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⟢ OFF THE GRID ┊ PHAINON

synopsis. being the race engineer for formula one's most reckless driver is no walk in the park. especially when you two have a relationship that probably (definitely) breaks several hr protocols. unfortunately for you, phainon is a natural at making you want more than you should.

✦ content. 13k words. phainon x afab!reader. modern au. formula one au. unprofessional work relationships. cat-and-dog banter in public, fucking around in private. coworkers with benefits. light angst. explicit smut (minors dni).

✦ foreword. this lovely piece was commissioned by beloved mae @elysiumae, my fellow f1 connoisseur who is the chillest person ever even if i blatantly told her that i lowkey wish for the downfall of her favorite team /silly BHSFHBGJDN thank you for your patronage and the abject trust that i can bring this to life UEUEUEU you witnessed just how harrowing the writing process was firsthand T_T

BEFORE YOU READ you might want to consider viewing the f1 crash course for dummies i put together, which also doubles as the accompanying extended author's note for this fic! i wrote this in a way that should be comprehensible to non-f1 fans, but if you're curious about some of the terminologies that i used in the fic, that's a nice post to browse first!

Lushaka in midsummer is unforgiving.

The humidity seeps into your clothes, the scent of fuel clings to your hair, and the comms line hasn’t been quiet for a single minute since dawn. You feel the weight of every eye in the grandstands waiting to see if your team can hold its crown.

Chrysos Racing’s garage breathes with the same tension as it always does. Mechanics and engineers bustle about in their gold-trimmed uniforms, and the air is dense with the tang of fuel and scorched rubber. Screens flicker, telemetry scrolls, radios hiss. At the center of it all sits you, the race engineer directly wired into your driver’s radio.

Phainon’s car is already out on track like a streak of gleaming sunlight against the dark curve of the circuit. He drives as if Lushaka itself bends to him, attacking the corners and shattering sector times like it’s something he always does on the weekends—the picture of reckless brilliance as always.

The roar of his engine cuts through the audio feed, vibrating in your chest so loud you swear you can feel it in your teeth. As he blazes down the back straight, the telemetry data spikes red and your pulse stutters. He’s pushing harder than he should, earlier than he should, and you already feel the strategy unraveling under his hands.

“Phainon, you’re burning through the tires,” you mutter. “Back off two-tenths and box this lap.”

He doesn’t radio back in right away. There’s always a pause—that infuriating pause, as though he savors leaving you suspended between obedience and rebellion. But before you can repeat yourself, his voice threads through the static, smooth enough to curl around your ribs.

“Sounds like you don’t trust me to bring her home.”

You close your eyes before inhaling sharply through your nose. “It’s not about trust. It’s about strategy. If you keep this up, you’ll be crawling behind Dan Heng by the final stretch.”

A low chuckle vibrates through your headset like honey over gravel. He’s smiling—you can hear it even over the howl of his car. “You’re grumpier than usual today,” Phainon comments as he veers down a tight chicane. “Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard as the data starts to blur on-screen. Heat sparks straight to your throat, not from embarrassment, but from the sharp edge of memory: tangled sheets, his mouth at your neck, the press of his body keeping you awake long past midnight. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. The words are innocent enough to pass for banter over the radio, but the weight of them is for you alone.

“Just come in for a pit stop or I might actually strangle you.”

“As you wish, Chief,” he chuckles.

Of course, he ignores you completely and sails past the pit entry at blistering speed, tires screaming as he plunges into another lap.

Not for the first time, you wonder how he doesn’t crash. By every metric, Phainon is the more erratic of Chrysos Racing’s golden duo. Mydei tempers his car like a blade, never stepping beyond what can be controlled. Phainon, though—he gambles with physics. He flirts with disaster and threads the needle where no sane driver dares. But damn him, he makes it work. There is genius inside the madness, precision tucked beneath the recklessness, and a brutal elegance that lets him pull off miracles Mydei would never attempt.

So when the checkered flag drops, and he crosses the line in third despite his constant delinquency, you aren’t surprised. But even if it should feel like a victory, it doesn’t.

When the podium ceremony is over, and the photo-ops are finished, you’re waiting for him in one of the back rooms of the garage for a one-on-one debrief. The scent of hot rubber clings to the air when he finally strolls in, fireproofs peeled down to his waist and sweat streaking his temples. He’s glowing with the kind of reckless triumph that makes you want to throttle him right then and there.

“Not a bad day,” he says, leaning against the wall as though the room belongs to him. “A podium’s a podium, right?”

You step closer with your jaw set with annoyance. “You could’ve taken first if you’d listened to me. Your tires were shredded, your braking was messy, and you bled seconds off every lap. You cost yourself points. Again!”

Phainon tilts his head, watching you with that infuriatingly calm gaze. Then he smiles. “Strange. I don’t recall you minding when I ignored you last night and kept going.”

Now that punches the breath out of you. “You—”

He doesn’t let you finish. The devil himself closes the distance between you in a few strides, cupping your jaw delicately before his mouth slants against yours.

Phainon tastes like salt and adrenaline, stealing the words right out of your throat as he backs you against the wall. You push at him, nails catching against the damp fabric of his undershirt, but when he groans against your lips you pull him closer, caught in the undertow despite your simmering rage. The garage is still buzzing on the other side of the walls, but in here, it’s only him, the grip of his hands, and the thrum of your pulse answering the race he just ran.

A knock splinters the moment.

“Phainon,” a staffer calls through the door. “They’re waiting for you to film something with Mydei. Is it okay to steal you away for that?”

His forehead rests against yours, breathing raggedly and unwilling to move. “Tell them I’m busy,” he mutters, his mouth brushing yours again.

“Go,” you hiss even though your fingers are still twisted in his shirt.

Your reckless driver both on and off the track laughs low in his chest, and you feel yourself shudder from the mere vibrations of it. He kisses you once more—slower this time, as though he's making a promise. Phainon pulls back with a smirk curling at his lips as he slips toward the door.

“Don’t run off, yeah? I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the room thick with gasoline and the taste of him as your heart hammers faster than his car ever could.

If anyone told your younger self you’d end up on the pit walls of several Formula 1 Grand Prix, calling strategy for one of the most volatile drivers on the grid—you would’ve laughed. Race engineering was never the plan. You were supposed to build, not babysit. Temper engines, not egos.

But fate had other ideas.

Your childhood friend, Aglaea, the ever-golden face of Chrysos Racing’s public relations, called one evening and said it like it was no big deal: “We’re looking for a new race engineer. You’re more than qualified.”

You sat on the decision for weeks. Because deep down, you knew she was right, and that terrified you. You’ve seen paddocks in streams you caught on TV. They were all littered with men in polos and pressed trousers, sporting practiced smiles and assumptions sharper than steel. These were people who dedicated their entire lives to the skill of the drivers representing their team.

When you visited Aglaea at the circuit at her insistence, you didn’t miss the way several eyes slid over you when you trailed behind their PR manager like some lost puppy. Like a woman in the paddock was an accessory, not a mind worth adding onto the roster.

So when the offer letter came through from Chrysos Racing, you’d almost turned it down.

Until you met Anaxa.

The team principal of Chrysos Racing wasn’t the type to mince words. He’d lost an eye in an unfortunate explosion during his early years as a car designer, and rumor has it, he saw things others couldn’t—weak points, hidden angles, potential buried under noise. When you shook his hand for the first time, he looked at you like you were a puzzle he already understood.

