#i just need a notebook to get started so...

[nerdycheol]

Track Record || C.S.C

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

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

🏎️wc: 12k

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t been trackside in nearly a year.

Not since that article.

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

Then the driver stepped out.

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

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

He didn’t see you yet. Thank God.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax.

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

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

“Yeah. Just here to observe.”

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

You blinked. “Tell him what?”

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t seen him since.

Not in person.

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

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

Until his gaze swept the garage.

And stopped. On you.

His smile faded.

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

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not with him.

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

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

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

You assumed he meant Seungcheol. You were right.

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

He stops when he sees the two of you.

Stops like his day just got infinitely worse.

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at Seungkwan. “Is that all?”

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

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

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

You don’t correct him.

Because you know—it will.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The room is too bright.

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

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

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

You don’t blame him.

Because Choi Seungcheol is late.

By twenty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

He finally walks in on the thirtieth.

No apology. No hurry.

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

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

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

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

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

“Rolling,” the cam op calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does it.

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

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

The air in the room shifts. It tightens.

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

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

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

The silence that follows is immediate. And thick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. Then, “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

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

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

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

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

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

What the hell is his deal?

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

Underneath, bullet points:

Brake timing: early on corners 6 and 9.

Lap 2: oversteer correction, razor-sharp.

Turn-in commitment : aggressive, clean.

Line discipline: tight, zero margin wasted.

Unsettled entry into Turn 13: intentional???

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

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

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

Still as stone under braking—almost eerie.

You stare at the words.

Your pen hovers. Pauses. Then moves again.

Drives like he’s punishing something. Himself?

“You planning to psychoanalyze his split times next?”

You startle.

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

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

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

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

You glare. He grins wider.

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

Especially not you.

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

You look away. “He doesn’t have to.”

“No. But it’s weird. Even for him.”

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

Seungkwan gives you a long, considering look.

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

The memory creeps in before you can stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t planned to write anything critical.

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

So you wrote what you saw.

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

Clean. Factual. Not personal.

But it lit a fuse.

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

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

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

And now?

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

Seungkwan murmurs, “He’s overdriving.”

You don’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And walks past.

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

The edit bay is quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

You rewind again.

Pause.

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

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

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

Or reassurance.

You lean in.

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

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

The tap is there again.

Tap tap. Just before full throttle.

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

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

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

He doesn’t look at the camera.

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

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

No. Not the lens.

You.

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

You highlight it.

Then delete it.

You shut the laptop before you can change your mind.

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

Seungcheol hasn’t spoken once.

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

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

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

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

There are a few hums in approval.

And then– “No.”

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

You glance at him.

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

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

But Seungcheol does not budge.

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

Your pulse spikes. You stare.

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

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

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

No one speaks.

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

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

Then he moves.

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

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

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

No one tries to correct him. And you?

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You arrive at the paddock earlier than needed.

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

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

Then he sees you.

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

He doesn’t ask why you’re here.

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

You exhale deeply. Fair enough.

You wait.

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

Then— footsteps. He emerges.

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

Then he spots you.

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

His steps falter. Briefly. Just for a beat.

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

You let him.

Until he’s two steps ahead of you.

“Seungcheol.”

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

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

You step forward.

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

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

He blinks once. Then again, slower.

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

“…Have you poisoned this?”

You let out a sigh. You deserve that.

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

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

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

His expression doesn’t change.

You push forward anyway.

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

It hangs there for a moment.

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

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

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You almost skip dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You brace yourself, already reaching for your glass.

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

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

You don’t either.

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

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

Until you hear footsteps behind you. Soft but deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

“What are you–?”

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

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

You’re too stunned to answer right away.

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

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You don’t know when it starts, exactly.

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

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

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

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

It had been pouring for hours.

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

But the sky never cleared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared. “But–”

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

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

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

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

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

You stay quiet, letting him go on.

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

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

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

You both laugh— soft, genuine.

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

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

You glance up from your notepad.

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

“You did make it,” you say softly.

That brings his eyes back to you.

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

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flopped onto the bed with a sigh.

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

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey. What room did you get?”

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

You blink. “Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

__

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

You frown, glancing at the clock— almost midnight.

Padding over, you open it slowly.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh no, the tragedy,” you mock.

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

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

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

You nod, heart thumping a little faster.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

You pan left instinctively. And freeze.

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

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

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

God. He’s pretty.

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh no.

You love him.

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

“You look beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

You’d been avoiding Seungcheol like the plague.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard. Car seventeen was Seungcheol’s.

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

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

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

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

“Are you gonna keep doing this?”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

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

You winced. “I wasn’t hiding–”

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

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

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

You were quiet for a beat too long.

And then it just tumbled out.

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

He froze.

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

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

He nodded, eyes warm and steady.

