your ass slowly, deliberately. The sensation is thicker than lust—it’s something darker, deeper, something that roots itself in your bones and grows.

“You like that,” he murmurs, voice laced with twisted delight as he watches more slick drip from your pussy. “You’re such a filthy girl for me. My perfect, dirty little princess.”

And then—pressure.

His thumb presses against your rim, slow and unrelenting, until the tight muscle begins to yield. You tense instinctively, hips jerking, but his hand on your back steadies you.

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, baby.” He coos it like a lullaby, breath hot against your skin. “You’re doing so well for me. My good girl. Just relax.”

You moan—long, low, and desperate—as the thick digit pushes deeper. The stretch is sharp but thrilling, your walls fluttering from the unfamiliar fullness.

“More?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Please,” you gasp, arching back against his hand like a woman possessed. “More, Gguk.”

“Color?”

“Green,” you cry. “Green, green—I need it, please.”

He hums, dark and approving, and slides his thumb deeper, moving it slowly in and out of your clenching hole. Your cunt throbs around nothing, your body begging to be filled in every way it can.

You hear the slick pop of a lid, then feel warm globs of lube land on your skin in lazy drips. He rubs them in, spreading the slickness around your rim, thumb teasing you open again and again. Your moans are breathy now, unfiltered, as the tight ring of muscle yields to him.

You can’t see him, but you can feel the shift in the air when he starts stroking himself—slow, wet sounds of lube-coated flesh against flesh. Your stomach flips.

The blunt head of his cock nudges your hole.

You tense.

“Gguk? Wh-What are you doing?” Your voice trembles, laced with hesitation.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says simply.

Your name on his lips lands like a weight in your chest—heavy, grounding. He means it. He always means it.

But you don’t want him to stop.

You trust him.

“N-No… don’t stop.”

His cock returns to your ass, head pressing in soft circles against your rim as one hand finds your pussy, fingers rubbing tight, rhythmic circles on your clit.

“That’s it, baby. Just breathe. Let me in, nice and slow. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

“Always,” you whisper, melting into his touch.

The pressure builds, and the head of his cock begins to push inside. It’s a slow burn, foreign and breathtaking, paired with the practiced strokes to your clit. He pushes forward inch by inch, and your body surrenders, clenching and fluttering around the intrusion.

“J-Jeongguk…” you whimper, already so full, so close.

He groans behind you, his voice strangled with restraint. “Fuck, princess… this ass is gonna ruin me.”

He stays still, letting you adjust, fingers never stopping their motion on your clit. Your walls begin to flutter—so close again. Your legs shake.

“‘M close… Gguk, I’m—” Your moan splinters as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, long and rolling, each ripple dragging another cry from your lips.

“Shit,” Jeongguk hisses. He’s not even fully inside and you’re already cumming for him.

Once your body stops shaking, he begins to move—slow, shallow thrusts, coaxing your ass to accept him inch by inch. The stretch remains, but now it hums with pleasure, building into something raw and addicting.

“Fuuuuck, baby. You’re perfect,” he groans, hands gripping your hips tight as he finally buries himself inside you.

Your whimpers turn into moans—real, needy ones—your body instinctively rocking back into him.

He moves with more confidence now, pace quickening, hips slapping against your ass with wet, sinful sounds. The wedge keeps you elevated, forcing you to take every inch. You’re trapped between his body and the bed, utterly at his mercy.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls, one hand slipping beneath you to rub your clit again, hard and fast.

“I–Gguk—I think I’m gonna–!”

“Yeah? Cum on my cock, baby. Show me how much you love being ruined.”

You cry out, vision going white as your second orgasm tears through you, louder, sharper than the last. Your hole tightens around him, and Jeongguk curses violently.

“Fuckfuckfuck—princess!” He cums with a shout, cock pulsing inside you, hot ropes painting your insides, claiming you completely.

He doesn’t stop.

Even as his orgasm fades, he keeps moving—softer now, fucking you through the aftershocks. His fingers return to your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

You keen softly, too sensitive to handle it, but too blissed out to push him away. Another orgasm builds—sharp and shocking—and then explodes across your body, leaving you limp and trembling.

When you finally slump forward, boneless and trembling, Jeongguk catches you with careful hands, easing your weight down onto the wedge. His touch is slow as he unties your wrists, his thumbs brushing over the faint, reddened grooves the rope left behind. He doesn’t speak yet—just presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then to your temple, grounding you as your breath stutters its way back into rhythm.

The blindfold slips off next, and you blink slowly, vision adjusting to the dim golden light just in time to see his broad back retreating toward the ensuite bathroom.

“I’ll run us a bath,” he murmurs over his shoulder, voice low and warm. “You did so good for me, baby.”

There’s quiet pride in his tone, wrapped in something softer—adoration, maybe, or something frighteningly close to love. And before the water even starts to run, he’s back, tucking a warm blanket around your shoulders and cradling your face in his palms like he’s still worried he might’ve pushed too far.

“Let me take care of you now, yeah?” he says, gently brushing your damp hair from your face, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re mine to break—but you’re also mine to put back together.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed once more.

Behind your lids, you still feel him—his warmth, his weight, his hands claiming you over and over again.

And in the corner of your blissed out mind, one thought curls up like a secret:

You’ll never belong to anyone else.

— — — — —

The water is warm and fragrant, infused with the scent of vanilla and brown sugar—your favorite combination. Jeongguk had started keeping your bath bombs stocked at his house without ever making a big deal out of it. The kind of quiet gesture that said more than his words ever could.

You’re nestled between his legs, back resting against the firm plane of his chest, your arms stretched lazily across his knees while his fingers trace idle circles beneath the surface. It’s peaceful here. Quiet. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

Until he speaks.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The words pierce through the steam thick air and sink straight into your chest, rooting themselves like lead in your lungs.

Your body stiffens before you can stop it, muscles tensing where you lie against him. You blink at the candles dancing along the tiled wall, refusing to move, to breathe, to react—because if you don’t acknowledge it, maybe it won’t be real.

You always knew this day would come. That Jeongguk—beautiful, untouchable Jeongguk—would eventually grow tired of sneaking kisses and hidden nights. That he’d outgrow you, just like the others before you, and move on to his next fleeting thrill.

And maybe it hurt more because, somewhere along the way, you’d started to believe you were different.

But what could you say?

You were never his to keep.

“Princess?” His voice is gentle, testing, but you don’t trust yourself to answer. Your silence seems to worry him more than any argument might’ve, and when his arms shift around you, the water sloshes in protest. A wave spills over the porcelain lip of the tub, splattering onto the floor, unnoticed.

He turns you gently until you’re facing him, your chest brushing his with each uneven breath. His features are muddled—blurred by steam, or maybe the tears clinging to your lashes. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until his thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping away water with more water.

“Why are you crying, baby—? Oh. No, no, no. Shit. That’s not what I meant.” He panics slightly, eyes wide and fingers fumbling like he’s trying to put you back together. “I didn’t mean us. That’s not what I… fuck. I’m not good at this shit.”

He’s rambling now, the way he always does when he’s trying to fix something that’s slipping through his fingers. He leans in to kiss your cheek, lips warm and soft and a little desperate, the way someone might kiss a bruise they didn’t mean to cause.

You see it in his face—adoration, guilt, sincerity. You used to think he was a mystery, impossible to figure out. But now? He might as well be an open book.

“I meant I don’t want to sneak around anymore,” he clarifies, voice softer now, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

You blink once. Twice. “What?” Your head tilts to the side, eyes wide, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. God, you were so fucking cute when you were confused.

He cups your cheeks in his hands, thumbs barely skimming your skin as he brings your face closer, so close your noses brush.

“I want to be with you,” he says simply. “You’re mine. No more hiding. No more pretending we’re strangers. I want to kiss you after a race in front of everyone. Even your brother.”

You wrinkle your nose in horror. “Ew. Why would you say that? That’s nasty.”

He chuckles, full and deep, his grin stretching across his face like sunshine breaking through a storm.

Your voice turns soft, almost childlike in its wonder. “You mean it?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to ask what you’re really searching for. He leans in and kisses you—slow and certain, like a promise written in ink instead of pencil.

“What’d I say, baby?” he murmurs against your lips. “Make bad decisions, you deal with the consequences. You’re stuck with me.”

You giggle, bright and unguarded, and tug him back in. “If this is my punishment, I’ll happily do the time for the crime.”

Jeongguk pulls away with a groan, throwing his head back in laughter. Wet strands of hair sling droplets across your face and neck, but you’re too busy watching him—really watching him—to care.

He sobers only slightly, eyes finding yours again with that same unshakable intensity. One hand slips behind your neck, holding you there as if he’s afraid you might disappear.

“You’re so fucking cheesy, princess,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours, “but I love it.”

You lean into him, fingers curling around his wrist, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re falling alone.

You feel like you’ve been caught.

masterlist

#bts fanfic #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfiction #bts au #fanfic #jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jeongguk smut #jeongguk x reader #jungkook smut #motorcycle #biker #sexy biker #bts jungkook

594 notes · View notes

newobsessionweekly · 2 months ago

Text

Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie

Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.

Angst to fluff

Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet

Words: -

It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.

It started with a crash.

Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.

You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.

You weren’t dating.

You weren’t not dating, either.

Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.

Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.

Like a dumbass.

And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.

Until something inside you started to break.

You told him once.

Sort of.

A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.

He’d just gone still.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

And like a fool, you nodded.

You told yourself you could deal with it.

But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.

Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.

You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.

Except you forgot one detail.

You’re still in love with him.

And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.

You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.

The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.

You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.

A pop.

Then another.

Gunfire.

You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.

“Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.

Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.

And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”

This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.

When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.

“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.

“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.

You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.

You nod, lips tightening.

“Got it.”

You stop texting him after that.

No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.

You also start sleeping like crap again.

You expect him to call.

He doesn’t.

You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.

He doesn’t.

Instead, silence.

You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.

The hurt isn’t new.

You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.

Tim is worse.

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.

He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.

Lucy notices.

Of course she notices.

“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”

Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.”

He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.

“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.

Tim stiffens. “What?”

“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”

Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.

It isn’t.

Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”

Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”

Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”

Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”

“Sure.”

“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”

“And?”

“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”

“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”

Tim doesn’t respond.

Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”

It takes him until midnight.

You’re not surprised when he knocks.

You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.

But you don’t answer.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.

You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.

“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet.

He exhales, palm pressing to the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”

You don’t deny it.

Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”

Silence.

“Casual my ass,” you mutter.

You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”

You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.

“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Silence.

You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.

You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”

“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.

The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.

You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.

“Then I’ll make you talk.”

The knock stops. The silence twists.

Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.

The door opens, and there he is.

Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.

You don’t.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him.

You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.

“I fucked up.”

You blink. “You think?”

He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.

“Say something.”

You don’t. You won’t.

So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—

He acts.

His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.

Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.

He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”

You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.

“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”

His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.

“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.

The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”

You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”

You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.

And in that moment, everything feels right.

498 notes · View notes

harrysfolklore · 8 months ago

Note

omg! little bitch headcanon after a long time hehe - it’s reyes’s birthday this week so i was imagining piastri sis being with the sainz family celebrating it and she’s the one taking the family photograph and reyes tells her to join in on the photo because she’s family too ☺️☺️☺️

i said that i would post a little bitch blurb if carlos had a podium finish and he did soooo here it is! i hope you like it READ LITTLE BITCH HERE

The private jet touches down in Madrid, the setting sun painting the sky in vibrant hues. You stretch in your plush leather seat, feeling the familiar ache of a long-haul flight.

"Rise and shine, little bitch," you tease, poking Carlos who's still dozing beside you.

He cracks open one eye, a smirk playing on his lips. "Such a charming way to wake me up, Piastri," he retorts, voice husky from sleep. "I should leave you at the airport."

"You wouldn't dare," you laugh, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Carlos hums appreciatively, deepening the kiss before pulling away with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe not, but I might make you sleep on the couch, cariño."

As you make your way through the VIP customs area, Carlos' hand finds its way to the small of your back, his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

"Cold, hermosa?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

You elbow him playfully. "Behave yourself, Sainz. We're in public."

This isn't just another trip to Spain - it's the first time you'll be staying at Carlos' house in Madrid, spending time with his parents celebrating his mother's birthday and meeting his sisters. The significance of this step in your relationship isn't lost on either of you.

Carlos leads you to his waiting car, he insists on taking your luggage despite your protests. "You've had a long flight," he says, easily lifting your suitcase into the trunk. "Let me take care of you."

As Carlos pulls into the driveway of his house, you feel a mix of nerves and anticipation. He turns to you after cutting the engine, his brown eyes soft in the dim light. "Ready to see your home away from home?"

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. "More than ready."