“I don’t particularly care what the rest of them think,” he said. “I’ve read your research and evaluated your work thus far. You don’t need to prove you belong here. You just need to show me that you can keep up with the way we do things.”

You marched into their main office the next day to submit the necessary paperwork.

Since then you’ve lived up to Anaxa’s expectations—over and over again. You spent countless nights studying how to interpret telemetry data until your eyes blurred, learned how to read Phainon’s driving style like an evolving language, and pulled strategy from chaos when even Mydei’s side of the garage faltered.

But the whispers never really stopped.

Lucky hire. Anaxa’s pet project. Pretty face with good connections.

It didn’t matter how many races you optimized or how many precious milliseconds you scraped off a lap—every time you walked through the paddock alone, the air shifted. Conversations dimmed. Glances lingered a little too long before sliding away. The same old narrative followed you, as persistent as engine oil beneath your nails.

You learned not to care. You were here to do your job. The only person you were meant to build any real rapport with was the driver whose voice filled your headset for two hours straight every race weekend.

Somewhere down the line though, you might have built said rapport a little too well.

You were the one who set the rules.

No touching where others could see. No visiting hotel rooms after ten. No calls that weren’t about work.

Phainon laughed as you listed them out. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem,” you told him. “And I like my job, so don’t make me lose it.”

You tell yourself it works. You were careful. Professional, even. But control has a strange way of dissolving when it’s three in the morning, when the data from free practice won’t line up, and Phainon’s sitting beside you in a hotel room in the Luofu wearing a dri-fit shirt that smells faintly of his favorite cologne.

His knee brushes yours once, twice, until it’s no longer an accident. You try to keep talking about tire degradation and entry speeds, but then he leans in with one hand braced on the mattress, his voice tinged with something deeper than desire.

“Show me again where you think I’m losing time.”

You point at the screen to explain the angle, the split second of hesitation on Turn 8. But he isn’t looking at the video anymore. His gaze drifts to your mouth, sparkling blue in the low light. You can feel the question forming in the air between you like a dare neither of you ever say out loud.

And you always know what happens next.

Phainon kisses you with your laptop still prepped on your thighs—the heat permeating through your sweatpants as his lips move in tandem with yours. You’re unsure of how and when he got you to this point, where you’d respond to his shameless advances so willingly, it almost feels like instinct.

His lips part, and his tongue sweeps a slow, intoxicating path over yours. The kiss deepens, becoming greedy and desperate and entirely him. All thought of those silly data metrics evaporates like steam. The knot of anxiety that was tightening in your chest all night over the free practice numbers finally loosens into pure, unadulterated sensation.

Your laptop—that crucial, data-filled anchor of your control—is suddenly a hot, inconvenient barrier. Phainon seems to agree. He pulls back just enough to look at it, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded and blazing blue.

"You'd let me into your hotel room for more than just our briefings, won't you?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

Your pride wants you to bark out in protest, but instead your lips wrap around his thumb as you suckle and lick, which only makes his self-satisfied smile curve wider. With his other hand, Phainon reaches down, his fingers brushing over the hot aluminum shell of the computer. With a decisive thump, he flips the screen shut and shoves it roughly toward the foot of the bed, where it lands with a soft bounce on the comforter.

You don't even protest.

Phainon leans back in to ease you gently down onto the pillows as his thumb prods at the flat of your tongue. His body weight is a welcome pressure against yours, and when he withdraws his hand, the press of his lips on yours is encompassing—a demanding blend of heat and taste as the scent of him drowns you in heady ecstasy. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to erase the last vestiges of your self-control.

You shift, trying to get closer to the warm, smooth skin of his chest beneath the dri-fit material. He takes the hint and breaks the kiss only to drag the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark silence of the room. Phainon's skin is warm and flawlessly defined from years of keeping himself in shape. His hands slide from your face to the curve of your hip, just shy of the waistband of your sweatpants.

The contact reminds you that you are a professional, but only sometimes.

Tonight, you are just his.

The heat building between you is instantaneous, driven by his touch. You gasp into his mouth when he kisses you again, and Phainon seems to take it as a cue to pull his lips from yours. He trails a searing line of kisses down your jaw and across the soft curve of your neck, making your fingers curl desperately in his ivory tresses.

As he moves lower, he settles his head by your hip, his breath a humid puff against your skin where your midriff just sits below the hem of your own shirt. The sudden loss of pressure makes you whine, reaching instinctively for him, but before you can pull him back up, Phainon simply smiles.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your stomach, the sound muffled by your top. He uses his forearm to prop himself up, his eyes locking onto yours before he shamelessly says:

"Sit on my face."

Your eyes widen, momentarily pulling you out of the haze of desire. The suggestion is so blunt, so utterly Phainon, and so far outside the bounds of your careful, professional life that it’s almost funny. You try to pull back as a flush of pure, mortified surprise rushes over your cheeks.

"Are you serious?" you manage. "That's... that's not happening."

He just grins wider, the cocky, self-assured smirk that has won him three championships and put him on countless magazine covers. He reaches up and gently rests his hand against your inner thigh.

"Why not? Don't tell me you’re worried about my neck," he challenges, his tone dripping with mock injury. He leans closer before his voice drops into a low, seductive rumble that is meant for your ears alone. "Chief, I can withstand the lateral G-force when I'm taking the fastest corner on the circuit. I can handle a few more pounds of your pleasure, I promise."

The sheer audacity and the way he uses his professional fitness to justify his demands, is infuriating. And yet... the reminder of his physical strength, his absolute control over his body, only fuels the reckless, dissolving control in your own. You chew the inside of your cheek as you meet his challenging gaze. You hate that he knows exactly how to break you down, how to leverage your shared world into this private one.

"Fine," you grit out, the word thick with reluctant surrender. "Just don't you dare bite me."

Phainon’s eyes flash with victory. "Never."

When you reluctantly manage to kick off your sweatpants, he gives you a gentle tug on your thigh, a clear instruction. You push yourself up and maneuver over him. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as you plant your knees on either side of his head. When you settle yourself over his face, guided by the slow, firm pressure of his hands on your hips, embarrassment coils with anticipation.

His grips grounds you, keeping you locked in place, and you close your eyes as the rhythmic, focused drive of the world's fastest driver is now entirely dedicated to getting you off. Phainon is utterly meticulous. There is nothing soft or hesitant about his work.

His mouth is a hot, wet vice. He starts with a savage, deliberate sweep, his tongue lashing at your slick folds like a piston. He drills his tongue in tight, tight rings around your already swollen clit until a desperate half-grunt, half-whimper is bellowed from your lungs. His grip on your hips becomes unforgiving, slamming your pelvis against his face as the pressure concentrates. You can feel the sharp bone and muscle beneath your thighs—rooting him to the spot like an anchor, refusing to let you escape.

He starts to use his teeth—a rough, controlled graze that rips a jolt of fire through your core. He alternates between that shallow, grinding friction and deep, obscene suction that sends your hips thrashing mindlessly into his mouth.

Your hands are flat against the headboard, the only goddamn thing keeping you from shattering into pieces. You try to lift off him and away from his sinful tongue, desperate to break the contact, but Phainon's hands clamp down in firm and utter dominance. You can feel the ragged effort in his breathing; he’s pushing his own limits for this.

