Ship/Member: Seungcheol/Jeonghan Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: IMPLIED SEXUAL CONTENT (there is an exhibitionism ment), Ambiguous Relationships, fucking ferrari (derogatory and evil), theres not a lot of loss but a lot of Intricacies, It Is Statistically Proven That Ferrari Is Miserable So Am I, sorry @ csc Permission to remix: Yes
disclaimer: i am not an f1 driver nor do i work in f1. inaccuracies inbound……… hope this satisfied something??
***
Seungcheol is twenty-eight and not getting any younger. Instead, Lee Chan, at the age of twenty, is on his second championship. It's lost by a small margin, and by this, he means the fuel issue that renders his car undrivable. Nothing new.
Into the escape path he goes.
Another one bites the dust. Another championship lost through no fault of his own. His heart rearranges itself sickeningly within his ribs.
Regardless, Seungcheol makes the walk of shame back to the paddock and pretends that the clouds over his head are an angel's halo. A show-stopping grin. We'll be back, stronger. The media asks and PR training responds with practised ease.
We’ll always have tomorrow, goes the debrief, We'll always have next year, the drone-like voice says, too bored of its own failures to do much about it. Through it all, Jeonghan gets drunk with him—not on champagne, rather, on stupid red wine they have too much money for.
In the quiet, peaceful air of his motorhome, yellow street lights of the Abu Dhabi paddock lighting up the night, Seungcheol may just find solace.
“Do you want to put down bets for whoever wins next year?” Jeonghan says, swirling his wine glass full of scarlet red, haughty. It suits him, blond hair, half-lidded eyes. Anticipatory, confident.
It reminds Seungcheol of Lee fucking Chan and his post-race interviews and the teasing: Ferrari still can win the championship / We cannot get too complacent.
All of this with a grin. With the awareness that he can. Waiting upon another downfall caused by their fucked up car to deliver appropriately.
Jeonghan can, too. He's the Ferrari golden boy—no matter that Seungcheol has finished in front of him in the standings. The car next year will do its best to fit his needs.
No matter. He'll do what he can to fucking destroy him.
(After all, Formula One drivers are made to respond to threats. Stubbornness born into the shape of the driver's cockpit. A snug fit.)
“Seven million that I win more. You?”
“I’ll match.”
Jeonghan takes another sip from the glass. Red stains his lips, looks almost like blood. It suits him.
/
Jeonghan wins Bahrain, Australia and Saudi Arabia. He touches Seungcheol during debrief, still in fireproofs. He's dragged to Jeonghan's motorhome. The singe of a working engine—hand to skin contact, when his Ferrari polo is undone and there's hands on his waist.
Seungcheol laps it all up, ignoring the stick of champagne-stained fireproofs for the press of lips against his cheek.
Vaguely, it feels like he's touched gold. An appetiser that only makes him hungrier.
/
Seungcheol gets his first win of the season in Montreal. After various DNFs. It's worth celebrating, but the crew can't be bothered to, really.
For that, after debrief, Jeonghan doesn't even bring him back into the motorhome—ravishes him right there, lip to lip, hand to neck, in the red garage, behind the tyre stacks. Hidden from the pit lane. Adrenaline rushes with blood.
With newfound vigour, Seungcheol makes an effort to remove his fireproofs as much as possible—regardless, Jeonghan palms him through the material, hard.
(His lips rubbed raw from the force that Jeonghan kisses with, full throttle at eighth gear, never lifting. Unforgiving narrow walls that Seungcheol doesn't dare to test.)
That night, he falls into bed, marks dotting his skin. The promise of more comes in waves.
/
Jeonghan wins Austria, much to Red Bull's chagrin. Lee Chan's car suffers from a fuel leak. Seungcheol is second unintentionally.
Out of pure obligation, he gives him a side hug. Doesn't miss the way Jeonghan's hand lingers on his waist through the layers, doesn't miss the way he grips it, tight, and lets go.
/
Seungcheol wins in Hungary. Ferrari are leading the Constructors' Championship.