As Carlos unlocks the front door, you hear the scrabbling of paws on hardwood floor.

"Piñon!" Carlos calls out as he pushes the door open. A ball of fluffy fur comes bounding towards you, tail wagging furiously.

You crouch down, laughing as Piñon jumps up to lick your face. "Hello, handsome boy! Oh, it's so nice to meet you!" You ruffle his fur, delighting in his excited yips. "You're much cuter than your dad, aren't you?"

"Hey!" Carlos protests, but his eyes are soft as he watches you interact with his dog.

After giving Piñon some attention, Carlos takes your hand to lead you on a tour of the house. In the kitchen, you can't resist teasing him.

"I'm surprised you even know what this room is for, Sainz," you quip, gesturing at the state-of-the-art appliances.

Carlos crowds you against the counter, his body pressed against yours. "I know exactly what it's for, mi amor," he murmurs, his voice low and suggestive. "Want me to show you?"

You push him away with a laugh, trying to ignore the heat blooming in your cheeks. "Later, you menace. Finish the tour first."

The apartment is spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of Madrid's skyline. Carlos leads you through each room, pointing out little details and sharing anecdotes.

You notice several framed photos on the shelves - Carlos with his family, with his teammates, and to your surprise, a few of you and him together. Your heart swells at the sight.

"And this," he says, pushing open a door, "is our bedroom."

Your heart skips a beat at the casual use of 'our'. The room is dominated by a large, comfortable-looking bed, and more of those amazing windows.

Carlos wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "What do you think?" he murmurs.

You lean back into him, sighing contentedly. "It's perfect. I love it."

"Mm," Carlos hums, his lips finding your temple, "I love you."

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. The intensity you find there makes your breath catch. "I love you too," you whisper.

Carlos's eyes darken as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss. You respond eagerly, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.

"We should probably get some sleep," Carlos murmurs against your lips, even as his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you closer.

"Probably," you agree, already working on the buttons of his shirt. "But I'm not very tired. Are you?"

Suddenly, Piñon barks from downstairs, breaking the moment. You both laugh, a little breathless.

"I should probably take him for a walk," Carlos says, pressing one last kiss to your lips.

"Don't take too long," you call after him as he heads downstairs. "I might get into bed without you."

The next morning, you wake to the sound of Carlos humming in the shower. You stretch lazily, a smile playing on your lips as memories of last night flood your mind.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Carlos says, emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. "Ready for the big day?"

You groan, pulling the covers over your head. "Do we have to go? Can't we just stay in bed all day?"

Carlos chuckles, tugging the blanket away. "Tempting as that is, mi amor, I'm pretty sure my mother would hunt us down if we missed her birthday party."

"Fine, but only because I like Reyes more than I like you."

"Ouch," Carlos clutches his chest in mock pain. "You wound me, Piastri. And here I was, about to offer to join you in the shower."

You laugh, swatting him with a pillow as you head to the bathroom. "Behave yourself, Sainz. We can't be late to your mother's party."

An hour later, you're standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down your outfit for the hundredth time. Carlos comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Stop worrying."

You meet his eyes in the mirror. "I can't help it. What if your sisters don't like me?"

Carlos turns you to face him, his hands cupping your face. "They're going to love you, cariño. Just like I do." He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, maybe not exactly like I do. That would be weird."

You can't help but laugh, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. "You're such an idiot."

"But I'm your idiot," he grins, leaning in for a kiss.

The drive to Carlos's parents' house is filled with Carlos telling you stories of past birthday celebrations. As you pull up to the house, however, your nerves return full force.

"Ready, mi amor?" Carlos squeezes your hand.

"As I'll ever be. Let's do this, little bitch."

The door swings open before you even reach it, revealing a beaming Reyes. "Carlos! YN! Come in, come in!" She pulls you both into a warm embrace.

"Feliz cumpleaños, Mama," Carlos says, kissing her cheek.

"Happy birthday, Reyes," you add, handing her a beautifully wrapped gift. "Thank you for having me."

"Nonsense, cariño," Reyes waves off your thanks. "You're family now."

Carlos Sr. appears behind his wife, clapping his son on the back before turning to you with a warm smile. "YN, lovely to see you again. How's that brother of yours? Giving our Carlos a run for his money on the track?"

You laugh, falling easily into the familiar banter. "Oh, you know Oscar. He's doing his best to keep up with your son, but it's a losing battle. Though he'd never admit it."

"Please," Carlos snorts, "Little Piastri could only dream of keeping up with me."

"Is that so?" you raise an eyebrow. "Remind me again, who beat who in the last race?"

As you and Carlos enter the living room, you spot two women sitting on the couch, engaged in quiet conversation. They look up as you approach, and you immediately recognize them as Carlos' sisters from the family photos you've seen.

Blanca, the older one, rises first with a warm smile. "You must be YN," she says, stepping forward to greet you with a gentle hug. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Welcome to the family madhouse," Ana follows, her smile equally warm.

You return their smiles, feeling some of your nervousness dissipate. "It's great to meet you both. I've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," Blanca says, shooting a playful glance at Carlos.

"Of course," Carlos replies, wrapping an arm around your waist. "I only told her about the times you weren't being complete pains in my-"

"Carlos!" Reyes's voice carries from the kitchen, cutting him off mid-sentence.

You all laugh, and the tension in the room eases further.

"So, YN," Blanca says as you all settle into the living room, "I was just telling Ana about this amazing spa resort I discovered. I was thinking it might be fun for us to take a girls' trip there sometime - you, me, Ana, and Mama. What do you think?"

Before you can respond, Carlos interjects, "Hey, why are you trying to steal my girlfriend already? She just got here!"

"Relax, hermanito," Blanca rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "We're not going to whisk her away forever. Just long enough to share all your embarrassing childhood stories."

"Speaking of embarrassing stories," Ana chimes in, a mischievous glint in her eye, "has Carlos ever told you about the time he tried to impress a girl at school by saying he could drive a real F1 car?"

Carlos groans, burying his face in his hands. "Ana, no..."

"Ana, yes," you say, leaning forward eagerly. "Please, do tell."

Ana grins, clearly enjoying her brother's discomfort. "Well, he was about 14, and there was this girl he had a massive crush on. So, he tells her that Papa lets him drive the car all the time. Of course, she doesn't believe him, so he offers to show her."

"Oh no," you mutter, already seeing where this is going.

"Oh yes," Ana continues. "He sneaks her into the garage where Papa keeps one of his old cars. Tries to climb in, but he's too short to reach the pedals properly. Ends up falling face-first into the cockpit, gets stuck, and Papa has to come rescue him."

You burst out laughing, picturing a young Carlos in such a predicament. "Please tell me there are photos."

"There's video," Blanca says with a smirk.

"I hate all of you." Carlos groans again.

You pat his knee consolingly, still chuckling. "Aw, don't worry, babe. I'm sure you were very suave while stuck upside down in an F1 car."

"The girl never spoke to him again," Ana adds, causing another round of laughter.

"Alright, alright," Carlos says, trying to sound stern but failing to hide his own amusement. "That's enough embarrassing stories about me. Don't you have some photo albums to bore YN with or something?"

"Photo albums!" Blanca exclaims. "What a great idea, Carlos. I'm sure your girlfriend would love to see your awkward phase."

As Blanca goes to fetch the albums, you lean into Carlos, whispering, "You know, that girls' trip doesn't sound so bad. I might learn even more interesting things about you."

Carlos shakes his head, a resigned smile on his face. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret introducing you to my sisters?"

"Probably because you are," you kiss his cheek, "But you love me anyway."

"That I do," he murmurs, pulling you closer as Blanca returns with a stack of photo albums.

As the evening wears on, Reyes announces it's time for cake. The family gathers around the dining table, where a beautiful cake adorned with candles takes center stage.

"Alright, everyone," Carlos Sr. calls out. "On three. Una, dos, tres!"

The room erupts into a somewhat off-key rendition of "Cumpleaños Feliz," with Carlos deliberately singing out of tune next to your ear. You elbow him in the ribs, trying to stifle your laughter.

As the song ends and Reyes blows out her candles, she turns to Carlos Sr. with a smile. "Cariño, why don't you get the camera? We should take a family photo."

Your heart swells at being included in this intimate family moment, but you also feel a twinge of uncertainty. As everyone starts to gather, you quietly slip out of the room, giving the family their moment.

You're examining some family photos on the wall when you hear Reyes's voice from the other room. "Carlos, ¿dónde está tu novia? Where is your girlfriend?"

A moment later, Carlos appears in the doorway. "Hey, what are you doing out here? We're waiting for you."

"Oh, do you want me to take the picture for you?" you ask.

Carlos's expression softens. He crosses the room, taking your hands in his. "Mi amor, you're part of this family now. That means you're in the photos, not taking them."

"But-" you start to protest, but Carlos cuts you off with a gentle kiss.

"No buts," he murmurs against your lips. "Come on, Piastri. Time to make it official."

He leads you back to the dining room, where the rest of the family is waiting. Reyes beams when she sees you. "There you are, cariño! Come, stand next to Carlos."

"I thought maybe I should take the picture..." you begin, but Reyes cuts you off with a wave of her hand.

"No, no, querida. You join in too. You're family now."

"Oh, but I couldn't—" you begin.

"Of course you can," Carlos Sr. insists, while Ana and Blanca nod in agreement.

"Yeah, come on, Piastri" Blanca teases, "You're not getting out of this one."

Carlos appears at your side, slipping an arm around your waist. "Come on, mi amor. You heard Mama. You're one of us now."

Feeling overwhelmed by emotion, you allow Carlos to guide you into the group. As you stand there, surrounded by the Sainz family, you're struck by a profound sense of belonging.

"Everyone ready?" Reyes asks, setting the timer on the camera.

As the flash goes off, capturing the moment, you realize that's exactly what you've become – part of this wonderful, loving family. And as Carlos presses a kiss to your temple, whispering "Te amo" in your ear, you know you wouldn't have it any other way.

1K notes · View notes

writingwithcolor · 3 months ago

Text

Is my Character a Latino Mechanic Stereotype?

@engineering-a-better-world asks:

I often see media of Hispanic people being mechanics and am wondering if I am playing into this stereotype with one of my secondary characters. I did not find anything on your blog about this particular trope and do not know how harmful it is/why. The main five characters are all scientists specializing in different fields. My mc’s best friend is mostly Argentinian with some Nicaraguan ancestry. She is a mechanical engineer with a specialty in prosthetics and makes her own above knee prosthetic legs. There is a Mexican character shown later who is a captain of the city guard and very much a leader and not handy. Are there pitfalls to avoid in this representation? Does her specialty fit negative stereotypes and why?

Hi, thanks for asking. #rubber stamp approved (per Masterpost rules, I cannot give these out any more. This is sort of a joke, but really, this is a great ask to explore ideas of Latino-Americans and Labor stereotypes.)

It sounds like you have a variety of Latino representation planned for your story. That’s fantastic (and the make or break for me.) You plan to showcase Latinos in different professionalized fields, which is positive. The “ethnic menial labor” trope or “Latino mechanic” trope become problematic when it’s the only representation given for Latino characters, or they’re showcased as one dimensional side-notes to non-Latino MCs. Having variety will offset the heavy (and often negative) overuse of Menial Labor and Hard Labor jobs.

I’m also not trying to reinvent the wheel, so you can check out more about the trope on this TVTropes page on “Ethnic Menial Labor”, and more about Latino representation in media in this Writeinclusion.org factsheet.

Important Note On Latinos and Menial Labor

Many of my Latino family members and friends are trades workers or do ‘hard-labor’ or ‘menial-labor’ jobs. My father was a roofer before he changed careers. My grandfather worked the racetracks. My best friend’s dad managed a restaurant. These jobs, whether ‘hard-labor’ or ‘menial,’ put food on the table and are not indigent. They take care of our families.

As long as Latinos in these jobs are not framed as less-than, I have no problem with the range of experiences being displayed. The fact that your characters fit into jobs across the socioeconomic spectrum mitigates your concern about stereotyping.

Seeing more professionalized Latino characters is great, and I can’t wait to read it.

Melanie 🌻

Notes:

Meet Melanie, our newest WWC mod (as of this post)!

[this rubber stamp ask was submitted before the Masterpost rules took effect in 2023. We have chosen to publish it to prime our readers on Latine topics and tropes.]

#latino #latine #stereotypes #hard working mexican #hard working latino #latine stereotypes #latine tropes #asks

710 notes · View notes

scarletwinterxx · 2 months ago

Text

bend the brake - choi seungcheol imagine

istg i would have posted this days ago BUT I HAD TO RE-EDIT SO MANY TIMES bcs it wont fit here. so finally finalllyyy here you go🫠🤣

you can follow me on x, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The fluorescent glow of the convenience store flickers slightly as you step outside, a bag of snacks in one hand, a cold drink in the other. The streets are quiet, the late hour settling over the city like a thick blanket. You should probably be at home, curled up in bed, but the craving for something sweet had been too strong to resist.