"You want this," he snarls, his voice vibrating against your wet skin. "Stop fighting. Let go and break for me."

The control you prized so much snaps. You stop fighting the sound, letting out a raw, guttural moan as the pressure inside becomes a screaming siren. Your hips slam down onto his face, a desperate, animalistic reaction to the brilliant pleasure he's coaxing out of your skin.

Your climax hits like a lightning strike. Every muscle in your body convulses, your toes spasming as the shockwave shreds through you. You drop your head back, fingers digging into the headboard as you are utterly consumed and devoured by the shattering sensation.

Phainon doesn't stop. He holds you right there, maintaining the relentless, punishing rhythm as he drives you further up the wall. He works the sensitive peak with the savage concentration of a conqueror, demanding every last desperate drop of your surrender. He punishes the final, violent tremors, the deep, focused suction pulling you apart until your hips finally fall slack against his face.

He lets out a satisfied sound of conquest before he finally eases up, not pulling away, but simply licking your aching slit clean in a way that has you shuddering. He shifts his weight and you slide off him, collapsing onto the pillows in a slick, utterly ruined heap.

He rolls over instantly, hauling you against his damp, hot body, his arm clamping around your shoulders like a permanent shackle. You lie tangled together, your breath hitching, the metallic tang of lust and his cologne thick in the quiet room.

"See?" he rasps, his spit-slicked lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Pure, optimal performance. You just needed the right driver."

You don't have the strength to argue, only enough to bury your face into his skin and inhale the scent of his shirt. You hate that he can unravel you that easily. You hate even more how you let him.

Because when it’s over, it’s you who’s the first to pull away. You set your laptop upright and play the video pretend like nothing’s changed. He just lies there, half-smiling despite the obvious tent in his sweats, eyes tracing you like a secret he intends to keep.

“Back to work already?” he teases.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t crash tomorrow.”

He laughs softly. “You say that like you aren’t the reason I push harder.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you parse through the footage, the two of you watching the ghost of his car dance through corners on replay. He leans over your shoulder, fingers brushing your wrist as he points at map of the circuit flashed on the screen.

“If I take this line tighter next race—”

“You’ll spin out.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Or I’ll overtake Dan Heng.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming hard enough that you fear he can hear it himself.

This—whatever it is between you—exists somewhere between precision and chaos. The same line Phainon drives on track. The same one you pretend you aren’t already following him across.

You never meant to attend the fellowship event.

Evenings after race weekends were meant for data reviews, simulation tweaks, and obsessing over split-second sector times—not networking in banquet halls dressed up like opera stages. But Aglaea has a way of bulldozing past your excuses with the grace of a wrecking ball wrapped in silk.

“Networking builds longevity,” she tells you, adjusting the drape of her gold lamé gown in your hotel room mirror. “You can’t hide behind your data spreads forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter before tugging at the hem of your far more modest dress. “I just don’t like… people. Especially all those F1 moguls.”

Aglaea smirks. “You seem to like Phainon just fine.”

You choke. “That’s different.”

“Mm. Sure it is,” she says, entirely unconvinced, then hooks her arm through yours and marches you out before you can even think of retreat.

This special fellowship is set in a glass-domed pavillion overlooking the neon sprawl of Xianzhou Luofu, where the air is thick with thrum of strings and conversation—executives, engineers, and drivers mingling beneath soft amber lights that glinted off champagne flutes. The room smells faintly of perfume, money, and the sweet, antiseptic scent of success.

You feel like an impostor in a dress that doesn’t fit right and shoes that hurt. Everywhere you look, people talk in numbers and contracts, in performance margins and brand partnerships. You understood every technical term that left their lips, but you still feel like a translation out of sync.

“Smile,” Aglaea whispers as she presses a wineglass into your hand. “You look like you’re about to file for resignation.”

“Because I might.”

She grins. “At least do it after the dessert course.”

You try to keep up with Aglaea as she glides through the room. She’s in her element among the polished glass and velvet conversations, all charm and poise and practiced warmth. You, meanwhile, are doing your best not to trip over your own heels.

It’s easier to blend into her shadow. You sip quietly, ears half-tuned to the thrum of conversation, as you drift to the checklist on your phone for tomorrow’s race sim.

“The bright mind behind Chrysos’ latest tech upgrade, yes? Anaxa must be proud,” someone says in passing.

You manage a polite nod. “Something like that.”

They’re already gone before your words settle in the air. You exhale softly. Perfect. Let them keep talking to Aglaea—she thrives on the attention. You thrive on the quiet.

You’re halfway through calculating corner entry deltas in your head when a shadow falls beside you.

“New race engineer for Chrysos, aren’t you?”

The voice is low, smooth, and just rough enough to draw your gaze. When you turn, you’re met with the unmistakable sight of Jing Yuan—the Silver Lion of High Cloud Racing. Even off the track, he looks the part: silver hair perfectly disheveled, posture languid yet sharp, eyes the color of late afternoon sun through smoke.

“Ah—yes,” you manage, gripping your glass tighter. “That’s right.”

“I thought so,” he muses, eyes flicking over your face with idle curiosity. “You were the one who helped reconfigure Chrysos’ aero balance this season. Clever adjustment. I was wondering who’d had the nerve to override Anaxa’s preferred model.”

You blink. “You… noticed that?”

Jing Yuan smiles. “Hard not to, when it shaved three-tenths off Phainon’s lap in Edo Star.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Most people remember the driver, not the one crunching data behind him.”

“Then most people don’t understand how the world works,” he says simply, tone carrying an easy confidence. “The best engines in the world still need hands to tame them. And the best drivers need minds that can keep up.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You open your mouth to deflect it, but he’s already leaning a little closer, his voice dipping low enough that it threads through the music.

“Tell me, do you ever tire of trying to contain a storm like him?”

You meet his gaze, heartbeat hitching. “Is this how High Cloud Racing recruits?”

“Recruit?” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “No. I prefer to think of it as… recognizing potential.” His smile turns almost feline. “And letting it know there’s someplace else waiting for it.”

You shake your head, though your pulse betrays you. “That’s not really something you should say lightly, Jing Yuan.”

He hums. “You’re right. It isn’t. Good thing I never say things I don’t mean.”

Jing Yuan pauses just long enough for the silence to tighten. “If you ever decide you’d rather focus on cultivating talent instead of taming it, you’ll find High Cloud’s doors open. And I’m not just talking about a job offer.”

The last line lands like a spark against dry kindling. You can’t tell if he’s teasing, or if that slow, measured drawl is exactly what it sounds like—an invitation wrapped in metaphor.

Your lips part, searching for something clever, something safe to say, but all that comes out is a faint, “You’re quite bold for someone I just met.”

“Age has its privileges,” he chuckles. “So does admiration.”

For a fleeting second, it’s almost easy to forget the world beyond this little pocket of stillness—the soft hum of music, the heat of his gaze, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours when he sets his empty glass down beside your untouched one.

Then Jing Yuan steps back, bowing his head slightly—a gentleman’s farewell disguised as retreat. “I do hope you think about it, Engineer.”

He leaves you with nothing but the ghost of his cologne as he disappears into the crowd. But before you can let your thoughts overwhelm you, Aglaea gets to you first.