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

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

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

___

The sun was brutal.

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

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

But your eyes— they were on Car Seventeen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

P3.

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

He dropped to fourth, but not for long.

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

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

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

Final lap. Final sector.

He was ahead. Just a few tenths.

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

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

First.

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

He’d won, and you were there.

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

But his eyes flicker to you every other second.

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

A reporter asks him about the final lap.

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

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

He pauses.

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

A ripple goes through the crowd.

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

He looks directly at you now.

“I love you.”

The room goes still.

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

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

He rises.

And then—chaos.

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

“When did this start?”

“Was it before the season began?”

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

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

But he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t stop.

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

That’s all he says.

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────⋆˚꩜｡────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, heart thudding. “Yeah?”

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

You grinned. “Slow down, Speed Racer.”

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

______________

join my permanent taglist

[returnofeternity]

I know you usually write more on the smutty side but could you do shauna x reader who just wants to make her laugh. Not like forcing it or making it happen at her expense. Shauna is so fucking serious out there. She only laughs when someone is getting fucked up. R comes along and makes her laugh softly in their hut. Gets this butcher giggling.

i got a shit ton of shauna tiktoks last night and im in a soft mood >.< thinking about defending her along with lottie when everyone finds out what she's been doing with jackie's body. like god she was so devastated when tai talked about getting rid of her body :( thinking about everyone slowly walking away to 'prepare,' but you wanna say something to her so bad, so you hover around her while she crosses her arms and pouts. just saying something along the lines of you understanding her and that it's not her fault, but it means a lot to shauna.

you just wanna make your girl smile and laugh for real 😔 you wish she'd relax and stop being so serious, but you get why she's like this. you just wish she'd let you in more. but those times where it's just you and her, and she's the shauna you remember back at home? you cherish them so much. hell, you even cherish those smiles you get from her when she's fucking around with mari. but you love her genuine smiles the most.

making some joke about a permanent frown being formed on her lips while she's so focused on journaling out on ur walks. she gives you a tiny smile and puts away the pen and journal, scoots closer to you and pulls you onto her lap so she can spend actual time with you.

ripping a few pieces of paper out of old notebooks and trying to get her to draw with you, maybe making it some game of who can draw the prompt better. she's been so uptight and all frowny recently that you decide she needs some TLC !! making her laugh with your horrible drawings :(( just being so happy and feeling so warm inside when she genuinely has a giggle fit over ur drawing of a horse because it does not look like a horse. ur just staring at her scrunched up face with hearts in your eyes, ur face is burning from how much you love this sight.

giving her a massage because it's what she deserves!! she's so fucking tense and you just wanna shower her in appreciation today, so you start rubbing her shoulders before bed. making some joke about her injecting some wilderness steroids because her muscles are so hard and she lets out a sleepy snort :(

thinking about salvaging a camera out there, maybe it's a polaroid, and snapping a picture of her while she's laughing and always keeping it in ur pocket 😔

[juliettejwnewinesa]

hiii, so sorry but is it possible to have one with Baku?? like the fem reader is being blackmailed into being in the Union like Baku and wants out so she wants to team up but he’s like cautious of her but they end up helping eachother out - become friends and then slowly into lovers🫣🫣🫢🫢

Quiet Exit

Humin x fem!reader | Union AU | slow burn | betrayal themes | angst | eventual lovers

Song recommendation for this ff: You Don't Own Me

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You never asked to join the Union.

You hadn’t even known about them until someone caught you sneaking into a heavily secured building in Gangnam and suddenly you were in a black van, a bag over your head, and a choice on the table:

"Work for us. Or disappear."

The words hadn’t been a threat. They’d been a promise.

You signed, hands shaking. Your new name was stapled to a file. A new apartment. A burner phone. A gun. A handler who only showed up when they wanted something bloody done quietly.

You didn’t ask questions. Not out loud. But you kept a notebook. You traced names, eyes, patterns. And one stood out: Humin.

He was older than you by a few years. Quiet. Private. Always watching, never reacting. A ghost even among monsters.

You wanted out. He seemed like the only one who already had one foot out the door.

So one night, you waited for him.

The Union’s back garage smelled like oil and rust. You leaned against the hood of a broken-down car, palms sweating. When he stepped in, hoodie pulled over his head, hands deep in his pockets, you spoke before you could lose your nerve.

"I want out. I think you do too."

He stopped walking. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared.

"And why the fuck would I trust you?"

Fair.

You stepped forward anyway. Slowly.

"Because I’m the only one who’s watching as closely as you are. I know what they’ve done to you. I know you hate this. And because if I get caught trying to run, I’ll be dead in twenty-four hours. So I’m not here to trap you. I’m here to make sure we both live long enough to leave."

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. But he didn’t leave, either.

That was enough.