You flip the snack over in your hands, eyes scanning the label, not really paying attention to where you're going.

And then the deafening screech of tires rips through the silence.

Your head snaps up just in time to see headlights cutting through the night, blinding and too close. Your breath catches in your throat, your body freezing in place—

The car stops mere inches from you, the force of its abrupt halt vibrating through the pavement.

For a moment, nothing moves then, the driver’s side door swings open with a sharp click.

A man steps out.

Dressed in black, broad shoulders tense under the dim streetlight. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, framing sharp, striking features. Even in the low light, his presence is overwhelming, like a force of nature. His gaze locks onto you—dark, intense, and filled with irritation.

“What the hell were you doing?” His voice is low, edged with frustration.

You blink, your breath still uneven. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Looking?” He scoffs, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “You were too busy staring at whatever’s in your hand to notice you almost walked into a moving car.”

You shrink back slightly, gripping the plastic bag tighter. “I didn’t mean to…”

His jaw clenches, and for a second, it looks like he’s debating whether to say something else. But instead, he just shakes his head. “Be more careful.”

He turns on his heel, already reaching for his car door.

You should just let him leave. This is already embarrassing enough. But before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Um—thank you for stopping.”

He pauses. Just for a second. Then, without a word, he gets into the car, the engine roaring to life. You stand there, heart still pounding, staring after him.

Who was that?

You push open the door to your apartment, still slightly dazed from what just happened. The faint scent of the vanilla candle Jihyo always insists on lighting.

Jihyo is sprawled on the couch, her legs tucked under a blanket, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn resting on her lap. She barely glances up from her drama before doing a double take.

“Why do you look like that?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

You blink. “Like what?”

She points a finger at you. “Like you just saw a ghost. Or like you committed a crime. Did you commit a crime?”

“No! What—why would that be your first guess?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, you do look suspicious. And you’re clutching that bag like it’s your last meal.”

Only then do you realize how tightly you’re holding onto your convenience store snacks. You exhale, finally setting them on the counter before collapsing onto the couch beside her.

“I almost got run over,” you mumble.

Jihyo gasps, sitting up so fast the blanket slides off her shoulders. “WHAT?”

You wince. “Okay, maybe not that dramatic. But this really fancy car came out of nowhere, and I wasn’t looking, and he had to brake really hard.”

She stares at you, horrified. “Are you okay?! Did he yell at you? Wait—was he hot?”

You sigh, sinking further into the couch. “He looked scary.”

Jihyo raises a brow. “Scary how? Like, actually scary or hot scary?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Why are those the only two options?”

“Because that’s how the universe works.”

You groan again. “Jihyo.”

“What? I’m just saying.” She waves a hand. “Did he at least make sure you were okay?”

You pause, remembering the way he had sighed before telling you to be more careful. The brief hesitation before he drove off.

“…Kind of?”

“Did you get his name?”

“No.”

Jihyo pouts. “Ugh, tragic.” Then, after a beat, her expression brightens mischievously. “But don’t worry! If fate wants you to meet your mysterious scary-hot man again, it’ll happen.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the tiny smile on your lips as you retreat to your room.

Fate? Well, hopefully, fate lets you not embarrass yourself next time.

Turns out fate is not on your side at all. Either that or you have a knack at embarrassing yourself.

Balancing a stack of art supplies and teaching materials while pushing open the café door is not your smartest idea. But your kids needed these for their next activity, and you were too stubborn to make two trips.

You shift the weight in your arms, carefully maneuvering your way inside and walk straight into someone.

“Whoa—careful.”

The deep voice sends an odd shiver down your spine, familiar in a way you can’t place right away. You look up, breath catching slightly as you meet dark eyes framed by sharp features and messy black hair.

It takes him half a second to recognize you.

“You.”

Your eyes widen. “M-me?”

His gaze flickers over you, and something shifts in his expression—mild surprise, a trace of amusement. “Yeah. You almost walked into my car the other night.”

Your stomach twists in a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. Of course, fate just had to throw you into his path again.

“I—uh—” You flounder for words, cheeks burning. “I was distracted.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

You glance down, pretending to readjust your grip on the supplies. “Thanks for catching that.”

“You should really work on watching where you’re going.”

You scowl, but it lacks any real bite. “I do watch where I’m going.”

He tilts his head slightly, clearly unimpressed. “You sure about that?”

You huff, adjusting your things. “I was just in a rush.”

He eyes the stack in your arms, then sighs before reaching out and effortlessly taking half of it from you.

Your mouth falls open. “What—wait—you don’t have to—”

“Just tell me where you’re going,” he says, already turning toward the counter. “Unless you want to drop everything in the middle of the café.” You stare at him, completely thrown off by the unexpected gesture.

Who is he?

You follow him toward the counter, still slightly dazed by how effortlessly he took half of your things.

“I—I can carry it myself,” you mumble, though the words come out weaker than intended.

He doesn’t even glance back. “You were barely holding onto them a second ago.”

You press your lips together, feeling your face heat up. The café is comfortably warm, but somehow, standing next to him makes it feel ten degrees hotter. As you reach an empty table, he sets your things down with ease.

A beat of silence stretches between you before you clear your throat.

“Um… about that night,” you start hesitantly, shifting on your feet. “I—I never really got to say it properly, but… I’m really sorry. For, you know, almost getting run over.”

He leans against the chair, arms crossing over his chest as he looks at you. His dark eyes hold something unreadable, something that makes you feel even smaller under his gaze.

Then, to your surprise, his lips twitch slightly. “At least you admit it this time.”

You duck your head, flustered. “I admitted it before…”

“Mm. Not really.”

You peek up at him, only to find that he’s watching you with mild amusement, as if he finds your reaction entertaining.

The realization makes you even more shy, and you quickly look away, fiddling with your sleeves. “W-well, I mean it. I’ll be more careful next time.”

He hums, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Good.”

Another brief silence. You wonder if you should say something else, but before you can, a voice calls from behind him.

“Cheol, let’s go!”

You blink as a familiar figure strolls toward your table. Your eyes widen slightly. They know each other?

Seungcheol—Cheol?—glances over his shoulder before turning back to you. “You good with your stuff now?”

You nod quickly. “Y-yeah! Thank you.”

He gives you one last look, then, without another word, he turns and walks off, leaving you standing there, still flustered, still trying to process everything.

As Seungcheol and his friend head toward the exit, you finally let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. But then you notice it. The way the café has gotten quieter. The way people are looking at you.

“…That was Choi Seungcheol, right?”

“Yeah! And Jeonghan was with him…”

“What’s a racer like him doing here?”

You blink, confusion washing over you. Racer?

Your gaze follows theirs, staring at the door as it swings shut behind the two men. The image of Seungcheol’s sharp features, the way he carried himself, the confidence in his stride—it all clicks into place.

He wasn’t just some random guy you almost walked into that night. He was someone. Someone famous. And you, completely oblivious, had apologized to him like he was just any other stranger.

The moment you step into your apartment, exhausted from the day’s events, Jihyo barely gives you a chance to breathe before she’s dragging you onto the couch.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, again” she says, eyeing you suspiciously. “What happened now?”

You sigh, dropping your bag onto the floor. “You remember the guy I almost walked into the other night?”

Her expression sharpens. “Scary-hot guy? Yeah, obviously.”

“Well…” You shift uncomfortably. “I ran into him again today. At the café.”

“And?”

“And then I found out who he actually is.”

Jihyo narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

You bite your lip. “He’s—um. He’s kind of famous?”

You tell her everything, from that night to meeting him again at the cafe to the stares of everyone there. She blinks. Once. Twice. Then, when realization dawns, she screams.

“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME IT WAS CHOI SEUNGCHEOL? YOU ALMOST DIED UNDER CHOI SEUNGCHEOL’S CAR?!”

You groan, flopping onto the couch. “I did not almost die!”

Jihyo looks absolutely betrayed. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Do you know who he is?”

“I do now!”

“He’s not just famous!” She grips your shoulders. “He’s the Choi Seungcheol! The biggest name in racing right now! Literally the best in the circuit! People would sell their souls just to meet him!”

You blink. “Oh.”

Jihyo groans, grabbing a pillow and squeezing it like it personally offended her. “This is so unfair. People dream about meeting Seungcheol and you—you almost became a headline without even realizing it!”

You groan again, covering your face. “Can you not say it like that?”

She huffs, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. You, the one person in this city who doesn’t know anything about racing, are somehow fated to cross paths with Choi Seungcheol.”

You peek at her between your fingers. “I don’t think fate is the one messing with me. I think it’s you.”

It’s the weekend. Your first free day in what feels like forever.

Your plan? Stay in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and maybe only move to grab snacks. A perfect, peaceful day of doing absolutely nothing. That is until your bedroom door slams open.

“Get up!” Jihyo’s voice pierces through your sleepy haze.

You groan, barely peeking out from your covers. “Go away.” She does not go away. Instead, she marches over, grabs your arm, and starts pulling.

“Jihyo—what the—”

“You’re coming with me,” she declares, already rifling through your closet. “There’s a party. We’re going.”

You blink, still half-asleep. “Party?”

The bar is already alive with music and laughter by the time you and Jihyo step inside. You barely have a chance to get your bearings before Jihyo is leading the way, greeting people left and right like she owns the place.

“Jihyo!” Someone waves her over, and soon, you’re being pulled into a group of her friends.

As you settle in, ordering a drink and chatting with the group, you remain completely unaware of the set of eyes that have landed on you from across the room.

At a booth near the back, a group of men sits comfortably, drinks in hand, their presence naturally commanding attention. Jeonghan, leaned back with a lazy smirk, is the first to notice.

“Well, well.” He nudges Seungcheol, nodding toward the bar. “Look who it is.”

Seungcheol follows his gaze, and his eyes land on you. You, standing with your friends, laughing at something someone just said, unaware of the attention you’re drawing.

Minghao, sitting beside Jeonghan, raises a brow. “Who?”

“That,” Jeonghan hums, “is our little crosswalk girl.”

Vernon, who’s been sipping his drink quietly, looks over too. “The one from the café?”

“The very one.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, his gaze unreadable. He watches as you take a sip of your drink, eyes bright as you talk with your friends, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve somehow, unknowingly, wandered into his world again.

The conversation flows easily, laughter spilling into the air as the music hums in the background. But eventually, your drink runs low, and you excuse yourself, weaving through the crowd toward the bar.

You squeeze into a spot near the counter, waiting for the bartender’s attention, when a voice speaks beside you.

“Didn’t expect to see someone like you here.”

You blink, turning to find a man leaning casually against the bar, there’s nothing immediately alarming about him, but something about his approach makes you instinctively straighten your posture.

You offer a polite smile. “Someone like me?”

He chuckles. “You don’t really look like the bar-hopping type.” His eyes flick over you, assessing. “First time here?”

You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “Something like that.”

“You should let me buy your next drink, then,” he offers smoothly, setting his glass down. “I can show you around.”

Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol has already risen from his seat.

“I appreciate the offer,” you say carefully, shifting slightly in place. “But I’m good, thanks.”

He tilts his head, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Come on, just one drink. No harm in that, right?”

The bartender finally makes his way over, and you take the opportunity to place your order, hoping the stranger will take the hint and leave it at that. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if he’s telling you some grand secret.

“You look a little lost,” he muses. “Let me keep you company.”

Your polite smile tightens. “I’m really not—”

A presence shifts behind you and suddenly, the atmosphere changes.

It’s subtle at first just a flicker in the air, the feeling of something shifting before you can put a name to it. Then, before you even realize what’s happening, a hand lands on the bar beside you. Close, but not touching.

The stranger’s eyes flicker up, his smirk faltering slightly. You don’t have to turn around to know someone is standing there.

And then

“I think you’re the one lost, man”

A voice. Low. Smooth. Amused, but with an edge sharp enough to cut.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn your head aand meet Seungcheol’s gaze. He’s standing behind you, close enough that his presence is unmistakable but not intrusive. The man studies Seungcheol for a moment, then exhales through his nose, clearly weighing his options.

“Didn’t know she had company,” he says, raising his hands slightly. “Just making conversation.”

Seungcheol doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “She’s good.”

It’s not a threat. Not outright. But it doesn’t have to be. The stranger seems to understand that.

Only then do you fully turn to Seungcheol. For a second, neither of you speak. The music thrums around you, the dim bar lights casting sharp shadows across his features.

You clear your throat. “Thanks for… scaring him off, I guess.”

His lips twitch slightly. “I didn’t scare him.”