“There you are,” she sighs, tugging you back into the crowd. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish. Who were you talking to?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. It would be so easy to tell her. Aglaea, of all people, would know what to make of a casual conversation with Jing Yuan. She’d dissect it, turn it into something neat and manageable like a bullet point in a team briefing.

“Just someone from High Cloud,” you say lightly. “Small talk.”

Aglaea gives you a knowing look. “Right, yes. And your face is red because…?”

“It’s humid.”

You are spared further interrogation when the room itself seems to shift—voices dipping, attention pulling toward the entrance. The double doors part in a wash of light and murmurs.

Phainon and Mydei have arrived.

Even in a room full of power, they have an allure that gravitates everything toward them. Mydei in his sharp obsidian suit; Phainon beside him donned in blue and ivory, his expression the perfect blend of poise and distance. The gold lights caught in his ivory hair, glinting off the small pin at his lapel—the Chrysos insignia.

Aglaea is saying something, but you barely hear her. Because Jing Yuan’s offer is still buzzing faintly under your skin. You aren’t the type to be swayed by flattery. Chrysos gave you a chance, a platform, a purpose. You were fine here. More than fine.

Yet, as Phainon’s crystalline gaze finds you, your pulse skips.

Maybe that was the problem.

Before your first ever race as Phainon’s race engineer, Castorice (Mydei’s race engineer, and one of the few women in the entire pit lane who wasn’t constantly underestimated) told you about your driver’s… habits on the track.

“He’s not reckless,” she said in a way that kind of suggested otherwise. “He’s just instinctive. Problem is, his instincts scare the hell out of everyone else.”

You nodded along, of course. You’ve done your research. Watched every onboard, memorized every twitch of Phainon’s steering wheel and every clipped apology he’d uttered after spinning out in the middle of a fight for position. All the information you needed was practically etched in the back of your eyelids. You were ready.

Or so you thought.

“Box box,” you told him through the radio, keeping your tone even despite the chaos unfolding on-screen. “We’re changing the front-wing configuration.”

“Copy that.”

Your eyes were glued to the data feed, waiting for the expected dip in speed that would mean he’d entered the pit lane. Instead, his delta time turned green.

“Phainon,” you radioed in again as your gut starts to twist. “You missed the pit entry.”

“Did I?” he mused playfully, like he was amused. “Just want to see how the car holds up in clean air.”

You exhaled sharply, watching his telemetry spike through the high-speed chicane. He was meant to be collecting aerodynamic data, not running Practice 1 like it was Sunday already.

By Practice 2, you’d learned two things: one, Phainon had an almost supernatural ability to make people like him, even when he was driving you insane. And two, he treated limits like vague suggestions rather than rules.

“Phainon, brake bias to the rear. You’re losing stability into Turn 9.”

“Gotcha—oh. You mean this turn?”

The telemetry spiked yet again. You could practically hear the tires screaming.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He drifted. Perfectly. On purpose.

The entire garage erupted in half groans and half cheers. From across the divider, Castorice yelled through her mic, “You’ve got your hands full over there, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy recalculating tire degradation and questioning every career choice you’d ever made.

Practice 3 wasn’t much better. Phainon had taken to calling you “Chief” over the radio and every instruction you gave was met with either stubborn experimentation or outright mischief. When you told him to lift and coast, he sang a few bars of some pop song instead.

By the time qualifying rolled around, you’d stopped expecting miracles. You just wanted a clean session. Of course, you didn’t get one.

Phainon pushed too hard. His final lap was sloppy in Sector 2, costing him enough time to drop to P5 on the grid. Mydei, calm and clinical as ever, secured pole position. The cheers on his side of the garage were deafening. You forced yourself to smile, to clap, to look like you weren’t quietly imploding.

The next few circuits passed in a blur of half-wins and hollow podiums.

At the Vonwacq Grand Prix, you’d rewritten your entire strategy sheet overnight, anticipating every one of Phainon’s worst habits. You thought if you could just outthink him, you could rein him in. But the moment the lights went out, he slipped free again—taking risks on the tightest corners like he’d made a deal with gravity. He placed fourth. You didn’t sleep that night.

Then came Pegana. The humidity there turned the track into a sauna where engines practically boiled beneath the glare. You’d told him to conserve his tires. He’d agreed, sounded obedient, even until Lap 38, when he dove into a battle he didn’t need to win and nearly clipped the barrier. The car came out intact. You weren’t sure you did.

And then Amphoreus, Chrysos Racing’s home track and crown jewel. The one circuit they could always count on to deliver. Double podiums, year after year.

It should’ve been perfect.

In some ways, it was—Phainon second, Mydei third. Aventurine from IPC Racing took the win with a performance so clean it made Anaxa grind his teeth. The press still called it a victory for Chrysos, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. Phainon had brought the car home, yes. But you knew that he could’ve done better if only he’d listened.

You stared at the telemetry transcripts that night long after the garages emptied and you retreated into your own hotel room. Every line of data felt like an accusation.

You’d done everything right. Why didn’t it feel enough?

That brought you to Anaxa’s office the following weekend, when there weren’t any races to pore and ponder about. He was already there at seven in the morning bent over a stack of reports, as you knew he would be.

He didn’t look up when you entered. “Problem?”

You hesitated at the doorway. “Am I doing something wrong?”

That made him glance up. His one good eye glinted in the lamplight, sharp and unflinching. “Define wrong.”

You stepped closer, fingers tightening around the folder in your hands. “Phainon doesn’t listen. Every call, every instruction—it’s like he’s hearing me, but not really listening. I’ve rewritten strategy after strategy, but he still does whatever he wants.”

Anaxa set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “And yet he finishes.”

“That’s not the point,” you said before you could stop yourself. “It’s like—like he’s daring me to lose control. How am I supposed to lead someone who refuses to be led?”

“You’re not supposed to.”

You frowned. “What?”

Anaxa steepled his fingers. “You keep trying to manage him like a system. But Phainon isn’t a system. He’s a storm. The more you fight it, the more it tears you apart.”

You stared at him, caught between frustration and disbelief. “So you’re saying I should just let him do whatever he wants?”

“I’m saying,” Anaxa said, voice quiet but firm, “that you need to coexist with him. Don’t box him in—read him. He drives on instinct. You think in numbers. You’re both right, but neither of you will ever work if you don’t learn to speak the other’s language.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he had the first day you met. “That’s why I hired you. Not because you’d control him, but because you’d adapt to him. The others tried to tame him and burned out but you? You might actually be able to keep up.”

That night in Anaxa’s office became your quiet turning point.

You carried his words with you through every late-night strategy revision, every 2 a.m. call with the tire engineers, every frantic adjustment you made mid-session when Phainon decided to improvise again.

It wasn’t easy. Phainon was still frustratingly impossible to pin down. But the more you watched, the more you began to see the logic in his chaos. The way he’d brake early not out of caution, but to bait an overtake. How he’d stay out a lap longer on worn tires just to test a theory you hadn’t even realized he’d formed.

When it worked—when your data matched his instincts—you’d catch him smiling in the debrief room, helmet still tucked under his arm as he whispers, “Nice call, Chief. You read my mind.”

Sometimes, he’d even thank you. It was never dramatic or loud. Just quiet, sincere gratitude that left you staring a little too long at the way his eyes crinkled when he said it.