For weeks, it was tense. You didn’t talk much. He didn’t look at you unless he had to. But slowly, piece by piece, he let you in.

First it was access. He gave you files you shouldn’t have had. Codes. Cameras. Then it was silence. Shared cigarettes behind alley dumpsters during missions. Wordless nods in briefing rooms. Then finally: trust.

"I’m going to Busan. There’s something there I need. You coming or not?"

And you were.

He was meticulous. Cold on the outside but the kind of careful that only came from pain. You wondered what they'd done to him to make him so precise with his rage.

One night, in a crumbling motel room outside the city, you patched up a deep cut on his side. He winced. You didn’t apologize.

"You’re shaking," he said.

"Adrenaline," you lied.

But it wasn’t. It was him. And the fact that this was the first time you were close enough to realize his hands weren’t cold at all.

Your handler began watching you more closely. You started finding your apartment searched. Your notebook moved. Your lock picked.

You told Humin. He didn’t speak for a long time. Then:

"You need to disappear. Now."

"I’m not leaving you here."

He laughed, bitter. "You don’t owe me anything."

"You’re wrong."

He stared at you like you’d punched him. But he didn’t argue.

You ran together that night. Burned phones. Stolen IDs. Train to nowhere.

In a dark hotel room in a city without a name, he stared out the window and asked:

"Do you regret meeting me?"

You didn’t answer right away. Then you whispered:

"No. But I regret not meeting you sooner."

When he turned around, something had broken in him. Or maybe, something had finally healed.

He stepped forward. Close enough that you could hear his heartbeat.

"You still want out?"

"Only if you’re with me."

His lips crashed into yours.

You made it out. Not clean. Not painless. But alive.

You live in a quiet town now. You don’t say your names. You pretend to be normal. You smile at markets and hold hands like you were never killers or prisoners.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes you do. But you’re there for each other.

Always.

Because love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s bruised and desperate. Sometimes it’s built in fire and run through blood.

But it’s still love.

And after everything, it’s yours.

[dioslesbianwife]

Hello! How are you on this morning/ night? I saw that your request was opened and wanted to send one in , if it's alright with you<33

May I request the JoJo's walking in on reader changing and they start throwing random things at the JoJo's to get them to leave while calling em names. Ending up flustered

Sorry if it's too much, make sure to stay hydrated く⁠コ⁠:⁠彡

hi, i'm doing good tysm for asking <3 sure, it's no prob and thank you for requesting! hope you enjoy ♡♡♡

Jonathan Joestar

Poor Jonathan opens the door like: “Y/N, I brought the- ”

His eyes go wide the second he sees your bare back and he immediately turns around like a proper Victorian man.

“OH GOOD HEAVENS, I’M SO TERRIBLY SORRY- !!”

You hurl a boot at the back of his head and scream, “GO READ A BOOK OR SOMETHING- !!”

He ducks like his life depends on it.

He flees and ends up writing you a formal apology letter.

Joseph Joestar

Joseph bursts in like, “Hey, babe, you seen my- OH?? HELLOOO- !!”

You SHRIEK and immediately chuck a heavy textbook at him. “YOU SCOUNDREL!!!”

“SCOUNDREL?! That’s a new one!”

Still doesn’t leave, just ducks behind the door like, “Listen I didn’t mean to but now I’m invested- ”

You throw a brush, your phone, a lotion bottle. He’s laughing his ass off as he runs away, screaming “OKAY OKAY OKAY I’M GOING- !!!”

Jotaro Kujo

Opens the door like Michael Myers. Doesn’t say anything. Just stands there.

You spin around mid-shirt lift like, “EXCUSE ME?!”

He blinks once.

You start pelting him with your comb: “YOU EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED SEA URCHIN, GET OUT!!”

He finally sighs, “Yare yare daze,” and closes the door.

You hear a muffled: “Nice socks.”

Cue you screaming louder than Dio’s wrys.

Josuke Higashikata

Opens the door too quickly while rambling: “So I was thinkin’ maybe we could- OH SHIT!!”

Eyes go cartoon-huge.

You shriek, “GET OUTTA HERE!!” and chuck a water bottle at his head.

“Y/N, PLEASE DON’T HIT THE HAIR!!”

Slams the door shut while apologizing at 100mph.

You hear him yell from down the hall, “You still looked really cute though!”

Giorno Giovanna

Opens the door calmly with a “Y/N, I need to speak with you abou- ”

Pauses. Eyes land on you in your underwear. Blinks.

You freeze. He freezes. You whip a hairbrush at him.

“OH MY GOSH, GET OUT GET OUT!!”

He actually catches the brush mid-air like it’s nothing.

“Understood.” Quietly closes the door.

You swear you hear some very faint mumbling from behind it.

Jolyne Cujoh

BARGES IN LIKE, “YO! Have you seen- ”

Stops. Sees you. Smirks immediately.