You give him a look. “You definitely scared him.”

Seungcheol shrugs, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Didn’t like how he was talking to you.”

You blink. It’s a simple statement, but something about it makes warmth creep up your neck.

“…Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down. “I wasn’t a fan either.”

A beat of silence passes before you glance at him again.

“So…” you start, tilting your head. “Do you just happen to be everywhere I go, or…?”

His eyes flicker with amusement. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t even go anywhere.”

He smirks. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Against my will, for the record.”

“You should stick with your friends.”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “Huh?”

He nods toward where Jihyo and the others are, still laughing and drinking, completely unaware of your interaction.

“If you don’t like dealing with guys like that,” Seungcheol says evenly, “don’t wander off alone.”

You frown. “I wasn’t wandering—”

He gives you a pointed look.

You hesitate, then sigh. “…Fine. Noted.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything else, just takes another slow sip of his drink. For some reason, you can’t help but smile. A strange guy, a rescue, a drink, and an oddly protective professional racer.

Your night just got a lot more interesting.

As Seungcheol steps away from the bar, making his way back to their table, he can already feel the stares. Sure enough, when he reaches the booth, Jeonghan is the first to speak, leaning forward with a knowing smirk.

Seungcheol doesn’t react, just takes a slow sip, gaze flicking toward the bar where you’ve rejoined Jihyo and your friends, seemingly unaware of the conversation happening across the room.

Jeonghan hums, following his gaze. “She’s cute.”

Seungcheol shoots him a look. “Don’t start.”

Jeonghan grins. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Minghao leans back, watching him curiously. “What’s the deal with her?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, setting his glass down. “Nothing. Just a familiar face.”

Jeonghan snorts. “A familiar face you’ve run into three times now.”

Vernon glances at Seungcheol. “Fate?”

“Coincidence,” Seungcheol corrects.

Jeonghan nudges Minghao. “He’s in denial.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Jeonghan just smirks, eyes flickering back to you across the room. “Maybe.” He tilts his head. “Or maybe we’re just paying attention.”

Jeonghan barely leans forward, a teasing glint in his eyes, before he starts, “But she’s really cute, so if you’re not interested—”

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to him. Sharp. Instant. Jeonghan doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Seungcheol’s stare shuts him down. Minghao raises an eyebrow, glancing between them.

Jeonghan, ever the troublemaker, tilts his head slightly. “Oh?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Just holds his gaze. For a second, the tension lingers.

Then Jeonghan chuckles, leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond this time, just shifts his gaze back to the bar where you’re still standing, laughing at something Jihyo said, completely unaware of the conversation that just took place across the room.

The cool night air is a relief after the warmth of the bar, the buzz of conversation and music fading into the background as you stand on the sidewalk with Jihyo.

She leans against you slightly, humming to herself. She’s not completely out of it, just tipsy enough to be giggly, swaying lightly as she scrolls through her phone.

“You good?” you ask, steadying her when she wobbles.

She grins up at you. “Perfect.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your grip on her arm. “Uh-huh. Sure you are.”

Your group had started heading home one by one, slipping out with quick goodbyes, and now it’s just the two of you waiting for a cab.

Jihyo hums again, tapping at her phone. “Ugh, the wait time’s so long.”

“We’ll just have to be patient,” you sigh, rubbing your arms against the slight chill.

You don’t notice the familiar figures stepping out of the bar behind you.

Jihyo sighs dramatically, resting her full weight against you. “You’re so warm. You should let me borrow your body heat.”

“Or, and hear me out, you could stand on your own two feet.”

“No fun,” she whines, wrapping an arm around you in a lazy hug. “This is why you need a boyfriend. Someone to carry you when you’re drunk.”

You scoff. “I’m not the one who’s drunk.”

She ignores you. “You’d be so cute with a boyfriend. Someone big and strong.” She giggles. “Like one of those K-drama leads who act all tough but secretly—”

A throat clears behind you.

You both freeze.

Slowly, you turn your head. And there, standing a few feet away, is a group of some familiar and unfamiliar men. Seungcheol. Jeonghan. And two you’ve never met before but you’re assuming are their friends.

You blink.

Jihyo blinks.

Then

“Oh, shit,” she gasps, a little too loud.

You immediately slap a hand over her mouth. “Jihyo—”

She pries your hand away, eyes wide as she leans in close, whispering (badly), “Why didn’t you tell me they were right behind us?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” you hiss back, mortified.

Meanwhile, the guys just stare, the silence between both groups growing increasingly awkward. Jeonghan, of course, is the first to break it.

“This is entertaining,” he muses, crossing his arms. “Don’t stop on our account.”

You groan, wanting the sidewalk to swallow you whole. “We’re done talking.”

“Oh, no, no—please, continue,” Jeonghan grins. “Something about K-drama boyfriends? Big and strong?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I hate this.”

Jihyo, suddenly regaining her confidence, narrows her eyes at them. “Wait, why are you guys here?”

Vernon shrugs. “Same reason you are. Leaving.”

“You followed us,” she accuses.

Minghao snorts. “You were standing in the middle of the sidewalk. We walked out and saw you.”

“…Oh.” Jihyo deflates.

Seungcheol, who’s been quiet this whole time, finally exhales. “You two waiting for a cab?”

Jihyo nods. “Yeah, but the wait times suck.”

He glances at his car parked nearby, then back at you. “We could drive you.”

Jihyo perks up instantly. “Really?” You shoot her a look. “No, that’s okay—”

She elbows you. “We should say yes.”

“Jihyo,” you grit out, horrified.

“Think about it,” she whispers. “Free ride. Faster than waiting.”

Then Jeonghan, because he’s the worst, leans in slightly. “Unless you don’t trust Seungcheol’s driving?” Your eyes dart to Seungcheol. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for your answer.

You purse your lips. “I never said that.”

“So you do trust him?” Jeonghan smirks.

You scowl. “I didn’t say that either.”

Jihyo groans, gripping your shoulders. “Oh my god, just say yes so we can go home!”

Jihyo grabs your arm in a vice grip, pulling you slightly away from the guys, though her balance is… questionable at best. She leans in, eyes wide, and whisper-shouts, “He’s a good driver! He’s very famous and hot! SAY YES!”

You freeze. She thinks she’s whispering. She’s absolutely not.

The silence behind you is deafening. You close your eyes, inhale sharply, then turn your head only to find all four men staring at you. You want to die.

Jihyo, still blissfully unaware, gives you another shake. “Why are you not saying yes?! He’s right there! He knows how to drive! He’s a racer! Do you know how many girls would kill to be in this position?!”

You force a strained smile. “Jihyo.”

“What?!”

“They can hear you.”

A beat of silence. Then—she smiles, nods, and says, “Good.”

And then she turns back to you, whisper-shouting, “So now that he knows, say yes.”

Seungcheol sighs. “Get in the car.”

Jihyo beams. “See? Told you.” You shoot her a glare but begrudgingly follow Seungcheol toward his car.

You hesitate for a second, eyeing the car. Maybe if you move fast enough, you can slip into the backseat next to Jihyo and avoid—

Click.

The sound of a door opening. You turn your head and—of course—it’s Jeonghan, holding open the front passenger door with a perfectly innocent smile.

“After you,” he says smoothly.

You narrow your eyes. “I was going to sit in the back.”

He tilts his head. “But that doesn’t make sense, does it? You’re the guest, you should take the best seat.”

“I don’t—”

Jihyo, behind you, shoves your back. “Just get in!”

You shoot her a glare before reluctantly sliding into the passenger seat, cheeks burning. Jeonghan shuts the door behind you with an annoyingly satisfied look before moving to take his own seat.

Jihyo plops into the back, sighing in content. “This is nice. I could get used to this.”

You swear you hear Seungcheol let out the faintest chuckle. And then, without another word, he starts the engine—trapping you in a car with him, your tipsy best friend, and the most annoying man alive.

in the backseat, Jihyo is completely at ease. She hums along to the radio, legs crossed, looking like she’s being chauffeured. Next to her, Jeonghan has that smug little smirk the one that says he’s enjoying this way too much.

And then there’s him. Seungcheol, eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, jaw set in quiet focus.

You shift awkwardly, clearing your throat. “Uh… thanks. For, you know… driving us.”

He nods slightly. “It’s fine.”

You nod too, staring straight ahead. “Cool. Yeah. Fine.”

Another pause and then Jihyo ruins everything. She leans forward between the seats, squinting at the dashboard. “Wow. This car is nice.”

Seungcheol hums. “Thanks.”

“What’s the top speed?” she asks, poking at random buttons.

You slap her hand away. “Stop touching things!”

“I just wanna know!” she pouts. “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven?”

“Not answering that,” Seungcheol replies flatly.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t need to know.”

Jihyo huffs, slumping back. “Boring.”

You sigh in relief, thinking that’s the end of it but of course, Jeonghan isn’t done. He props his chin on his hand, looking over at you. “You still don’t know who he is, do you?”

“I—uh.” You fumble. “I mean. Jihyo kind of told me?”

Jihyo snorts. “I did not ‘kind of’ tell you. I screamed it at you.”

Jeonghan grins. “So? What do you think?”

You blink. “What do I think about what?”

Seungcheol exhales quietly. “Jeonghan.”

But Jeonghan ignores him, still watching you expectantly. “About him. Y’know. The Choi Seungcheol.”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling like you’re walking into a trap. “Uh… cool?”

Jeonghan leans closer. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?!” you exclaim, flustered.

Jihyo, still tipsy but ever the enabler, chimes in: “You could mention that he’s hot.”

You whip around. “Jihyo!”

“What? It’s true!”

You slap a hand over your face, groaning. “I hate you.”

The car rolls to a smooth stop outside your apartment complex, and you exhale, relieved to finally escape this nightmare.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say quickly, reaching for the door handle before anyone can make this worse—

But, of course, Jihyo beats you to it.

She dramatically stretches in the backseat. “Ahhh, that was nice. Good company, smooth ride—” she winks at Seungcheol through the rearview mirror, “—great driver.”

You slap her thigh. “Get out.”

She laughs but obliges, pushing the door open and stepping out. You scramble out too, making your way onto the sidewalk, fully prepared to run but then Jeonghan’s window rolls down.

“Hey,” he calls out. “Try not to get hit by any cars this time, yeah?”

You glare at Jeonghan. “I hope you stub your toe when you get home.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “You’re cute when you’re mad.” And with that, the car pulls away, leaving you standing there, cheeks burning, as your best friend drags you toward your building laughing all the way.

As soon as the car pulls away, Jeonghan casually switches seats, sliding into the passenger seat with a content sigh. Seungcheol, jaw tight, doesn’t even look at him.

“…Are you mad I called her cute?”

Seungcheol’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Jeonghan.”

“What?” Jeonghan grins, turning to face him. “It’s an honest question.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose. “Drop it.”

Jeonghan tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “So that’s a yes.” Seungcheol doesn’t respond, gaze fixed on the road.

Jeonghan, delighted, leans closer. “You are mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Seungcheol says flatly.

Jeonghan hums, unconvinced. “Hmm. Sure. Not mad. Just gripping the wheel like you wanna break it.”

Seungcheol ignores him.

Jeonghan watches him for a second longer, then smirks, leaning back in his seat. “You know,” he muses, “she is really cute.”

Seungcheol exhales, long and slow, like he’s summoning every ounce of patience in his body.

Jeonghan grins. “Relax, man. It’s not like you’re jealous or anything.”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. “I said—”

“Uh-huh.” Jeonghan props his chin on his hand, looking way too pleased with himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll be nice.”

You’re comfortably settled at your desk, working on some lesson plans for your class when Jihyo bursts into your room, nearly giving you a heart attack. Before you can even react, she shoves her phone into your face.

You blink, leaning back. “What—”

She jabs at the screen. “This!”

You squint at the display, confused until you realize what you’re looking at. Choi Seungcheol’s Instagram profile.

Jihyo crosses her arms, looking at you like she just caught you. “So this is what you’re denying yourself?? Explain to me why you are not all over this man.”

Your brain bluescreens. You quickly shove her phone away, face burning. “Shut up!”

She sighs dramatically. “Babe, if it were me who bumped into him that night, best believe I would not have come home.”

You groan, covering your face. “Jihyo—”

“I mean—” She swipes to another photo, this time of him in his racing suit, looking stupidly good. “Look at him. He’s got that whole broody, ‘I’ll ruin your life but in the best way’ vibe.”

She shakes her head in awe. “That jawline should be illegal.”

She grins. “Admit it. You think he’s hot.”

You make a strangled noise. “I’m going to bed.”

Jihyo cackles, watching as you dive under your blanket in pure defeat. “Oh, babe,” she sing-songs. “You’re so done for.”