The team noticed the difference. Chrysos was finally finding rhythm again. And for a while, you convinced yourself that was enough—that you could balance professionalism with the strange gravity Phainon carried around him.

Until Belobog.

The post-race celebration for that GP was supposed to be harmless. A team night out, nothing more. You’d spent most of it tucked in a corner booth with Mydei and Castorice, letting the bass thrum through your bones while the others danced and drank under the pulsing blue lights. It was colder that time of year, so you had no problems downing pint after pint just to keep yourself warm.

By midnight, you were tired—half-drunk, half-dazed, and wholly ready to call it a night when Phainon appeared out of nowhere.

“Leaving already?” he asked, with a smile that promised nothing but trouble.

You turned to squint at him, unsure if he was actually there or if this… hot mess in front of you was a trick of the light. His tie was undone, shirt collar open, cheeks just as flushed as yours probably are. The club’s lights washed him in flickering indigo and gold.

“Yeah,” you grumbled. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Unlike some people.”

He grinned. “You worry too much.”

“Because you drive like you’re immortal.”

“Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him, but he followed—lazy steps, hands in his pockets. You didn’t realize where you were headed until the hallway narrowed, the noise fading behind the two of you as the low hum of the heaters filled the space instead.

When you turned to say goodbye, he was already close enough that you could smell the hint of gin and citrus on his skin.

“Phainon,” you warned, but it came out softer than intended.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. “You’re the only one who ever makes me feel like I’m not losing control out there.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“Why not? It’s true.”

You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve reminded him of every line you weren’t supposed to cross. Instead, you froze—heart stuttering when his hand brushed your cheek with featherlight tenderness.

Then you kissed him there. Or maybe he kissed you. You’d never be sure.

It wasn’t careful or slow—it was too much, too sudden, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat and the faint scrape of his calloused fingers against your skin. His tongue plundered the cavern of your mouth like all he wanted was to take and take and take. And you let him because you have the alcohol to blame, and not the low, simmering heat that has been burning for him since you first met those eyes of endless blue.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. The hallway felt smaller somehow, as if it knew what you’d done.

Phainon smiled, a little soft, a little dazed.

It should have ended there.

You should have laughed it off and bid him good night before returning to your room just a few floors up. But instead, your fingers fisted the front of his unbuttoned shirt as you kissed him again. And again. And again. Until you ended up beneath him in the secret hush of his hotel room, having changed the trajectory of your relationship for good.

Salsotto race weekend is upon you in a blink.

The air is too thick and the wind carries the faint hiss of engines long before the cars ever reach the straight. You’ve grown used to long days like this—sunset bleeding over the circuit, the whir of machinery mixing with the sharp tang of fuel. But lately, even routine has started to feel precarious.

Practice was uneventful the day before, but not in the way that reassured you. Phainon had been distant. No jokes, no teasing between turns, no lazy comments about the weather or the setup. His voice came through the comms clipped, precise, and stripped of all the warmth you’d grown used to.

And today, during qualifying, it was worse.

“Out lap looks clean,” you say into the mic. “Brake balance at minus two, watch the crosswind into Turn 8.”

“Copy.”

You frown slightly. The single word was flat, almost mechanical. You mark it down mentally, though there was no time to dwell. The car speeds into its first timed lap, and for a few minutes, everything falls into rhythm—the pulse of data, the flicker of green deltas, the steadiness that came when the world narrowed down to pure calculation.

Then it begins to slip.

You catch the hesitation in Sector 2—the faint delay in throttle, the early turn-in. A deviation you recognize instantly because you’ve seen him drive through chaos with less margin for error.

“Phainon, reset brake bias. You’re losing time in the mid-corner.”

No response.

“Phainon, do you copy?”

“Yeah,” he radios in. “I hear you.”

You press your lips together. “Then adjust. You’re—”

The telemetry spikes red.

You see the lock-up into Turn 12 happen before the feed catches up. The plume of smoke, and the jagged line on the data readout where everything went wrong. It all makes you close your eyes in quiet prayer.

“Abort the lap. Box this one.”

“Negative. I can make it work.”

“You shot your tires—”

“I said I’ll make it work.”

The words come sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. The line goes silent after that, filled only by the sound of static and your own pulse hammering through your headset.

When he finally crosses the line, the timing screens tell you everything: P17.

Seventeen.

You take off your headset slowly, fingers trembling against the weight of it. Around you, the garage buzzes with a noise you couldn’t quite place—pity, maybe, or disbelief. Mydei’s name shines steady at P2 on the livestream rolling in the paddock TV. The rest blurs.

You don’t see Phainon until hours later.

He completely avoided you in the paddock. But the night folds soft and warm around the hotel when you catch him in the hallway of your shared floor. He changed out of his uniform—loose shirt, loose sweats, hair still damp from a quick shower. For once, he didn’t look untouchable. Just tired.

“Phainon,” you call, stopping him before he reaches his door.

He turns, the faintest curve of a smile forming as though he’d been expecting you. “Evening, Chief.”

You search his face. “You want to tell me what that was today?”

“Bad day, I guess.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you then, and it is the first time since landing in Salsotto that he’d met your gaze for longer than a heartbeat. His voice, when it came, is soft enough to break you.

“We all have bad days,” he mutters. “Guess this was just mine.”

You want to argue, to demand something more, but the words die on your tongue. He smiles again, small and aching, before stepping back and reaching for the door.

The latch clicks shut behind him with an echo of finality.

When race day comes, the morning sun glitters along the asphalt, and despite everything, you let yourself believe that today will be different. Mechanics swarm the garage, cameras flash along the pit lane, and you force your nerves into the rhythm of pre-race checks, tire temperatures, last-minute calibrations.

You told yourself last night that whatever weighed on Phainon would pass. He’s weathered worse storms. He’s the driver who could thread a needle at two hundred miles an hour, who laughed through downpours and brake failures alike. Seventeenth place or not, you believed he’d find a way to climb. You believed in him.

When the race begins, he does exactly that. The first few laps are clean—measured aggression, controlled overtakes, that effortless precision that used to make your heart ache with pride. By Lap 15, he’s already in tenth, hunting the next gap with his old, steady fire. You catch yourself smiling, even daring to exhale.

But then Lap 20 arrives.

The DRS zone opens, and everything happens at once. A flash of silver in his mirrors, a twitch of the front wing, and everything spins out of control. You don’t even see the impact so much as feel it. Carbon shrieks against barriers and a violent bloom of smoke and debris erupts across the straight.

“Phainon—!” You fumble for the mic, your voice catching on instinct. “Phainon, are you okay?”

No response. Only the scrambled feed of the crash replay looping on the monitors, the safety car already screaming down the lane. Your heart stutters, cold spreading through the hollow behind your ribs. Around you, people are running and shouting but all you can hear is your own breath echoing in your headset.

You picture him in the hotel hallway last night. The weariness in his eyes. The way he smiled, small and tired, before walking away.

“Phainon, do you copy?” you try again, your voice breaking.

For a long, unbearable moment, nothing.

Then, through the static—a crackle, a sharp inhale, and a voice rasping back.

“…No.”

The smell of antiseptic hits you the moment the infirmary doors slide open.