“Ohhh damn, looking fine Y/N- ”

“JOLYNE GET THE HELL OUT- !!”

You throw a fuzzy slipper at her.

She dodges and catches it midair with Stone Free while cackling.

“You throwing stuff at me only makes you hotter, just sayin’- ”

She runs before the second slipper hits her square in the face.

Johnny Joestar

Rolls in to get something and looks up like “Hey, Y/N, I just need to gra- oh.”

He stops. Eyes wide.

You shriek, “OUT!! OUT!!”

“I didn’t mean to!! It’s not my fault the door wasn’t locked!!”

You whip a whole plushie at him, then a pen, then your belt.

He’s heading out of the room yelling, “WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY PROJECTILES?!”

Josuke Higashikata (Gappy)

Opens the door super innocent like: “Y/N? I think I left my comb- ”

Blinks. Looks at you. Nosebleed.

“WHY ARE YOU STARING GET OUT- !!”

You hit him with your notebook. 

He yells “SORRY!!” and scrambles out, slamming the door so fast he forgets his comb.

Sits on the stairs outside your room like “…”

Jodio Joestar

Walks in with zero warning. Sees everything. Doesn’t flinch.

“Nice. Didn’t expect to see cheeks today.”

“GET OUT YOU BABYFACE CRIMINAL!!”

You hit him with your water bottle. 

“Chill! You didn’t lock the door!!”

Grabs a hoodie off your bed to shield himself and makes a run for it.

[jinftranda]

Words I Wasn’t Able To Tell You ✧⁠*⁠。

CHAPTER 5

Synopsis: You were transported to another universe along with Ekko and Heimerdinger. Let’s just say that you didn’t expect Sevika to be your close friend in this universe, especially after she betrayed you.

Content: mu!Reader x au!Sevika, self insert : p, friends to lovers, sfw (i’ll just edit this shit if i forget something) 1st au so plz be nice 🙏

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter ??

You and Sevika gathered objects that seemed like it would be a good help at recreating the anomaly.

You’re quite surprised that Sevika still hasn’t questioned you. You’ve acted weird towards her since the start of the day

How come no questions?

—

“Just in time my dear!” Heimerdinger greets you and Sevika. You had a hard time locating Powder’s place since you had no idea where to find her in the main universe. “I thought we were late, Professor. ‘Cause this girl keeps spacing out!” Sevika jokes. You just chuckle awkwardly, and you walk towards Powder’s and Ekko’s direction.

You see Ekko showing the crystals to Powder, and you notice Powder’s expression when she sees it. Her curious expression turns into disbelief.

You were interrupted when you heard heavy footsteps from behind you, it’s Sevika. “And what are you babbling about?” Sevika asks Powder and Ekko. “O-Oh, we’re just looking at these..” Ekko walks up to Sevika, he shows the crystals to her.

“Oh, that?”

Ekko nods and puts down the container holding the crystals on the nearby table. You look at Sevika and she’s still holding the box filled with the objects you need for the anomaly, “You can just put it there, Sev.” you gesture your hands to the nearby table, where Ekko puts down the crystals. Sevika obligates and she lets the box fall down on the table.

“Sev?” Sevika repeats what you just addressed her as.

“Is there something wrong? You don’t like it?” you ask her.

“No, no! In fact— I do like it.”

You smile softly at Sevika’s response and you shake your head.

“Let’s get right into it!” Heimerdinger shouts.

—

Well damn.

These inversions that Jayce had created are difficult to begin with. You place the notebook that Ekko and Heimerdinger filled with information about the anomaly above your head and rub it against your head. It’s one way to put the knowledge in you. You groan out of frustration and put back the notebook on the table, “Why is this so hard!” you complain to yourself.

“And why are you rubbing that against your head?” you look back at the person who spoke, just to see Sevika. She settles down to the chair beside you and offers some food.

“Who knew inventing something could be this hard?” Sevika looks at you weirdly and says, “I thought that this is the best part of inventing to you?”

Your eyes shot up from realization, but you came up with an excuse. “Yeah, but this is a last minute project.” you roll back your eyes sarcastically. Sevika laughs at your response, she moves the food she brought to you closer.

“Eat up, maybe that’ll help you.” she uses a fork to pick up the food, and she moves it close to your face. You move away from it and you chuckle.

“Alright, you win!” you raise your hands and grab the fork from Sevika.

—

“My head is starting to hurt from this,” you state while massaging your forehead. You still can’t figure out whatever the fuck Jayce created, why does this have to be that hard? The others aren’t happy as well, another wave of groans hits your ears when they fail to accomplish what you’re attempting to do. They took a break from building, and they helped you.

But they soon went back to building when Sevika came back with another box of materials and tools.