Despite Jihyo’s endless teasing and your absolute denial, the days pass and nothing happens. No accidental run-ins. No mysterious black car pulling up at the right moment. No smug Jeonghan popping out of nowhere to torment you.

You’re just at the convenience store, minding your business, waiting in line with a basket full of snacks, when you hear it

“Yeah, Seungcheol’s overseas for the big race.” Your ears perk up.

“Oh, right,” another guy says, grabbing a drink from the fridge. “Dude’s been training like crazy for this one. He’s got a good shot at winning.”

You stare blankly at the row of gum in front of you. He’s not even in Korea?

One of the guys chuckles. “I saw a clip of the press conference. He looked so serious, man. Like, no distractions, all business.”

“Hah, that’s Choi Seungcheol for you.”

You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling very silly because here you were, half-expecting some dramatic encounter, maybe another near-death experience (not that you wanted one), or at the very least, something. You pay for your things, walk out of the store, and absolutely do not check your phone for race updates.

It starts with a simple search. Just one harmless search. You’re curled up in bed, snacks within reach, telling yourself it’s just curiosity. And yet the moment you hit enter, you realize you’ve made a grave mistake.

Because there he is.

Choi Seungcheol.

Not just one picture, but thousands. Articles, interviews, highlights from races, candid photos at events. He’s everywhere.

You stare, entranced.

This is the same guy who caught you almost getting run over. The same guy who watched you squint at a menu like an old lady. The same guy who bought your coffee without a word.

You’re still deep in your self-inflicted spiral, scrolling through every article and picture you can find. And then you see it.

The latest update.

Choi Seungcheol Wins International Grand Prix!

You find yourself smiling a little. You don’t even know this guy properly, but still… it’s nice to see.

Then you scroll down. And stop.

Because there’s a picture of him not with his team, but with a girl. She’s standing close to him, a hand on his arm, smiling up at him while he looks at her.

Oh.

You stare at the image, a weird, sinking feeling settling in your chest. She’s stunning. The kind of gorgeous that makes you feel like you should sit up straighter, fix your hair, do something.

You quickly exit out of the tab, tossing your phone onto the bed like it burned you. What did you expect? Of course someone like him would have a girlfriend.

A few days passed. Not that you’re sulking. You’ve decided to move on. You’ve accepted reality. Choi Seungcheol is just a passing encounter in your life.

It’s fine. What’s not fine is this stupid bag of snacks that won’t open.

You frown, wrestling with the plastic as you step out of the convenience store, fully focused on your struggle. You huff, gripping it tighter, about to really go for it when

A loud honk blasts through the air.

You freeze.

The next second, the sound of tires screeching fills your ears. A bright flash of headlights and then a strong hand grabs you, pulling you back just as a sleek black car zooms by. Your breath catches. Heart hammering, you slowly lift your gaze to the person who just saved you

And your brain short-circuits.

Because standing there, gripping your wrist, looking at you like you’re the single biggest headache in his life is Choi Seungcheol.

Fresh off his international win. Back in Korea. And very much here. “Seriously?”

You blink up at him, mind racing, struggling to process the fact that he’s here. Right in front of you.

"Seriously?" he asks again. Before you can even think of a response, another voice speaks behind Seungcheol, and you turn just in time to see Jeonghan

“Oh my god,” he lets out a laugh, looking between you and Seungcheol. “Again?”

“I—” you start, but Jeonghan just shakes his head, looking at Seungcheol. “Be honest. Is she actually in danger all the time, or do you just have some weird sixth sense for when she’s about to get hit by something?”

Seungcheol scoffs, finally letting go of your wrist. “I don’t have a sixth sense.”

Jeonghan tilts his head. “I don’t know, man. That’s twice now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were her personal bodyguard.”

“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” you mumble, gripping your stupid snack bag tighter.

Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“I was distracted—”

“With what?” he snaps. “Your life flashing before your eyes?”

You scowl, shoving the bag toward him. “This wouldn’t open!”

Seungcheol stares at it. Then at you. Jeonghan bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, doubling over. “You almost died over potato chips?”

“I wasn’t going to die—”

“You weren’t even looking,” Seungcheol cuts in, eyes narrowing. You freeze, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone.

You swallow, suddenly feeling small. “I—I didn’t mean to…”

His jaw tightens, but he exhales, shaking his head like he’s trying to let it go. “Just—be more careful.”

You nod, looking down at your feet. Jeonghan, sensing the shift in mood, clears his throat. “Anyway,” he drawls, clapping a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Before you fully commit to your new job as her official savior, can we go? I’m running on fumes, man”

Jeonghan grins. “We can drop you off”

Seungcheol glares at him. “Jeonghan.”

“What?” Jeonghan shrugs

You hold up a hand, shaking your head frantically. “I—no, it’s okay! I was just—”

Jeonghan grins wider. “See? She didn’t say no.”

Seungcheol sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

Jeonghan slaps his back. “That’s fair. Now, come on, mystery girl. Let’s get you home in one piece”

And before you fully process what’s happening, you find yourself being pulled toward the car—toward another unexpected run-in with Choi Seungcheol.

Fate, it seems, isn’t quite done playing with you yet.

You don’t know how this happened. One second, you were nearly flattened by a car (again), and the next, you were being dragged by Jeonghan who apparently has no concept of personal space or asking for permission.

Now, you’re in the backseat of Choi Seungcheol’s car, clutching your still-unopened bag of chips like it’s your last lifeline.

“So, really, where were you looking?” he asks, turning slightly to glance at you. “Because if I was about to get hit, I’d at least want to see it coming.”

You glare at him. “I told you. The bag wouldn’t open.”

Jeonghan laughs. “I still can’t believe that’s what almost took you out. You know they put little notches for easy tearing, right?”

“...Not all of them work.”

Jeonghan sighs, shaking his head. “Natural selection is really out here working overtime.”

Seungcheol, who’s been silent this whole time, suddenly exhales sharply. “Jeonghan.”

“What?” Jeonghan grins. “I’m just saying, it’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

You sneak a glance at the rearview mirror, catching his reflection. He looks… tense. One hand on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road.

You wonder if he regrets stopping for you. Your stomach twists. It’s stupid, but you still feel a little weird about it. And now, sitting here, in his car, after all that unnecessary sulking? You feel… even weirder.

You shift uncomfortably, fingers fidgeting with the chip bag. You barely know these guys. One of them is a literal international racing champion, and the other is his unreasonably charming best friend. Meanwhile, you’re just… you. A kindergarten teacher who almost got flattened over snacks

The contrast is almost laughable.

“…You good back there?” Jeonghan’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

You blink, realizing you’ve been sulking again. “What? Yeah. Totally fine.”

Jeonghan smirks. “Uh-huh. You definitely look fine. Real picture of peace and happiness.”

You scowl, but before you can respond, Seungcheol speaks up his voice calm but firm.

“Jeonghan. Shut up.”

Jeonghan grins. “Ohhh. He’s using his serious voice.”

Seungcheol sighs, gripping the wheel tighter. “I should’ve left you on the sidewalk.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan says smugly, “you didn’t.”

Seungcheol glares at him. You feel like you’re witnessing a very old, very repetitive argument.

“Anyway,” Jeonghan continues, ignoring the daggers being stared into his skull, “since you’re so fine, tell me—how do you feel knowing you’re currently in a very expensive car, sitting behind a very famous race car driver?”

You hesitate. Then—

“…I feel like I should’ve taken the bus.”

Jeonghan bursts out laughing. Even Seungcheol’s lips twitch slightly, though he hides it well.

“Alright,” Jeonghan chuckles, shaking his head. “I like you.”

You don’t know why, but your face warms a little at that. You ignore it, focusing instead on the bag in your hands. Your stupid, unopened bag of chips. The red light feels like it’s taking forever to change.

With a sigh, you look at Seungcheol. “Can you open this?”

For the first time since you got in the car, he fully turns his head to look at you. His expression is blank.

“Seriously?”

You pout. “It won’t open.”

Seungcheol stares for another second before muttering something under his breath. Then, with one hand still on the wheel, he takes the bag from you and effortlessly tears it open with zero struggle.

You stare. He hands it back without a word, eyes back on the road.

Jeonghan looks between the two of you, then shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Ohhh, this is gonna be fun.”

You hesitate for a second, fingers tightening around your newly opened bag of chips, before finally mumbling, “Congratulations, by the way.”

It’s so quiet that you’re not even sure he hears it

“…Thanks,” Seungcheol says after a beat, voice softer than before.

“Cute girlfriend, by the way.” It just slips out.

Jeonghan, who had just taken a sip of his drink, makes a sudden choking sound. “Oh—oh my god.”

Seungcheol’s fingers twitch. You freeze, realizing what you just said, how you just said it, and immediately regret everything. You look up only to find Seungcheol’s eyes in the rearview mirror, dark and unreadable.

“…What?” His voice is flat

You clear your throat, trying to play it off. “The girl. In that picture. Looked… cute.”

Jeonghan, recovering from his near-death experience, turns fully in his seat to look at you, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Oh wow. This is amazing.”

You glare at him. “What?”

“So, you did look him up.”

Your soul leaves your body. Seungcheol is still silent.

“I—no—I just—” You scramble for a response, but Jeonghan is already grinning like the devil himself.

“You did.” He laughs, clapping his hands together. “Oh, this is good. This is so good.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, face burning.

“I mean,” Jeonghan continues, completely ignoring him, “I knew you weren’t completely oblivious, but this confirms everything—”

“Jeonghan.” This time, there’s a warning in Seungcheol’s tone. Jeonghan raises his hands in surrender, but his smirk remains. You, meanwhile, are trying very, very hard to disappear into the seat.

Seungcheol finally glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “It’s not what you think.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“The picture.” His fingers drum against the wheel. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you quickly school your expression into something neutral. “Oh. I mean—I didn’t—” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t assuming anything.” Lies.

Jeonghan is watching the exchange very closely, eyes flicking between the two of you with amusement.

“Right,” he drawls. “And you totally weren’t sulking when you saw it, huh?”

Your soul leaves your body for the second time in five minutes. Seungcheol sighs, shaking his head. You, meanwhile, are seriously considering rolling out of the moving vehicle.

It’s Friday afternoon, and you’re in the middle of prepping lesson plans when your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen.

Seungcheol: Do you have plans this weekend?

Your heart does a little skip. Which is dumb. You ignore that.

You: Why?

Seungcheol: Race this weekend. Sending you a pass if you want to come.

You: Can Jihyo come?

Seungcheol: ...Do I have a choice?

You snort. Nope. He sends an exasperated-looking emoji. Then: Fine. I’ll send two.

You grin, typing back. Thanks, Cheol :)

Seungcheol leans against his car, phone in hand, watching as the dots appear and disappear on his screen. When your reply finally comes through, he stares at it for a second.

Thanks, Cheol :)

His grip tightens on the phone. The hell was that?

His brows furrow. He wasn’t expecting a nickname. Or the stupid little smiley face. He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“You look stressed.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw as Jeonghan appears beside him, sipping an iced coffee like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Jeonghan peeks at his phone screen, then grins. “Oh? You invited her?”

“Mind your business.”

Jeonghan just laughs, patting his shoulder. “Can’t wait to see her. She’s cute.”

Come the day of the race. You clutch the pass in your hand, eyes wide as you stare at the sectioned-off area in front of you.

Jihyo whistles lowly beside you. "Damn. You got connections."

You elbow her. "I do not."

She smirks. "Oh, but you do—VIP passes, babe. Not just regular seats. VIP."

You’re still trying to process it. You thought maybe some decent seats but no. This is practically in the pit area, near the teams, where you can see the racers up close.

You fidget with the hem of your sundress, trying to keep it down as the wind playfully tugs at the fabric. Jihyo had insisted you wear it, claiming it was perfect for today. And sure, it’s cute, but you’re not used to wearing something like this.

Your eyes follow the cars as they weave and speed around the track, and even though you can’t see his face, you somehow know which one is Seungcheol. He drives with such control, such confidence it’s ridiculous. It’s nerve-wracking, but thrilling at the same time. When the checkered flag waves, signaling the end, the crowd erupts in cheers.

Seungcheol won.

Then someone is standing beside your seat. He glances at a clipboard, then at you. "Mr. Choi asked me to bring you down to the pit."

"Wh—" You blink. "Me?"

The guy nods. "Yeah, you."

She gasps dramatically. "Oh my God, you’re getting the main character treatment."

You glare at her. "Shut up—"

"Come on." The team member jerks his head toward the entrance leading down to the pit area. "He’s waiting."

Jihyo shoves you forward. "GO, OH MY GOD."

You stumble, gripping your dress, and follow behind the guy as he leads you down. The pit area is loud.