Jeonghan teases him a little more with every race he wins: lets Seungcheol drink champagne off his skin. His fireproofs zipped down to his waist, the V of his pelvis a glorious expanse of skin he can't touch. Some stupid form of promise.
There's no real motivation behind it, as far as Seungcheol can tell. Emotional distance so palpable it feels like crashing into a concrete wall. I'm not faithful—you're just available.
The closeness of their hotel rooms and the reach of summer break allows them to take their time for the celebration, but Jeonghan's gestures suggest nothing of patience. He rings the bell at five PM with an opening line.
"Balcony sex? Or, really, you'd rather me fuck you against the podium railing, hm?"
/
Seungcheol wins Spa and Singapore. Jeonghan won Monza. Golden fucking Ferrari boy.
Today, after winning Suzuka, Seungcheol gets fucked rough, perhaps, in the same way he overtakes and is overtaken, unrelenting, always eager to see it off to the end.
Jeonghan doesn't come. Seungcheol kneels, and—
/
By Abu Dhabi this year, they're neck and neck with five wins each. One last one for the taking.
"Gonna go easy on me?" Jeonghan catches up with him on the way to the garage. He's holding a special helmet the colours of Ferrari and himself.
Seungcheol's on pole tonight.
It's still relatively impossible to overtake at Abu Dhabi. He bites just a little harder on the straw of his water bottle—some kind of coping mechanism for the way his body reacts to Jeonghan.
It doesn't work, really. Jeonghan slips on his balaclava just then and presses a kiss to Seungcheol's neck. The artery there flares at the contact—or lack thereof.
(He's heading steadily towards the chequered flag in first place.)
(Subsequently, Jeonghan is in second just as his tyre punctures on the last lap. He doesn't make it back for a pit stop. DNF.)
/
"Wanna bet who wins more again, next season?"
Seungcheol meets the voice with a glare, almost. The provocation gets under his skin, fills his vision with red, and then gold.
[FILL] red, gold, and circles
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: IMPLIED SEXUAL CONTENT (there is an exhibitionism ment), Ambiguous Relationships, fucking ferrari (derogatory and evil), theres not a lot of loss but a lot of Intricacies, It Is Statistically Proven That Ferrari Is Miserable So Am I, sorry @ csc
Permission to remix: Yes
disclaimer: i am not an f1 driver nor do i work in f1. inaccuracies inbound……… hope this satisfied something??
***
Seungcheol is twenty-eight and not getting any younger. Instead, Lee Chan, at the age of twenty, is on his second championship. It's lost by a small margin, and by this, he means the fuel issue that renders his car undrivable. Nothing new.
Into the escape path he goes.
Another one bites the dust. Another championship lost through no fault of his own. His heart rearranges itself sickeningly within his ribs.
Regardless, Seungcheol makes the walk of shame back to the paddock and pretends that the clouds over his head are an angel's halo. A show-stopping grin. We'll be back, stronger. The media asks and PR training responds with practised ease.
We’ll always have tomorrow, goes the debrief, We'll always have next year, the drone-like voice says, too bored of its own failures to do much about it. Through it all, Jeonghan gets drunk with him—not on champagne, rather, on stupid red wine they have too much money for.
In the quiet, peaceful air of his motorhome, yellow street lights of the Abu Dhabi paddock lighting up the night, Seungcheol may just find solace.
“Do you want to put down bets for whoever wins next year?” Jeonghan says, swirling his wine glass full of scarlet red, haughty. It suits him, blond hair, half-lidded eyes. Anticipatory, confident.
It reminds Seungcheol of Lee fucking Chan and his post-race interviews and the teasing: Ferrari still can win the championship / We cannot get too complacent.
All of this with a grin. With the awareness that he can. Waiting upon another downfall caused by their fucked up car to deliver appropriately.
Jeonghan can, too. He's the Ferrari golden boy—no matter that Seungcheol has finished in front of him in the standings. The car next year will do its best to fit his needs.