Sevika stretches her limbs and yawns, “I need to start getting paid for this.” she mutters to herself and walks up to the couch where you are sitting and drops herself.

You turn to look at Sevika, even though she isn’t helping with the actual solving and building, she’s tired from the constant going in and out to gather everything that will be needed for the project. Sevika sighs and she lets herself get comfortable.

“Shake me if you need anything, okay?” you give Sevika a thumbs up and she goes to sleep.

—

It only took you a few sighs, groans, whines, and complaints before finally getting the hang of this. After all that, Sevika is still asleep.

She’s snoring like she hasn’t slept in a decade. The others are complaining about Sevika’s snoring, saying that it’s too “distracting”. You hate to agree but it is distracting, it is the reason why you groaned most of the time while doing equations. What does she even do here?

She finally stops snoring about a minute after you groan, it’s like she can hear you. You joke to yourself that Sevika’s senses aren’t resting, so she stopped snoring when she heard you groan.

You giggle for a bit before coming closer to her face, she looks gorgeous.

You tuck the loose hair strands behind her ear and you just stare at her.

Sevika has those blue marks on the left side of her face and neck because of the explosion, and it only took you an eternity before noticing that she doesn’t have those scars in this universe. Curious, you touch the left side of Sevika’s face. She feels so warm.

Of course, ’cause she is alive.

Sevika leans into your touch causing you to freeze at the spot.

She wraps her hand around your wrist, bringing it even more closer to her face. Your hand is now rubbing against her soft cheeks.

“H-How long have you been awake?” your lips almost tremble as you ask her. She ignores your question, still smothering your hands all over her face.

“Okay, I need to get back to work,” you say as you snatch your wrist away from Sevika.

—

“How come the first part of your work is wrong and the last parts are right, my dear?” you already knew that you screwed up when Heimerdinger furrows his eyebrows. “I can’t seem to— maybe I’m just not capable of doing that.” you sit on the ground while you palm your face.

“I don’t know, I’m terribly sorry Professor—” You stop apologizing when you hear Ekko and Powder gasp. You immediately run to them.

“We can actually start building now!” Powder shouts excitedly.

“Wait, what? You guys haven’t started the actual thing?” you almost scream.

—

You cover your eyes when a blinding light comes out through the canister. The energy of it causes the objects around you to shake, the others almost falling off their respective places.

Then, zap!

There it is, the anomaly.

Ekko leans closer to the canister holding the anomaly.

“It’s so small.”

“It’s the actual thing, but you know... smaller..?” you mutter.

“Golly, we’ve done it..” Heimerdinger says with a surprised look on his face.

“Halfway there.” Ekko backs up and pulls on the cord.

Heimerdinger yelps after the tool he’s holding falls off his hand out of nowhere.

“So, what does it do?” Powder asks tiredly.

“Uh..”

Ekko grunts and pulls the cord again.

Heimerdinger yelps again, and Powder asks the same question

“So, what does it do?”

“You just asked me that.”

“No, I didn’t.” Powder responds. Ekko sighs before speaking.

“I’m too tired for games.” He pulls the cord again.

“No, I didn’t.”

Ekko looks at Powder, then at the z-drive. It finally dawns on him what’s happening. Astonished by what’s happening he shouts “It’s a time loop!”

“Huh, a time loop?”

Ekko pulls the cord. Heimerdinger repeated what he said, but this time, in synchronicity with Ekko.

“Huh—”

“A time loop.”

You and the others gape at what Ekko said. “You’re going back in time!” Powder says excitedly.

“Gadzooks, how did you stumble upon that?” Heimerdinger’s face is still painted with surprise. Ekko walks up to the chalkboard, he shows the rune that he just carved. “I was playing with inversions on Jayce’s acceleration runes—” Ekko looks at you, “and yours as well.” he smiles.

“I did that, wow?” Ekko hums in response and Heimerdinger checks on the chalkboard. Powder looks in between you, Ekko, and Heimerdinger. Realizing that there’s more to what’s happening. “How far did you go?” Heimerdinger questions Ekko.

“I don’t know, a second?” Powder throws a clock to Ekko and suggests, “Try going back further!”

“Already?” you ask.

“She’s right. But take it slow, lad. We wouldn’t want to push a new invention too far, too quickly.” Heimerdinger warns them. Ekko only scoff.

“I’m excited!” you exclaim.

Ekko pulls the cord again, in a series of jump cuts. He pulls the cord further each time and measures the time. He nods when it works.

“One.”

“Hey guys, came back with more—”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Gadzooks!”

“Four.”

When Ekko gets to five seconds, the anomaly inside the canister becomes unstable. The energy it contains zaps around them dangerously.

Then blam!

Heimerdinger violently disintegrates in front of Ekko. Fur and viscera cover Ekko’s face, he watched with horror on his face. When Ekko returns to the loop point, Heimerdinger has come back to life.