"Hey." You turn at the sound of his voice. Seungcheol is standing a few feet away, unzipping the top half of his racing suit, revealing a black sleeveless undershirt. His hair is messy from the helmet, and he looks like he just stepped out of an action movie.

Your brain empties.

"Hi."

One of the other racers whistles. "Cheol, why didn’t you tell us you had a good luck charm?"

Seungcheol glares at the guy, and he immediately shuts up. He turns his attention back to you, eyes scanning your expression. "You okay?"

You nod way too quickly. "Yes."

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Y-Yeah!" You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to compose yourself. "It was… really cool. Kind of scary, but mostly cool."

A beat passes. He watches you for a moment before he shifts slightly closer. "You sure?"

You swallow hard. "Yeah."

Before you can say anything else, someone calls his name from across the pit. He sighs, glancing toward them, then back at you.

"Good."

Just as Seungcheol turns to leave, one of his team members hands him a jacket—a sleek black one with his name embroidered on the front.

The wind picks up right at that moment, making your dress flutter. Seungcheol exhales, a small shake of his head, then without warning he moves closer. He holds out his jacket.

"Here."

"W-What?"

He lifts a brow. "You keep fidgeting."

"But—"

"Just take it." His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, your fingers twitching at your sides. "But won’t you need it?"

"I’m fine," he says simply. "You, on the other hand, are obviously cold."

The sleeves are way too long, and the jacket itself is so oversized that it practically swallows you. But the moment you wrap it around yourself, a wave of warmth washes over you—both from the fabric and the fact that it’s his.

Seungcheol watches you pull it tighter around yourself, then nods in satisfaction. "Better?"

You nod frantically, voice barely above a whisper. "Y-Yeah."

He smirks slightly. "Good."

Then, before you can even process what just happened, he turns around and walks away leaving you standing there in the middle of the pit, drowning in his jacket, and burning with embarrassment.

By the time dinner ends, it’s late, the streets quieter as most of the city starts winding down for the night. One by one, the group starts heading out. Vernon and Minghao take off first, and Jeonghan lingers only long enough to throw one last smirk your way before disappearing too.

Then it’s just you, Jihyo, and Seungcheol standing outside the restaurant.

Jihyo stretches, humming in satisfaction. "Alright, how are we getting home?"

Seungcheol pulls out his keys. "I’ll drive you."

Jihyo, ever the social butterfly, starts the trip off chatting about the food, the restaurant, Jeonghan’s nonsense but after a few minutes, she slowly starts dozing off. By the time you reach the highway, she’s out cold, head slumped against the window, completely knocked out.

So now, it’s just you and Seungcheol. And the silence.

You shift in your seat, sneaking a glance at him. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gear shift.

You clear your throat. "Thanks for the ride."

"Did you have fun?"

"Huh?"

He keeps his eyes ahead. "The race. The dinner. The whole thing."

You hesitate. Then, feeling a little shy, you nod. "Yeah. It was fun."

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. "Good."

The rest of the drive was quiet. You're lost in thought when suddenly you hear him,

"We’re here."

You blink and sure enough, the car is parked right in front of your apartment complex. You don’t even think. You just unbuckle your seatbelt, practically launch yourself out of the car

"Thanksfortheridegoodnight!" Then you shut the door behind you, making your escape.

Seungcheol watches, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his chin. His lips twitch.

From the passenger seat, Jihyo stirs, barely cracking an eye open. "She’s so down bad," she mumbles sleepily.

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh.

The week had been brutal.

You loved your job but spending all day surrounded by energetic little humans could be exhausting. And now, finally, finally, you had a moment to yourself. Which was why you were out again, wandering the quiet streets, enjoying the cool air.

And before you even realized it—

You were calling Seungcheol.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Where are you?" His voice was low, direct.

You blinked. "What?"

"You don’t usually call," he said. "Where are you?"

"Oh, um." You rubbed your arm, glancing around. "I’m just out on a walk."

"Alone?"

You frowned. "…Yeah?"

Seungcheol sighed. You could practically hear him shaking his head. "Of course you are."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Stay there. I’m coming to get you."

Your eyes widened. "Wait, what—"

Click. He hung up. You stared at your phone. "…Did he just—"

Before you could even process it, headlights approached from down the street.And there he was. You blinked. Then blinked again.

"How did you—"

Seungcheol gave you a look as he rolled down the window. "You take the same route every time."

You blinked again, your brain still catching up. "I—what?"

"That’s dangerous, by the way, Someone could easily figure that out."

You stared at him. "You just did."

"Exactly. Get in the car."

You huffed, rubbing your temples. "I was just taking a walk."

"And now you’re taking a ride," he countered smoothly. "C’mon, before I get out and make you."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You wouldn’t."

Seungcheol unbuckled his seatbelt.

Your eyes widened. "Okay! Okay!"

You hurried to the passenger side, pulling open the door and climbing in. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he deadpanned, putting the car back in drive. You sat there, hands tucked into your lap, the hum of the car filling the silence.

You swallowed. "So, uh… now what?"

Seungcheol flicked his turn signal on, eyes still on the road. "Dunno. You tell me. You’re the one who called."

You bit your lip. "Right. About that."

He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

You hesitated, suddenly regretting all your life choices. "It was an accident."

Seungcheol scoffed, amused. "That’s a lie."

You groaned, throwing your head back against the seat. "Okay, fine! I just—" You sighed, watching the streetlights blur past. "I guess I just wanted to talk to someone?"

"Rough day?"

"More like a rough week," you muttered, rubbing your eyes. "The kids have been so hyper lately, and I’ve just been so tired. But it’s not even a bad tired, you know? It’s just a lot sometimes."

Seungcheol hummed, a small nod. "Yeah. I get it."

"You do?"

"Mhm." His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. "Racing’s fun. I love it. But there’s always a pressure to be on top, to perform well. Sometimes it gets overwhelming."

Seungcheol sighed, stretching out one hand before gripping the wheel again. "I go on night drives when I need to clear my head."

You stared at him, something clicking into place. "That’s why you knew my route."

He smirked slightly. "Guilty."

"I take walks, you take drives. Same thing, different speeds."

"Guess so." A comfortable silence settled between you. You glanced out the window, watching the city lights glow in the dark.

"Hey, Cheol?"

"Hm?"

"…Thanks."

You glanced at him again, blinking. He was focused on the road, but his grip on the wheel had tightened just slightly.

"For your information, I survived just fine before, you know. And i take different routes like the convenient store"

Seungcheol scoffed, barely sparing you a glance. "You almost got ran over because you were too busy sulking over a picture of me with a girl and almost died"

You choked. "I— What—"

He smirked. "What? Cat got your tongue?"

"I was not sulking!"

"Right. Totally explains why you looked like you were mourning when we saw you"

You groaned, peeking at him through your fingers. "Okay, but seriously. Who was she?"

"Told you already. A model for the brand we were promoting."

You pursed your lips. "And you just let people think she was your girlfriend?"

"Why would I care?"

You blinked at him. "Because rumors like that spread?"

"And?"

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. "And they can cause misunderstandings!"

"Only if you believe them. You believed them?"

Your face heated again. "N-no!"

He smirked. "So you were sulking for no reason."

"Oh my god, I’m jumping out of this car."

Seungcheol laughed, shaking his head. "You’re so easy to mess with."

You scowled at him, but your heart was doing that weird thing again. You ignored it, sinking into your seat with a grumble.

"Whatever," you muttered. "I survived just fine without you, anyway."

Seungcheol didn’t say anything to that, just tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. A few seconds passed before he muttered, almost too quiet for you to hear

"Yeah. But I still worry"

It was just another normal day or at least, that was what you thought.

You were on your way back from grabbing lunch when you passed by a group of girls near the coffee shop. You weren’t intentionally eavesdropping, but the name Choi Seungcheol caught your attention.

"Did you see the pictures?" one of them gushed, holding up her phone. "He looks so good."

"I know, right?" another sighed dreamily. "And the model is there again. I swear, they have to be dating."

Your step faltered.

"She literally flew out just for the event," one of them continued. "If that doesn’t say girlfriend, I don’t know what does."

"They look so good together."

"I bet they’re just keeping it private."

You stared down at your drink, suddenly losing your appetite. Of course the rumors were back. Of course. You weren’t even sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t like Seungcheol owed you an explanation. He could date whoever he wanted.

You shook your head, scolding yourself. It doesn’t matter. It’s not your business. And yet, as you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel like a rock had settled in your stomach.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, snapping you out of your thoughts. You pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

Seungcheol.

You debated ignoring it. You weren’t in the mood. But your thumb betrayed you, swiping to answer.

"What."

There was silence on the other end. You never greeted him like that. Usually, it was your usual bright, shy "Hello?" or a nervous "Hi." But this? This was new.

"...Are you okay?" he finally asked, voice slower than usual, as if testing the waters.

You sighed, pushing open the door to your workplace. "Yeah, I’m fine. Why?"

"You sound—" he hesitated. "Different."

"I’m busy," you muttered, balancing your drink in one hand as you fumbled with your things. "What do you need?"

Seungcheol didn’t reply immediately. You could feel him trying to figure you out, and for some reason, that made you more annoyed.

"I was just calling to check on you," he finally said.

That caught you off guard. Your grip tightened around your phone.

You huffed. "I’m good. Enjoy your event."

You weren’t sure what this feeling was, but damn, it felt good to be glaring at everything.

The printer that took forever? Glare. The kid who knocked over their juice box? Squint. Your coworker asking if you were okay? Tight-lipped smile that was anything but a smile.

Maybe it was childish. Maybe you were overreacting. But at this point, you didn’t care. You didn’t even know why you felt so off. It wasn’t like you and Seungcheol were anything.

Meanwhile, across town, Seungcheol was still staring at his phone, completely thrown off. He wasn’t used to hearing you like that. You were always soft-spoken, shy, a little hesitant—but never cold. Never distant.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered to himself.

"That," came Jeonghan’s amused voice beside him, "was a very pissed-off woman."

Seungcheol shot him a look. "She said she was fine."

Jeonghan snorted. "And you believed her?" He leaned in, glancing at the phone. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Seungcheol bit out, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah? Well, she clearly thinks otherwise," Jeonghan mused, nodding toward the crowd of cameras flashing in the distance. "Think it’s the rumors?"

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. The articles, the fan speculation, the model that everyone kept trying to link him with. He never paid them much attention before.

But you… you might have.

"She knows it’s not like that," he muttered.

"Does she?"

You had just clocked out of work, exhausted, ready to take the bus home and forget about the ridiculous thoughts swirling in your head. But then you saw it. A familiar black car parked near the bus stop.

Hard to miss. And even harder to miss was the very famous racer leaning casually against it, hands in his pockets, watching you like he was waiting for you.

Then, the annoyance you’d been holding in all day came rushing back. You stomped over, stopping right in front of him, arms crossed tight against your chest.

"What do you think you’re doing?" you demanded, eyes narrowing.

Seungcheol barely blinked, like he had expected this reaction. "Picking you up."

"Why?"

"Because you hung up on me," he said simply, pushing off the car. "And you sounded mad."

"I'm not mad," you scoffed, which was a total lie, and he knew it.

"You’re always bad at lying, but that was just embarrassing." The confidence. The nerve. You wanted to stomp your foot like a child. You glare at him, arms still crossed, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Seungcheol watches you, then takes a slow breath, like he’s surrendering. The cocky smirk fades just a little, his posture shifts, and this time, when he speaks, his voice is softer.

"Let me take you home." Not a demand. Not an assumption. A request.

Your glare wavers, just a little.

It’s annoying, really, how easily he throws you off. Just a second ago, you were ready to fight him in the middle of this parking lot, but now? Now your heart is doing that stupid thing again, beating way too fast just because he asked instead of told.

You purse your lips. "You didn’t have to come all the way here."

"I know."

"You’re busy."

"Not right now."

You shift on your feet, fingers gripping your bag strap. You know you should just say no, get on the bus, and pretend none of this is affecting you. But Seungcheol is still standing there, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

"...Fine," you mumble, looking away.

He opens the passenger door for you, and for some reason, that makes your face heat up more than it should. For a while, he doesn’t say anything neither do you.

You keep your eyes trained on the window, stubbornly refusing to look at him. The tension sits heavy between you, thick enough to choke on.

Eventually, you sigh. "Just drop me off."

Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose. "You’re mad."

You scoff. "I’m not mad."

You huff, annoyed at his calmness, annoyed at how he isn’t even trying to argue with you, and most of all, annoyed at how that bothers you more than it should.

After a few minutes, Seungcheol speaks again, voice low and even.

"Are you gonna tell me why you’re mad, or do I have to guess?"

You scoff. "I already told you, I’m not mad."

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. "Right. And I’m a kindergarten teacher."

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your lips almost twitch at his sarcasm. "I’m just tired."