It’s smaller than you expected—no more than a handful of curtained rooms, each buzzing faintly with the low rhythm of medical machinery. The air-conditioning hums over the distant roar of engines outside, a reminder that the race hasn’t stopped. The world moves on, even as your pulse hasn’t caught up.

You reach the check-in counter with Anaxa and two other managers, still in your team jacket, still half-shaking. The medic glances up from her datapad, expression neutral.

“He’s fine,” she says before anyone can ask. “Minor contusions, light bruising along the ribs, no fractures. He’s been cleared for discharge once observation ends.”

The words make your knees nearly give out from relief.

“The car’s totaled,” one of the others mutters under his breath, scanning a tablet. “Millions of credits down the drain.”

Anaxa only hums, folding his arms. “Cars can be rebuilt. Drivers can’t.” His gaze shifts to you. “Per infirmary protocol, one visitor at a time. Go ahead and check on him.”

You blink. “What? Why me?”

“You’re his engineer,” he reminds. “You’ll need to hear what happened firsthand. Experiences like this…” His good eye narrows, not unkindly. “…they make you steadier. Better.”

You want to protest—to insist that he’s the senior, the one who should be handling it—but the words catch somewhere between your throat and your chest. The others are already turning back toward the exit, talking in low, brisk tones about parts inventories and data recovery.

That leaves you.

The medic gestures toward the last door on the left. You thank her before letting your feet carry you to your destination.

The light inside is soft, washed pale by the filtered sun through frosted glass. Phainon sits propped against the bed’s headrest, still in his race undershirt with a few dark smudges of bruising visible near his collarbone. His hair is tousled, his summer blue gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

When he notices you, his lips curve faintly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Well you nearly made me one.”

Phainon huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so frayed at the edges. “Guess I should be flattered you care that much, Chief.”

You ignore the nickname, stepping closer and taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “You scared everyone. The team thought—” You stop yourself, fingers curling at your sides. “What happened out there, Phainon? You never crash. Not like that.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to his hands, bruised knuckles flexing restlessly over the blanket. “My head’s just… not been in the right place lately.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs, a sharp little motion that doesn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “Since a while.”

You tilt your head, watching him closely. “I’ve noticed. You’ve been off since practice. You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right? If it’s the car, I can take a look—”

“It’s not the car,” he cuts in.

“Then what is it?”

Phainon exhales slowly, the kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep. He mutters something under his breath—too soft for you to catch. You narrow your eyes and shift closer, refusing to let him retreat into his usual walls. “Say that again.”

He glances up at you, blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, something unreadable flickering behind them. For once, he doesn’t hide.

“There are rumors that High Cloud’s been trying to poach you.”

You blink. “What?”

He gives a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You didn’t know?”

“How did you even hear about that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phainon says, eyes flicking away. “Word gets around.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You mean to tell me you’ve been off your game because of some rumor?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just presses a thumb against the bruise blooming along his knuckle, like he can will it to disappear.

You stare at him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and disbelief.

Of all the things he could’ve said, this—this rumor, this ridiculous, baseless thing—was what had him unraveling on track? What cost them a car, a small fortune, and nearly your sanity?

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Phainon doesn’t rise to it. He just sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere past your knee. His hair falls into his eyes, soft and unruly from sweat, and for a heartbeat, you catch the faintest downturn of his mouth—the kind that looks too much like a boy who knows he’s done something wrong.

The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, something traitorous and too tender for this place. Your annoyance dulls to a sigh.

“You really thought I’d just… leave?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates before speaking. “All my life, people have said the same thing about me,” he says slowly, as if he’s forcing the words through his teeth. “That I’m all instinct and no restraint. All talent, no direction. They called me a storm that no one could tame.”

Your breath stills.

“My race engineers used to last a few races, maybe half a season,” he goes on, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. “They’d try to manage me, box me in, until it all fell apart. But you—” His voice softens, almost reverent. “You never tried to control me. You learned how to read me. We work because you don’t fight the storm—you ride it. You’re the best engineer I’ve ever had.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight for words.

So you settle for the easiest thing: a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “If that’s how you feel,” you murmur, “then why do you keep purposely pissing me off?”

Phainon’s mouth twitches—the smallest flicker of a smile, but it’s enough to soften everything. “Because I wanted your attention,” he admits, shameless and fond. “I never said I wasn’t a nuisance.”

That earns an honest laugh from you, low and helpless. It spills into the quiet like something fragile but real. The space between you narrows without either of you meaning to, until the edges of your knees brush, until you can feel the warmth of him radiating through the sterile air.

Then, slowly, his hand finds yours.

It’s bruised and rough and calloused from years of work, but warm. So impossibly warm. He holds it like it’s something he doesn’t quite trust himself to keep, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a hesitance that feels achingly unlike him.

“Phainon,” you start, trying to make sense of the ache building in your chest. “High Cloud did make an offer. But it’s not something I was planning on accepting anyway.”

He looks up, searching your face like he’s afraid to believe it.

You squeeze his hand once. “You really think I’d walk away from this? From you?”

Something flickers behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth lifts, but the sound that escapes him is a low, uneven exhale.

“Didn’t mean to crash the damn car over it,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about how it’d sound—hearing someone else’s name on your radio comms instead of mine.”

Your heart stutters.

There’s no witty comeback, no lecture sharp enough to break the spell of the moment. Just the sound of theb infirmary air conditioner, of his trembling breaths, of the cars still speeding beyond the walls.

You exhale slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t let go of his hand after that.

Not for a long while.

The final race of the season feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

The paddock buzzes with nerves and static, engines screaming through the cool dusk air. It’s not just another circuit—it’s the decider. Phainon and Mydei, same team, same machines, separated by only a handful of points. One race left to settle everything.

You stand by Phainon’s car as the last of the mechanics do the finishing touches. Beyond the garage, the track gleams under the floodlights, silver and sharp, like a living thing about to wake.

“Last one,” you say, checking his telemetry readouts one last time. “No mistakes today.”

Your driver stands beside you, already suited up with his visor propped open. There’s a calm about him that borders on dangerous—that particular stillness that always comes before he does something breathtaking.

“You sound nervous, Chief.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” you mutter, scanning the numbers again even though you already know them by heart. “Do you realize what’s at stake?”

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours through the half-shadow of his helmet. “World championship. Eternal glory. The usual.”

“It’s been years since a title fight was this close between teammates. Everyone’s watching.”

His lips twitch in a quiet, knowing smile that only ever shows itself when it’s just the two of you. “Guess we should give them something worth watching, then.”

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head as he exchanges a brief, heated glance with Mydei from the other side of the garage. However, just before Anaxa yells for both of them to strap in, Phainon steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that no one else can hear.

“If I win this, will you give me a reward?”

Your stylus stills mid-air. “…A reward?”

His grin sharpens, the kind that could melt steel. “Something to look forward to at the finish line.”

“Focus on the race then we’ll talk,” you deadpan.

“Oh, I will,” Phainon says cheekily, slipping his visor down with a click. “You just gave me all the motivation I need.”

Minutes later, the lights go out and the race begins.

What follows is fifty-four laps of relentless precision—twenty drivers pushing their machines, their nerves, their trust to the limit. Every call you make, he responds to without hesitation. Every adjustment, every risk—executed flawlessly. You can almost feel the rhythm of his heartbeat in sync with your own.