“Hey guys, came back with more stuff!” Sevika shouts as she enters Powder’s hideout.

“The limit is four seconds”, Ekko says the grim news. “Are you certain, my boy? What were the indicators?” Ekko witnessing Heimerdinger’s hairy death is already an enough indicator.

“Trust me. It’s four seconds.” Ekko marks the clock for up to four seconds and drops his body on the ground. “What’s with the only four seconds thing?” Sevika asks.

“Amazing!” you shriek.

“We could show it off at the party.” Powder suggests. Ekko looks at her with dismay, “We aren’t done..” he says with disappointment.

Powder could only sigh as she removed dirt on Ekko’s face, “Please go change before the party.” and she left.

Sevika drops down a box filled with another set of tools and materials. Heimerdinger happily looks through the stuff Sevika has brought and he thanks her, “Thank you so much, Miss Sevika. It’d be a lot more harder if we did this without you!” Sevika scratches her head, unable to accept appreciation properly.

“Hey, Sev. I think you should change too for the party.” you say, Sevika ‘tsk’ and chuckles before speaking, “You got it Ma’am!” she ruffles your hair and leaves.

“I think I might know how to give it a boost.”

“A boost?” you and Ekko say in unison.

“A momentary upgrade, if you will.”

“That’s great, when do we start? you ask Heimerdinger.

“You two can start by attending your party.”

“Huh?”

“One’s thoughts are more easily gathered in isolation.”

“And what’s the point of a device like this, if you don’t enjoy the time you have?“

taglist: @abbysleftbicepp

—

An: SCHOOL IS STARTING TOMORROW 😭😭 I ALREADY STARTED CHAPTER 6 ( kinda halfway done ) didn’t proofread this so it’s kinda shittyyyyy

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! :3

[whumpanini]

Deaf Whumpee pt 2

Read part 1 here.

Content: carewhumper, deaf!Whumpee, used as bait, again this is pretty tame so far

Now that Whumpee had eaten and gotten water in their system, their mind started to wonder if they'd made the wrong choice in telling Whumper about Hero. Whumper was clearly someone to be afraid of and Whumpee had always been told to cooperate in case of emergency. Hero always said it was to prevent Whumpee from getting hurt, but now they worried about Hero getting hurt from their actions.

But Whumper offered a smile. It wasn't beaming, but it felt warm when they placed their hands on Whumpee's shoulders. A notebook of basic information about Hero sat on the table next to them, Whumper leaning over Whumpee's shoulder to read it.

Whumpee studied their expression as they read. There was a flicker of something dangerous in their eyes, like they saw before while strapped to the table. It made Whumpee's stomach sour.

"Good," signed Whumper. Their sign language was rudimentary at best, but more than enough for Whumpee to understand their meaning.

Whumper then turned away from Whumpee and spoke with Henchman instead. From the angle, Whumpee couldn't read their lips, but felt a gentle rumble through the connection on their shoulders. Whumper still wore the pristine black nitrile gloves.

Whumpee swallowed nervously. Would they stay clean if Whumpee refused to share any more information with them?

A squeeze on their shoulders brought Whumpee's attention back up to Whumper's face as they spun the desk chair around to face them. Whumpee stared up at them hesitantly.

"Can I go home now?" Whumpee asked aloud alongside their signing.

Whumper ran a gloved hand over Whumpee's cheek with a pitying smile.

"No."

That single syllable was clear enough to read just from their lips.

"Hero will want to see you, don't you think," they continued. "We wouldn't want to waste such a golden opportunity."

Whumper's smile turned cruel as they gripped Whumpee's face tighter, their cheeks squishing underneath Whumper's fingertips.

"Call them," Whumper enunciated slowly.

Whumpee let out an involuntary noise of distress. Whumper wasn't even sure they were aware they did it and that made it even better in their opinion.

Henchman re-entered the room, just breaching Whumpee's limited vision beyond Whumper directly in front of them. They handed Whumper something small and sleek. A phone.

Whumpee's phone.

Whumper held it out toward Whumpee.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Whumper warned, but Whumpee was staring at the phone and didn't read their lips. All they could think about was Hero. Would they come? What would happen to them? What would happen to Whumpee afterwards? They couldn't just go home and pretend nothing happened.

Their thoughts spiraled as they began to ruminate before Whumper thrust the phone into Whumpee's hands.

Whumpee looked up again as Whumper released their grip on Whumpee's face but didn't step away. They crossed their arms and raised an eyebrow as if waiting for something.

Oh. Right.

Whumpee's hands shook as they unlocked their phone and their finger hovered over Hero's contact before tapping it.

The ringing began, displaying a visual cue for Whumpee to see. Then the call connected as Hero answered. Whumper watched as a program dictated their words onto the screen.