"Tired of what?"

"Everything."

The silence stretches again, filled only by the occasional honk of a passing car and the low music playing from his stereo. The red light ahead slows him down, and when the car comes to a stop, he finally turns his head, fully looking at you.

"You heard something, didn’t you?"

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, like he’s trying to be patient. "You’ve been acting weird since this afternoon. And now you won’t even look at me."

You swallow, feeling trapped. He isn’t wrong. You had heard something—those girls talking, mentioning the rumors, the event, the model. And even though it shouldn’t have affected you, it did but there was no way in hell you were about to admit that.

"It’s nothing," you mutter. "Can we just drop it?"

Seungcheol studies you for a long moment, then makes a sound in the back of his throat—something between frustration and resignation.

"How can I make it better if you won’t tell me?"

You shift in your seat, unsure how to respond. "What?"

"You heard me," he says, sparing a quick glance at you. "If something’s bothering you, tell me. I’m not a mind reader."

"It’s not—" You start, but the words tangle in your throat.

Seungcheol sighs, running a hand through his hair before resting it back on the wheel. "Look, I don’t know what people said, but if it’s about that event, the model, or whatever rumor’s floating around, just ask me."

"Why does it matter?"

"What?"

"Why does it matter if I believe the rumors or not?" You glance away. "It’s not like we—" You stop yourself before you can finish.

The air shifts. Seungcheol doesn’t immediately respond, and when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You regret speaking at all.

"It matters," he finally says, voice quieter. "Because it’s you."

Your breath catches. The words settle deep in your chest, making your heart stutter. You don’t know what to say. And he doesn’t push you to.

Later, you’re just getting your lunch ready for tomorrow to bring to work when Jihyo comes stumbling out of her room

"YOU NEED TO SEE THIS!"

"Jihyo, what—"

"Just look!" she insists, shoving the screen toward your face.

You blink, squinting as your eyes adjust to the brightness. It’s an Instagram story.

Seungcheol’s Instagram story. It’s just a simple black background with white text:

Don’t believe everything you hear. The rumors aren’t true.

That’s it. No explanation. No clarification. No dramatic reveal. Just a straight-to-the-point denial.

Jihyo, however, is losing her mind. "OUT OF CHARACTER BEHAVIOR! THE CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, POSTING ON HIS MAIN?!?"

"What—" You’re still processing.

"WHAT?!?" Jihyo gapes at you like you’ve just declared the sky isn’t blue. "BABE, THIS MAN NEVER POSTS. EVER."

"Maybe he just wanted to clear things up—" you start, but Jihyo flails.

"CLEAR THINGS UP?!?" She throws her arms up. "HE COULD’VE LET HIS AGENCY DO THAT! HE NEVER ADDRESSES RUMORS. EVER."

You chew on your bottom lip, scrolling back to look at the post again. It’s true—most celebrities would ignore baseless gossip, or let their team handle it. But Seungcheol? He chose to say something himself.

Before you go to sleep, your inner demons won and dialed his number.

The phone barely rings twice before he picks up. "You’re not mad anymore?"

"What—"

"You called me, figured that means I’m out of the woods."

You hesitate, picking at the hem of your sweater. "I wasn’t really mad…"

"No?"

"I mean—" You huff, flopping back against your pillows. "I don’t know. It was annoying, hearing people talk. Seeing things that weren’t true. It just felt… I don’t know. Weird."

Seungcheol, of all people, probably knows what it’s like to have strangers talk about him like they know every detail of his life. To have people assume things, spread stories that aren’t real. It makes your irritation feel almost… silly in comparison.

"I saw your post," you mumble after a moment. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I know."

You frown at your ceiling. "Then why?"

"Because I didn’t want you to deal with it."

Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement, said so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t just Seungcheol, famous racer, untouchable to the world—but someone who noticed when you were uncomfortable. Someone who actually cared.

"…Oh."

"You’re really easy to fluster."

Your face burns. "I— That’s not—*"

"Are you blushing right now?"

"I am not blushing—*"

"You totally are."

"I—" You groan, rolling onto your side. "I should hang up on you."

There’s a grin in his voice when he adds, "Goodnight, trouble."

You hang up. And then promptly shove your face into your pillow, because what the hell is he doing to you?

He laughs under his breath when you hang up. Not because he’s teasing you but mostly because he can hear how flustered you were. How you probably rolled onto your side, buried your face in your hands, maybe even kicked your legs a little in frustration.

And it’s adorable.

It’s been a long time since someone reacted to him like that. Since someone called him without any agenda, just because they wanted to talk to him. Since someone didn’t treat him like Choi Seungcheol, the racer, but just… Seungcheol.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. His phone is still in his hand, your name staring up at him from the call log. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

You don’t know how you ended up here again.

One moment, you were just going about your usual routine, and the next, you were somehow standing in the middle of a VIP section at one of Seungcheol’s races.

This time, it’s just you. No Jihyo. No buffer. The area is packed with celebrities. All of them seem so effortlessly put together, exuding a confidence you can’t even begin to fake.

And then, suddenly a strong arm wraps around your waist. Before you even have a chance to react, you’re pulled against a firm chest, warmth pressing against your side. You don’t need to turn your head to know who it is.

Choi Seungcheol.

“W- Wait, wait… where are we going?” You struggle slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“Somewhere else,” is all he says.

You don’t know what’s more overwhelming the way Seungcheol is leading you away, the weight of his arm still firm around your waist, or the fact that people are definitely watching. The moment he starts walking, it’s like the entire event slows down just to focus on the two of you.

“Seungcheol,” you hiss, trying to tug yourself free, but his grip doesn’t budge.

“Just keep walking,”

Your heart is pounding. “People are staring.”

“So?” He finally stops once you reach the edge of the track, right where his car is waiting, gleaming under the floodlights.

His expression is unreadable. “You don’t want to be seen here or something?”

Your throat dries. “I wasn’t—”

He tilts his head. Just slightly. “Why?”

You shift on your feet, feeling unbearably seen. “I don’t know.”

“You really don’t know?” The weight of his stare has your pulse stuttering.

“I just...” you start, then hesitate, voice soft, “I don’t know how I fit in this world of yours.”

Something in his gaze shifts. His fingers flex at his side. Then, just loud enough for only you to hear, he says,

“You don’t have to. I’ll fit my world into you”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at you for a second longer before his hands find your waist again, then he gives a light squeeze, almost reassuring. Almost like a promise.

Before you can process it, he’s already shrugging off his racing jacket and casually throwing it around your shoulders. He lifts a hand, already signaling to someone. Within seconds, a staff member appears, all professional smiles.

“I’ll take you somewhere more private to watch the race, Miss.”

Miss. Oh. You’re that girl now.

It’s the final lap when you step outside again.

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a mix of cheers, camera flashes, and the hum of engines still cooling down. You barely register what’s happening before Seungcheol is out of the car, helmet off, hair a sweaty mess but he doesn’t even care. The moment he spots you, he reaches for you without hesitation.

A startled yelp escapes your lips as he twirls you around effortlessly, his laughter vibrates against you, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath.

"You did it," He grins, eyes gleaming under the bright pit lights.

"Of course I did. Had something good to race for."

Jeonghan, standing a few steps behind, clicks his tongue. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just won more than a race, Choi"

Seungcheol only smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulders for a brief second before finally walking toward his team. And even as the celebrations begin around you, you can’t shake the feeling that, somehow, everything has changed.

You just got home after the race, staring at the ceiling trying to take everything in when suddenly

“OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!”

You whip around to see her clutching her phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. She looks at you, then back at the screen, then at you again. “Babe. You need to see this.”

“What now?”

Wordlessly, she shoves her phone toward you, and your breath catches. It’s Seungcheol’s latest Instagram post. The first picture isn’t of his trophy. It’s not of his car. It’s not even just him.

It’s you and him.

A candid shot. His arm still slung around you from earlier. The caption is simple:

"A good day."

The second photo is of his team, the third of his car, and the fourth—finally—is of him actually holding his trophy. But it’s too late. Everyone has already seen the first picture.

Jihyo is vibrating. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?!”

Seungcheol posted you. Not a soft-launch, not a story that disappears after 24 hours—an actual post. A permanent, undeniable statement.

You clutch the phone, heat creeping up your neck. “He—he’s actually insane.”

Weeks passed and things settled in just right, He calls or drives you around when he’s not busy. Often he finds himself taking slow walks with you.

Meanwhile you usually text after work or just before you go to sleep. None of it feels forced, or too much too fast. Just you and him, on your own pace.

Today Seungcheol has another race, and while the crowd is as hyped as ever, something feels slightly off.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not there. The race went well. Another win under his belt but as soon as the post-race interviews start, he can already tell where this is going.

“Seungcheol, congratulations on another victory! You’ve been on an amazing streak lately. How do you feel?”

He adjusts the cap on his head, exhaling slightly before offering the standard answer. “Thank you. The team’s been working hard, and I couldn’t have done it without them.”

“And, of course, I have to ask… Fans have been buzzing about your recent post. The picture from your last race—it wasn’t just of you and your car, but someone else as well. A mystery girl. Care to comment?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He just tilts his head slightly, thinking. He could shut this down in an instant. Give them a short, clipped answer, move on.

But he doesn’t really want to.

He glances to the side, as if considering his words. “She’s someone important to me.” His tone is relaxed but firm, leaving no room for doubt.

The interviewer leans in slightly. “So, are you confirming the dating rumors?”

“I’m saying I posted what I wanted to post. People can take that however they want.”

The interviewer raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “So you’re not hiding her.”

Seungcheol gives a small smirk. “Never said I was.”

The response is vague—intentionally so—but it’s enough to send the media into a frenzy. Tthe thing is he doesn’t need to explain it to anyone else. He knows who you are to him.

Seungcheol steps off the interview platform, pulling his cap lower over his face as he walks through the paddock. The post-race adrenaline is still buzzing in his veins, but his mind is already shifting elsewhere.

Then he sees you.

For a second, he thinks he’s imagining it. You weren’t supposed to be here. You had work, a full schedule, a whole list of reasons why you couldn’t make it today. And yet, there you are, standing just past the pit lane, scanning the crowd.

He slows his steps, blinking, wondering if maybe the exhaustion is making him see things.

But then you spot him. And suddenly, you’re moving. When you got closer, he reaches out his hand finds the curve of your waist instinctively, his grip firm, steady, as if making sure you’re actually real.

“What are you doing here?”

You hesitate for a second, slightly breathless from hurrying over. “I—”

And that’s when he notices you’re still in your work clothes. Something in his chest tightens.

“I couldn’t just not come,” you finally say, voice quieter now

Seungcheol watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with zero hesitation, he pulls you closer not caring who’s looking.

“You should’ve told me you were coming,” he murmurs, his hand pressing against the small of your back.

You laugh softly, like you can’t believe him. “Would you have let me surprise you if I did?”

He huffs, amused, forehead almost touching yours now. “Probably not.”

Then, just loud enough for only you to hear

“But I’m glad you did.” His grip on your waist tightens just slightly before he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you more than enough time to pull away. But you didn’t.

So he closes the distance. The warmth of his lips grazes your cheek but then, at the last second, he shifts ever so slightly. The corner of your lips.

The touch is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. Enough to send a shock of awareness through your body.

“Oops,” he murmurs, voice amused, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes when he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

Your face is burning. “Oops?” you echo, scandalized, voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol grins, all too pleased with himself, before he tugs his cap lower over his eyes and casually tucks you further into his side.

“Too late now,” he muses, leading you away as more cameras flash in the distance. “Might as well give them a show, right?”

You have a feeling this isn’t the last time he’s going to pull something like this. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, the flashes still going off, the murmurs growing louder.

“Cheol,” you hiss, tugging lightly at his hold. “You do realize what you just did, right?”

He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away. “Yeah,” he says, entirely unfazed. “What about it?”

You gawk at him. “You kissed me.”

He laughs. A real, genuine laugh, not the teasing one he usually gives you. He tugs his cap lower again before guiding you around a corner, finally stepping out of the media’s direct line of sight.

“You’re acting like it’s a bad thing,” he muses.

You scowl. “I’m acting like someone who wasn’t expecting that in front of hundreds of people.”

His steps slow, his teasing smirk softening into something unreadable. “Would it have been different if we were alone?”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t let you answer right away, though, because suddenly, the door to the team’s private area swings open, revealing Jeonghan leaning lazily against the frame, arms crossed.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyes flicking between you and Seungcheol. “The internet is about to explode, you know that?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. Seungcheol, however, just sighs, like he knew this was coming.

It had been a few days since The Kiss—as Jihyo so dramatically called it—and the media was still buzzing. Your social media (which you barely used) had gained a suspicious number of new followers, and even your coworkers had started looking at you differently.