No matter. He'll do what he can to fucking destroy him.
(After all, Formula One drivers are made to respond to threats. Stubbornness born into the shape of the driver's cockpit. A snug fit.)
“Seven million that I win more. You?”
“I’ll match.”
Jeonghan takes another sip from the glass. Red stains his lips, looks almost like blood. It suits him.
/
Jeonghan wins Bahrain, Australia and Saudi Arabia. He touches Seungcheol during debrief, still in fireproofs. He's dragged to Jeonghan's motorhome. The singe of a working engine—hand to skin contact, when his Ferrari polo is undone and there's hands on his waist.
Seungcheol laps it all up, ignoring the stick of champagne-stained fireproofs for the press of lips against his cheek.
Vaguely, it feels like he's touched gold. An appetiser that only makes him hungrier.
/
Seungcheol gets his first win of the season in Montreal. After various DNFs. It's worth celebrating, but the crew can't be bothered to, really.
For that, after debrief, Jeonghan doesn't even bring him back into the motorhome—ravishes him right there, lip to lip, hand to neck, in the red garage, behind the tyre stacks. Hidden from the pit lane. Adrenaline rushes with blood.
With newfound vigour, Seungcheol makes an effort to remove his fireproofs as much as possible—regardless, Jeonghan palms him through the material, hard.
(His lips rubbed raw from the force that Jeonghan kisses with, full throttle at eighth gear, never lifting. Unforgiving narrow walls that Seungcheol doesn't dare to test.)
That night, he falls into bed, marks dotting his skin. The promise of more comes in waves.
/
Jeonghan wins Austria, much to Red Bull's chagrin. Lee Chan's car suffers from a fuel leak. Seungcheol is second unintentionally.
Out of pure obligation, he gives him a side hug. Doesn't miss the way Jeonghan's hand lingers on his waist through the layers, doesn't miss the way he grips it, tight, and lets go.
/
Seungcheol wins in Hungary. Ferrari are leading the Constructors' Championship.
Jeonghan teases him a little more with every race he wins: lets Seungcheol drink champagne off his skin. His fireproofs zipped down to his waist, the V of his pelvis a glorious expanse of skin he can't touch. Some stupid form of promise.
There's no real motivation behind it, as far as Seungcheol can tell. Emotional distance so palpable it feels like crashing into a concrete wall. I'm not faithful—you're just available.
The closeness of their hotel rooms and the reach of summer break allows them to take their time for the celebration, but Jeonghan's gestures suggest nothing of patience. He rings the bell at five PM with an opening line.
"Balcony sex? Or, really, you'd rather me fuck you against the podium railing, hm?"
/
Seungcheol wins Spa and Singapore. Jeonghan won Monza. Golden fucking Ferrari boy.
Today, after winning Suzuka, Seungcheol gets fucked rough, perhaps, in the same way he overtakes and is overtaken, unrelenting, always eager to see it off to the end.
Jeonghan doesn't come. Seungcheol kneels, and—
/
By Abu Dhabi this year, they're neck and neck with five wins each. One last one for the taking.
"Gonna go easy on me?" Jeonghan catches up with him on the way to the garage. He's holding a special helmet the colours of Ferrari and himself.
Seungcheol's on pole tonight.
It's still relatively impossible to overtake at Abu Dhabi. He bites just a little harder on the straw of his water bottle—some kind of coping mechanism for the way his body reacts to Jeonghan.
It doesn't work, really. Jeonghan slips on his balaclava just then and presses a kiss to Seungcheol's neck. The artery there flares at the contact—or lack thereof.
(He's heading steadily towards the chequered flag in first place.)
(Subsequently, Jeonghan is in second just as his tyre punctures on the last lap. He doesn't make it back for a pit stop. DNF.)
/
"Wanna bet who wins more again, next season?"
Seungcheol meets the voice with a glare, almost. The provocation gets under his skin, fills his vision with red, and then gold.
"Seven million."
"I'll match."