"Whumpee! How's it going, kid? Haven't heard from you in a while, is everything okay?"

Whumpee looked up at Whumper with shaking, shining eyes. What were they supposed to do?

Whumper just smiled confidently, their movements fluid yet sticky like oil.

"Hero," Whumper began, "good to hear from you."

Silence.

"Where is Whumpee," Hero demanded with an audible tremor in their tone.

"Whumpee is safe, don't you worry about that. They're right here with me. Say hi, Whumpee."

Whumper gestured with their hand towards the phone, granting permission for them to type their response.

"Hi, Hero," came the automated voice over the line.

A muffled curse sounded out and Whumper tried not to gloat too much.

"We've been having such a great time here. I wanted to invite you to join us. I'll have Whumpee send you the address. Don't keep us waiting."

Whumper ended the call and took the phone from Whumpee's hands, typing out an address quickly before pressing a pin into the side of the phone and removing the SIM card.

Whumper handed the phone back to Whumpee.

"You can keep it. For good behavior," they insisted when Whumpee seemed confused.

"Now, let's get you some rest. We have a long day ahead of us."

[romythorne]

Romy blinked slowly, like she was absorbing Garrick’s words the way most people tasted wine —savor first, then swallow. Her fingers drummed once against the rim of her glass, before she leaned back just slightly in her chair, tilting her head in that way she did when something caught her off guard and she hadn’t yet decided whether to play coy or call it out.

Her boot, still resting near his under the table, gave another nudge —barely there, just a whisper of movement. Maybe a thank-you. Maybe a warning. Maybe both.

“Knockout, huh?” she echoed, slow drawl and all. “Careful, sailor. You start throwin’ words like doll and knockout at me in the same breath, and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you either want to dance or rob a train. Possibly both.”

Her smile edged crooked, fond in a way she probably didn’t realize was showing. It made her look younger for a second. Less ghost-walker, more girl at the diner counter asking for coffee she didn’t need just to stretch the conversation a little longer.

She dipped a fry in the ketchup like she had all the time in the world and pointed it at him again, more casually this time—like a lit match she didn’t quite mean to toss. “Mediator? I don’t know, Garrick. You strike me as the type who fights first and asks questions after the arrest warrant’s been filed.”

A soft snort followed, half-laugh, half-involuntary noise of disbelief. “Still,” she added, “You pick a fight with a parking meter, and I will be narrating the whole thing in a bad noir accent. There he stood—Garrick, enemy of infrastructure, outlaw of quarters, heartbreaker of overly sensitive street lamps.’”

But the grin didn’t linger long. He’d gotten serious, and underneath all her jabs and spark, Romy knew how to listen. She was built for it, actually—someone who’d learned a long time ago that people will tell you everything if you give them enough space to unspool. Her eyes, a little too knowing and a little too soft, slid toward his when he mentioned trouble. When he warned her, not cruelly, but like someone who knew what trouble actually cost. She didn’t flinch. But something in her expression stilled. A held breath. A thought caught on its way out.

“Provoke’s kind of my default setting,” she murmured, sipping her drink like it was a shield. “Gets people talkin’. Or running. Or both, if I’m doing it right.”

She didn’t say it, but it was there, quiet and full of teeth.. So far, you’re still sitting here.

Then he said you're wearing it, and Romy went quiet in a different way—like a record player still turning, needle lifted but not reset. Her mouth pressed together, not sad exactly, but pulled into that thoughtful line people get when they’re remembering something they wish they weren’t.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Almost wondering.

“Guess I always figured I was the haunted house in the equation. The one the ghosts came home to.” She let that sit a moment, eyes unfocused like she was watching something in the window behind him that wasn’t there.

“But you might be right,” she said finally. “Maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it’s just me. Walking around like a lighthouse with a busted bulb, hoping the right people still find their way in.”

Another fry vanished into her mouth, more to give her something to do than because she was hungry. She watched him from beneath her lashes, voice dropping again, light but not unserious. “And you, Mr. Brinewater, should be careful where you go tossing compliments like that. A girl might forget she’s meant to keep her armor on.”

A beat passed. Then she looked at his glass, then hers, then leaned in—close enough to blur the line between joke and dare.

You think the fries are whispering to me?” Her mouth tilted into a grin, all mischief and implication. “Please. They’ve been side-eyeing you since the basket hit the table. One of ’em swears you’ve got a notebook full of tragic haikus and emotionally compromised receipts.”

She clinked her glass gently against his, like punctuation. “Honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

But something in her laugh thinned out, tapering at the edges. It didn’t vanish —just softened, like a song fading under the weight of its own last note. Her gaze lingered, not sharp, but searching.

“You’re not wrong, though. Ghosts don’t shut up. Not really. But listening?” Her voice dropped half a notch. “That takes a different kind of guts.”