But the strangest part? Even the kids were catching on.

“What are you doing here?” you mumble the moment you see him in the lobby of your work

“Bringing lunch.”

You stared at the containers. “For… me?”

“For everyone,” he corrected, smirking. “Figured your kids might like a treat. And you’ve been too busy to eat properly, haven’t you?”

Your coworker let out a dramatic sigh. “Where do I sign up for a man like this?”

You ignored them, still trying to process the fact that Choi Seungcheol, famous race car driver, was standing in your workplace like this was a totally normal thing to do.

Meanwhile, one of the kids had wandered in, stopping short when they saw Seungcheol. Their mouth fell open.

“OH MY GOSH,” they shrieked, running back out. “GUYS, HE’S REALLY HERE!”

Within seconds, a stampede of tiny humans came rushing in, swarming around Seungcheol with wide eyes and excited whispers. Seungcheol crouched down, meeting them at eye level. “You must be her students,” he said with a grin.

The kids giggled. One particularly bold little girl tugged at his sleeve. “Are you her boyfriend?”

Seungcheol just laughed, ruffling the nearest kid’s hair before handing you one of the food containers. “Eat,” he said, his voice softer. “You’ll need the energy for all the explaining you’re about to do.”

Later you sighed as you slid into the passenger seat, tossing your bag onto your lap. Seungcheol was already watching you, a smug little grin playing on his lips as he leaned against the steering wheel. He was waiting.

“…Not a word,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Oh? Nothing to say? Not even a thank you for the food?”

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossed. “Thank you. Now drive.”

He didn’t move, still looking way too pleased with himself. “So… ‘Are you her boyfriend?’” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, clearly enjoying himself. “That was a good one.”

You, on the other hand, seethed in silence. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“You didn’t answer though.”

“Hm?”

“When they asked if you were my boyfriend,” you clarified, staring out the window. “You didn’t really answer.”

“Does it bother you?”

You hesitated. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

You felt his gaze shift to you for a split second before turning back to the road. He was so annoyingly calm, like he wasn’t the least bit fazed. Meanwhile, you were seconds away from combusting.

“It’s just—” You struggled to find the right words. “You could’ve denied it outright.”

Seungcheol made a soft hum, like he was thinking.

“Could’ve,” he admitted. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “And why not?”

This time, he did glance at you, his expression unreadable. “What if I didn’t want to?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “You’re cute when you’re worked up.”

“Choi Seungcheol.”

At that, he sighed, but there was amusement in his eyes when he glanced at you. “I just meant exactly what I said.”

“That you didn’t want to deny it?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s—” You fumbled for words. “That’s not an answer.”

He let go of the wheel with one hand to shift gears as he smoothly changed lanes. “It’s an answer.”

“No, it’s not. It’s cryptic and vague and you’re doing it on purpose.”

He chuckled again, but this time, when he spoke, his voice was softer. “You really don’t get it?”

You hesitated, the way he was looking at you making you squirm. “Get what?”

Seungcheol was quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the road. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply.

“I like you.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“Wait—” Your head snapped to him, eyes wide. “You—what?”

He was still looking ahead, but you could see the small smirk on his lips. “Did I stutter?”

You were reeling. “But—you never—”

“I thought it was obvious.”

“It was not.”

“I kissed you infront of hundreds of viewers, you’re the first face they see the moment they look up my profile and I’m not being obvious?” he chuckles

You stared at him, absolutely at a loss for words. He liked you? Seungcheol—the ridiculously famous racer, the one who was so effortlessly confident, the one who had somehow made a place in your life before you even realized—he liked you?

“Wha—how—why??”

Seungcheol let out a small laugh, glancing at you before turning back to the road “Are you asking me how feelings work?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” You were spiraling. “You’re—you’re you! And I’m just me—how does that even make sense?”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “You think it doesn’t make sense?”

You groaned, sinking into your seat. “I mean, you’re a famous racer, Cheol. You could have anyone.”

“Could doesn’t mean want,” he said simply. “I want you.”

You were malfunctioning.

Seungcheol glanced at you again, smirking at your stunned expression. “That enough of an answer for you?”

You stared at him, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Seungcheol wanted you.

There was no teasing in his voice this time, no cryptic answers or vague implications. Just a clear, straightforward confession that had your brain struggling to keep up.

“I—” Your voice cracked, and you immediately shut your mouth.

Seungcheol chuckled. “That’s a first. You’re speechless.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, pressing your hands over your face.

He laughed, clearly thoroughly entertained by your reaction. “No, you don’t.”

On weekdays, you were just you. Going to work, wrangling kids, taking your usual walks at night. But on weekends? That was a whole different story.

It was like you were living a double life. One moment, you were worrying about snack schedules and nap times, and the next, you were standing in the middle of a race pit, surrounded by roaring engines and a team that now knew you by name.

Like today.

“Here comes our good luck charm,” one of the team members called out when they spotted you walking in.

“I don’t know where you guys got that idea from.”

Jeonghan, who had been leaning against the car with his arms crossed, smirked. “Maybe because every race he’s had since meeting you, he’s won?”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your face warmed. “Pretty sure that’s because he’s good at what he does, not because I’m standing here.”

Seungcheol appeared then, casually throwing an arm over your shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t be modest. You are my good luck charm.”

And just like that, your heart did an embarrassing little flip. Seungcheol’s hand is warm in yours as he leads you through the bustling pit lane, it all fades into nothing when he turns to look at you.

That boyish, handsome smile of his appears, the one that makes your heart stumble over itself. “Stay here, okay?” he says, squeezing your fingers gently.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah, okay.”

His gaze lingers, scanning your face like he’s committing every detail to memory before a race. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He grins, lifting your joined hands just slightly before finally letting go, heading toward his car. And even as he walks away, helmet in hand, you can still feel the warmth of his touch lingering against your skin.

“Cute,” Jeonghan drawls, suddenly appearing beside you like he always does

You nearly jump out of your skin. “God, can you not?”

He smirks, arms crossed as he watches Seungcheol get into his car. “I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

Jeonghan hums, tilting his head. “You know, I’ve never seen him like this before.”

You glance at him. “Like what?”

“You didn’t see him before you got here—he was all serious, barely speaking. But then he saw you, and suddenly, bam, he’s smiling like an idiot and holding your hand in front of the whole team.”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he adds, “I give it two more races before he fully caves.”

You frown. “Caves?”

“Into admitting he’s in love with you.”

Seungcheol, who had been adjusting his gloves and getting ready to step into his car, catches your gaze just before ducking inside. And then—he winks.

Jeonghan lets out a low whistle beside you. “Oh, never mind. I take it back. I said two races, but at this rate?” He gestures vaguely toward Seungcheol, who is now in his car, looking entirely too smug.

“I’d give him until later.”

After the race, which he won again, he still insisted to drive you home despite saying you can just catch the bus since he must be tired.

He parked the car but you notice the street is a little farther from your building. You step out a little confused but taking his hand anyway. His palm is warm against yours, steady and sure, and you let him guide you down the quiet street.

“Where are we going?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away, just keeps walking, his fingers absentmindedly squeezing yours like he’s grounding himself. Then he stops, looking around.

It takes you a second to realize where you are. The dim glow of a streetlamp flickers slightly, casting long shadows over the pavement. It looks different now—quieter, less chaotic—but you recognize it immediately.

“This is where—”

“Where I almost ran you over,” Seungcheol finishes, turning to you with a small smile. “Yeah.”

“Why… are we here?”

His gaze flickers to the ground before meeting yours again. “I don’t know, I just—after the race, I kept thinking about how everything started. And I ended up driving here.”

“You almost hit me with your car,” you point out, trying to lighten the mood, even though something about the moment feels heavier than that.

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Not exactly the best first impression.”

“And yet here I am, getting into your car willingly.”

“Here you are.”

A beat of silence passes between you, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re stepping closer. The streetlamp flickers again, casting a warm glow over his face. His eyes search yours, as if waiting for something.

And then, in the place where you first met, where he almost ran you over, Seungcheol lifts a hand to your cheek, his touch hesitant but deliberate. His fingers brush against your jaw, his touch featherlight, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He leans in slow, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t.

And then, finally, finally, his lips meet yours.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s testing the waters. But when you don’t push him away, when you let out a quiet breath against his mouth, he presses in a little more. It’s warm, gentle.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been wanting to for a while now. Your hands grip his jacket instinctively, grounding yourself as your knees feel dangerously weak.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. His thumb strokes your cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh.Seungcheol chuckles, tilting his head slightly so he can press a quick kiss to the corner of your lips, then another, as if he can’t help himself.

“Were you mad at me when we first met?” you ask him jokingly

“No”

“Liar,” you tell him

Seungcheol laughs, the deep, rich sound vibrating through his chest. His arms are still loosely wrapped around you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your waist.

“Annoyed?” he repeats, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe a little.”

You scoff, pushing at his chest lightly, but he doesn’t budge. “See! I knew it.”

He smirks, eyes glinting under the streetlights. “But I was mostly surprised. You just walked off without a care in the world after almost getting run over.”

“What was I supposed to do? Stand there and cry?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, but maybe at least look back? Maybe acknowledge the handsome guy who almost ended your life?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “Handsome is subjective.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “That hurts.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and Seungcheol watches you, his smile softer now. His fingers brush against yours before he intertwines them together, his grip warm and steady.

“I wasn’t annoyed at you,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. “But you did leave an impression.”

“Oh?”

He nods, a teasing smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. I don’t normally go around remembering people who almost get hit by my car.”

“Well,” you say, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for not running me over, I guess.”

“Anytime.”

Seungcheol presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head before simply continuing to walk, your hand still firmly in his. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. His grip on your hand is enough.

The way he slows his pace to match yours, the way he swings your hands slightly between you casual, effortless, like this has been a habit for years.

You glance up at him. “You do this often?”

He hums, tilting his head toward you. “Do what?”

“Take late-night walks,” you say. “You seem… natural at this.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Not really. Usually too exhausted after training or races.”

“So why are you doing it now?”

He squeezes your hand lightly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you like them.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You don’t know how to respond to that.

How do you respond when someone like Seungcheol, who has an entire world waiting on him, cheering for him, chasing after him, chooses to slow down just to walk with you?

You tug on his hand, making him stop mid-step. He blinks at you, a little confused but patient, his thumb still brushing against your skin.

“What?”

“You’re…” You hesitate, suddenly shy. “You’re really unfair.”

His brows furrow. “Huh?”

You huff, letting go of his hand to cross your arms instead. “You just—” You motion vaguely toward him. “You do these things, say these things, and then expect me to just… hust be normal about it?”

You groan, turning your face away, but he just leans in, amused.

“You’re blushing,” he teases, voice low, warm.

“Shut up,” you mumble. You bite your lip to stop the smile threatening to form, but Seungcheol sees it anyway.

“This,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “This is worth more than any trophy.”

He remembers the first night. The near collision, the way you glared at him, completely unafraid. The way he should have just driven off but instead found himself watching you walk away, something inexplicable settling in his chest.

Then came the second meeting. The bar, the stranger who had gotten a little too close, and the way he stood up without thinking. He hadn’t even known why he did it then.

And then, the countless moments after. The dinner where you sat across from him, red-faced and shy but undeniably present in a way no one else was. The quiet phone calls, the late-night walks. The race where he had looked up into the stands and seen you there, fidgeting in your sundress, not quite used to this world of his but still showing up.

He remembers the moment it hit him.

The night he couldn’t stop thinking about you. When he realized it wasn’t just amusement. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name but felt all the same.

And fate, as if conspiring against him, kept bringing you back.

Again and again, until there was no denying it.

“You were never supposed to happen to me. I didn’t think I had time for this. For… you. But somehow, no matter what I did, I kept finding you.”

Your breath catches, lips parting in surprise. You don’t know what to say, but maybe you don’t have to because Seungcheol is already stepping closer, already looking at you like you’re the finish line he’s been chasing all along.

Seungcheol has spent his entire life making calculated moves. On the track, in his career, in the way he approaches every decision with precision and control. He’s built his success on strategy, on knowing exactly when to push forward and when to hold back.

And yet, here he is, standing on the very street where fate first threw you into his path, admitting defeat not in the way he ever expected, but in the way that matters most.

Because for all his careful planning, he never planned for you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever let anything just… happen to me before,”

“And now?”

His lips curve, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—something softer, something unguarded. “Now, I think I want to see where this takes me.”

The weight of his words settles between you, heavy with meaning. He, a man who has always dictated his own path, is choosing to let fate take the wheel.

And as he pulls you closer, the city moving around you, the distant hum of life filling the air, you realize—maybe this was always where you were meant to end up.

397 notes · View notes