Mydei holds pole for most of the race, but Phainon’s patience is razor-sharp. On the final lap, he dives inside the last corner with a move so clean it looks effortless. The checkered flag waves. Phainon crosses the line in first place.

Cheers erupt across the paddock. The engineers, the pit crew, the crowd—everyone’s shouting his name. You stand there frozen for a second, headset slipping around your neck as the roar sinks in.

He did it.

Then his voice filters through the radio, low and soft beneath the static.

“This one’s for you, Chief.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Copy that. Now get back here soon—you’ve still got a podium to stand on.”

Phainon laughs. “Can’t I cash in on that reward first?”

The radio crackles again, and you know every word is still being broadcast live. You inhale slowly, trying to ground yourself as laughter and cheers erupt in the background.

“Fine,” you say him exasperatedly, despite the smile creeping on your face.

“But you better make it quick.”

The podium gleams under floodlights and champagne spray, but it feels strangely incomplete. Mydei and Jing Yuan, who came in second and third respectively, raise their trophies as camera flashes pop from every angle. The crowd roars, commentators scramble to fill the gap with excuses—“delayed interview,” “team debrief,” “perhaps a technical issue.”

But everyone knows what they’re really thinking.

Where’s the one in first place?

Phainon’s portrait blares across every monitor, every banner—Champion of the Season, they already dubbed him—yet his place on the top step stands empty, the trophy waiting on its pedestal, gleaming and untouched beneath the lights.

But somewhere in a hotel room with its lights still off, he’s receiving a more worthwhile prize.

When the door clicks shut, Phainon doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your hips with the same precision he’d used to control a car at two hundred miles an hour. The wall meets your back a second later, the breath stolen clean from your lungs as his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and adrenaline, the taste of victory still sharp on his tongue. His fingers dig into you like he’s anchoring himself, grounding the rush that hasn’t yet left his veins. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your pulse thrumming in your ears like the engine he’d commanded to glory only half an hour ago.

His fingers find the collar of your uniform, tugging until the first button gives, then the next, each sound making your chest prickle with anticipation as he helps peel it off your body. The cool air hits your skin, chased instantly by the heat of his palms as they slide up your sides.

“Been hard since the last lap,” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips press forward so you can feel the truth of it, thick and insistent against your thigh. “Kept thinking about you moaning all pretty for me, taking my cock deep in your guts.”

The words send a jolt through you, heat pooling between your thighs at his shamelessness. Your breath hitches as his lips trail to your jaw, nipping hard enough to make you gasp.

“Phainon,” you mumble, hands fisting in his half-unzipped fireproofs, “s-slow down...”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound that vibrates against your skin.

“Slow down?” His voice is rough, dripping with the arrogance that carried him through every win. “Chief, haven’t I been patient all season, listening to you in my ear, telling me to brake, to push, to win?” His hands roam behind you to unclasp your bra and discard it onto the floor. With your tits bared, his thumbs circle your nipples until you arch against the wall with a soft whine.

“I’m just claiming what was promised to me.”

Phainon’s hands are relentless, shoving your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. After you kick them off, you’re left bare against the wall, trapped by the heat of your driver’s body. He doesn’t waste a moment. His palm slides between your thighs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans as his fingers tease you open.

“Fuck,” he quite nearly whines, rutting against you like he can’t wait another second. “Gonna make you feel so good, just like the moment you made me a champion.”

The heat coiling in your core threatens to swallow you whole, his voice fanning it higher with every word. But then that spark inside you catches, sharp and defiant. You’ve spent all season steadying his chaos, steering his storm. You’re not his prize. You’re the one who kept his career intact.

You’re here to remind him of that.

In a blink, you duck under his arm, catching him off guard. Phainon’s taller, stronger, but you know his rhythm too well—how he overcommits when he’s too sure of himself. The next thing he knows, it’s him against the wall, breath knocked out of his lungs in a startled laugh.

“Huh.” He grins, cock twitching against his racing suit. “You’re not usually this dominant.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, despite the same need burning through you. Your free hand yanks at his fireproofs, shoving them down just enough to free his thick length. It springs free, hard and heavy in your palm and Phainon tips his head back against the wall with another groan. The effect you have on him sends a rush of something addicting straight into your head, prompting you to bring your lips to his ear.

“I told you to slow down, didn’t I?”

You don’t give him time to answer. Dropping to your knees, the cool marble bites into your skin as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He’s thick, veins pulsing under your fingers, the tip already glistening with a pearly white sheen. You glance up to catch the way his jaw clenches, his summer blue eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide with want. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even started.

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length and savor the shudder that runs through him. His hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, not quite pulling but holding on like he’s anchoring himself to the world.

“Fuck, Chief,” he breathes, voice cracking as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salty tang of his precum. It coats the back of your throat as you take him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, the weight of him heavy on your tongue.

You hollow your cheeks and his hips jerk forward as a choked moan spills from his lips. Phainon’s head tips back against the wall, exposing the taut line of his throat, sweat-slicked and flushed from the race and now this. His grip in your hair tightens; not forceful, but desperate, as though he’s fighting to keep control.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you push further, the stretch making your jaw ache. You breathe through your nose, fighting the reflex to gag because the salt and musk of him is overwhelming but intoxicating. Your hand works what your mouth can’t, stroking the base in time with the bob of your head, slick sounds filling the quiet suite. His moans are obscene and each one sends a fresh wave of heat between your thighs.

Unable to help yourself, one of your hands slips down your own body, fingers finding your clit already slick from how turned on you are. The sight of Phainon unraveling—his parted lips, the way his chest heaves, how he’s gripping your hair like a lifeline—makes you ache. You rub tight circles into your pulsing nub, moaning around his cock as the vibration draws another wrecked sound from him.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants, hips bucking harder now, chasing the heat of your mouth.

Tears streak down your cheeks, mixing with the mess of spit and precum as you take him as deep as you can. His hand fists tighter in your hair, guiding you faster, his control slipping with every thrust. “Gonna—fuck—gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growls, eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him and the way your eyes glint with tears and defiance.

Your fingers move faster against yourself in a steady, delicious stream of pleasure. His hips stutter, cock twitching in your mouth, and you know he’s close. His whole body is tensing like he’s about to hit the apex of a corner at full speed. You pull back just enough to tease the head with your tongue, sucking hard, and he breaks into a litany of broken curses, his grip in your hair almost painful now.

“Chief,” he gasps in warning, but you don’t pull away. You want him to fall apart, to see the champion you’ve guided all season come undone because of you. Your fingers press harder against your clit, moaning around him, and next thing you know, the sound pushes him past his limit. His hips jerk one last time, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick, the salty taste flooding your palate.

You swallow what you can, some of it dripping down your chin as you pull back. Phainon slumps against the wall with his chest heaving and his hand still tangled in your hair. He looks down at you, all wrecked and flushed as a lazy grin spreads across his face.

“I can’t…” he mutters hoarsely. “You’re gonna kill me before the next season starts.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking as you rise, legs shaky but steady enough to stand. “Good. Means you’ll listen to me next time.”

Phainon’s grin sharpens with the spark of a challenge flickering in his summer blue eyes. He moves fast, shedding the rest of his fireproofs in a blur of motion, the material pooling at his feet until he’s gloriously bare—all lean muscle and race-honed power. Before you can catch your breath, his hands find your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. The show of raw power makes your core clench, slick gushing from your cunt as he holds you like you weigh nothing.