She didn’t say it out loud, but the thought curled against her ribs like a secret begging to be kept. You’ve got those kinds of guts. And I don't know what to do with that.

He hasn't decided if there's mockery laced in her tone, or a tease. Her lingo clashes with his and he's plenty used to the modern century. Doesn't mean he realises the dying dialect of drunks is so widely interpreted by lone woman at gimmick-houses. His head dips when her foot knocks his softly under the table. Footsie? It's been a while, but it has a slowly sobering man laughing. He'll never know the warmth of moments like this, everything in his history is cold, from the poverty-stricken nights of frostbite, to the ocean and its icy depths and to the dead of his flesh. Hope is warm, and so is Romy III. Maybe, eventually, he might know that rumoured sunlight too.

Beneath that tricorne that casts shadow across her face, if he lets his eyes get heavier, she looks like a piece of the past.

Garrick thinks he could keep it up, actually. Because she makes it easy. Doesn't look at him like he's washed up fresh on the shore. Not entirely, anyway. He doesn't expect she knows his track record of things he likes, and how those are notorious for exploding in his face. Abandonment — more criminal than the slew of violent, nasty atrocities he has commited.

The food settles in the space between them, pausing them mid conversation, and Romy makes it her business to keep true to her word. A fry swordswoman, waving it around purposefully. Sobriety weans into him, and he props elbows on the table, leans forward two notches.

"You t'ink the parking meter will understand my language?" He teases, because she's getting along alright with his side of the chatter. Even if he doesn't think much of how out of touch his modernisms can be, sometimes. New York is a ghost he cannot shake, and before that, there are phantoms even older. "Maybe you'll 'ave to be the mediator." It'd be a sight, that's for sure.

You couldn't rattle me if you tried. Now that's a challenge an' a half if he did ever hear one. Garrick's laugh is soft, much like her tone, but there's a real truth behind how wrong she is. It shows in the gruff undertone of his amusement. It's not forced, or displaced. But he's either incredibly well versed at being inconspicuous, or she's invited by the danger.

"Now don't be sayin' things that provoke a challenge. Gets people in trouble."

That's the kindest warning he could issue. Garrick holds her gaze, searching the bright of hers. Bad news hadn't meant to dredge up dead things. But he supposes he invited that in; like how he can imagine getting to her door later tonight, and letting her invite him past her threshold. How fast that door would close, and she'd see that rough hands can be a variety of things.

"Them boring folk never put themselves outta their little boxes," Contained, restricted and every kind of restrained. It ain't something he can ever be. "That mean you got some stories? Nowt boring about you." a beat, where he allows a tongue to wag too long: "You're a knock out, doll." Maybe he's still a little loaded, so he drinks the water, as though it might bridge the gap between her seeing how fast liquor burns through a dead man's system.

"And on my honour, no duels." It's a promise he going to have to remember to keep. But, she peels away some of that fun, and jibe in favour of the rare glimmer of honesty. He can tell. Her face shifts, less pulled at the edges, not too many teeth in a smile that nearly reaches her eyes. A spark in them that's something troubling. Garrick's not a man who says it all the time. But he knows. And he's not subtle at hiding that. No need for those kind of secrets. "Canny believe you're asking me that when I'm drinking brine," he gestures to the water, as though it need transform into rum. It doesn't. But he doesn't shirk he query entirely, "Ever thought it ain't the place and your carrying it wit' you? Whatever it knows, maybe it'd be because you're wearing it. Though, ghosts do 'ave their ways of following us. They're talkers — you know tha', you're the angel convening with 'em." Garrick's lip ticks up in the corner, as he steals one of her fries and tosses it into his mouth.

It's ash, and dust. But he doesn't mind if that's the cost of her company.

[keeps-ache]

sittin' kitten :3

[sysig]

Challenge level: Impossible (Patreon)

[rising-phnx]

can someone send me a shred of motivation

[panthermouthh]

Idk what a declension is and at this point I’m scared to ask

[sevicia]

I NEEEED to start keeping track of the stuff I'm in the process of making or wanna start making/drafting cuz I just opened one of my sketchbooks and flipped through and was like FUCKKK I really like this idea why haven't I finished it yet........ It's cuz you also have 8645312 other ideas you really like and haven't finished yet just get a grip man

[aidenwaites]

A thing about me is if im gonna use a notebook for something it's going to get a Dedicated Notebook for that purpose and which i cannot use for anything else. Which means I have so many notebooks. Five of which are currently actively in use

[orcelito]

Actually it is SO weird to me to remember that I was an engineering student and that later on I had been pursuing a minor in statistics

I may be a IT & com person in the end, but I do have the foundations of engineering and statistics in my brain too. Wild !

[rosesradio]

.

[voidimp]

maybe now that i have adhd meds i can attempt Language again