His mouth crashes into yours, sticky with the remnants of his cum, and you moan into the kiss, the taste of him mingling with the heat of his tongue. It’s sloppy and desperate as he carries you across the room, your arms looping around his neck to hold on. Your eyes flutter shut, expecting the soft give of the bed, but instead, a shock of cold glass presses against your back, jolting you alert.

“Phainon,” you gasp, breaking the kiss when you realize you’re by the floor-to-ceiling window. “People might…”

You trail off, the words dying in your throat as you catch the look in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, absolutely fucked out in a haze of lust and triumph that makes your stomach swoop. Of course. Phainon, the reckless bastard who thrives on adrenaline and eyes on him, would love the idea of the world seeing you like this—his engineer, his partner, his everything, pinned and panting for him.

“You’ll let me have you right, Chief?” he mumbles against your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just hard enough to make you whimper. His hips shift, his hardening cock dragging along your wet slit to tease your entrance as he presses you harder against the glass. The cold bites into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and you shudder, arousal spiking as he ruts against your pussy. “Need to cum in you. That’s my prize, isn’t it? Getting to fuck you senseless?”

You know you should protest, insist on the bed, on privacy, on anything but this reckless exposure. But his voice wraps around you like smoke, making your head spin and your resolve fray. His mouth latches onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and you tilt your head back, moaning as he grazes his teeth over your pulse.

“Phainon,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea, your legs tightening around his waist as he grinds against you, his cock slick with your arousal.

“Say it,” he growls, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, angling you so the tip of him catches at your entrance. “Say you’re mine, Chief. Let me have you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, the city lights blurring beyond the glass as your body screams for him. “Okay,” you gasp, lightheaded and aching. “I’m yours. Take me, please.”

With a groan that sounds like victory, he surges forward, sinking into you in one deep, brutal thrust, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, head tipping back against the glass, the world outside forgotten as he sets a relentless pace, claiming you as his true prize.

“So fucking warm for me,” he moans into your ear as his hips piston into you. “I think I would’ve lost my mind if you… hah—left for fucking High Cloud….”

His cock stretches you perfectly, every inch dragging across your gummy walls and hitting spots that make your vision blur. You’re delirious, lost in the burn of him and the way he splits you open with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The team will have questions about why you both vanished from the podium ceremony. The FIA will throw fines, the media will speculate, but fuck if his cock doesn’t erase every shred of logic and reason from your mind.

You curl into him, thighs locked tight around his waist as he keeps you hoisted, his strength unwavering even as he fucks into you with a rhythm that’s all instinct and need. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the hotel room, mingling with your gasps and his low, filthy groans. The glass at your back rattles with every thrust, cold against your fevered skin, and it grounds you just enough to keep you from spiraling completely.

“Feels so fucking good,” Phainon rasps, his breath hot against your neck. “This cunt’s mine, yeah? Been dreaming of having you every time since I first laid my eyes on you.” His hips snap harder, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your moans pitching higher. “Gonna fill you up, make you drip with me. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

His words hit like fuel to a fire, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like trophies. You whimper as your head starts to spin, your body arching into him while he pounds into you. “Fuck, don’t stop, please.”

“Stop?” He laughs, rough and breathless. His grip on your thighs grows tighter. “Not a chance, Chief. Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, till you’re screaming my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.” His cock drags out slow, then slams back in, the stretch so good it makes your eyes roll back, your walls fluttering around him.

Then, abruptly, he stops, pulling out entirely and leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine, a desperate, broken sound, as he sets you down on wobbly legs, your thighs trembling from the sudden loss of him. Confusion clouds your face, your brows knitting as you look up at him, panting, aching, and utterly wrecked.

“W-what—”

Phainon doesn’t let you finish. With a swift, practiced move, he spins you around, his large hand splaying flat across your spine, pressing you forward until your tits squish against the cold glass of the window. The shock of it makes you gasp, your palms slapping against the surface for balance as your breath fogs the pane. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling like a sea of stars, and the reality hits you hard—people could see you, bare and pressed against the glass, fucked senseless by the champion who ditched his own podium.

“Phainon,” you start, voice shaky with a mix of arousal and alarm, but before you can get another word out, the head of his cock catches at your slick, abused entrance. He sinks back into you in one brutal thrust, filling you so completely your back bows and a helpless whimper spilling from your lips. The new angle is devastating, his cock dragging deeper, harder against your tight walls, hitting that spot with every stroke until your legs threaten to give out.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, leaning over you, his rippling chest pressed tight against your back, dwarfing you with his size. His lips find your neck, pressing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. “Taking me so well. This pussy’s gripping me like it doesn’t wanna let go.” His hips snap forward, relentless, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing louder now, filling the room with the raw, filthy sound of it.

You’re beyond coherence, moans tumbling from your lips as he fucks into you, the cold glass against your breasts a stark contrast to the heat of him inside you. The thought of being seen—by anyone, by the world below—should terrify you, but it only makes your cunt clench tighter around him, slick dripping down your thighs. You gasp his name, barely able to form the syllables, and your head lolls back against his shoulder as he drives into you.

“Love how you sound when you’re like this,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your breast to give it a tender squeeze. “All fucked out just for me. Bet you don’t even care who sees, do you? Let them watch. Let them know you’re mine.” His other hand grips your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, the angle so perfect it has you seeing stars.

You should care. You should be thinking about the team, the fallout, the questions waiting when you both show up late, disheveled, and reeking of sex. But his cock is too good, stretching you so perfectly, dragging against every sensitive spot until you’re trembling, your mind blank except for the overwhelming need for him.

“Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for, your body arching further into the glass, chasing the pleasure that’s building, coiling tight in your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his thrusts growing harder, more erratic. His hand slides from your hip, slipping between your legs with a precision that’s almost embarrassing. His fingers finding your clit in an instant. It’s a testament to how well he knows your body, every curve and trigger point mapped out over months of stolen moments like this. You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Phainon starts to rub tight, relentless circles against your slick, swollen nub, and you’re so fucking close you can taste it.

“Come for me,” he rasps, licking a hot, wet stripe along the curve of your neck. “Soak my dick like a good little engineer. Show me how much you love this.” His hips snap harder, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you, and his fingers don’t let up, pushing you closer until the coil in your core snaps.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you cry out and your walls clench tight around him. Your legs shake so violently you’d collapse if not for Phainon’s strong arms wrapping around your waist, hoisting you up against the glass to keep you upright. Your palms press hard against the window, fingers splaying as you ride out the pleasure. Almost embarrassingly, your cunt pulsing around his cock as slick drips down your thighs in a messy, obscene rush.

But Phainon doesn’t let up. He fucks you through it with deep, brutal thrusts, chasing his own release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbles, his voice a wrecked, incoherent stream of filth. “So fucking tight, squeezing me so good—gonna fill this pussy up, make you mine, fuck, I love you so fucking much—” The words slip out in the haze, raw and unguarded, but you’re too lightheaded, too lost in the aftershocks of your climax to process them fully. His hips stutter, his grip on you tightening, and with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you. The white-hot warmth of his release floods your core, satisfying in a way that makes your toes curl and your body tremble against the glass.

He holds you there, both of you panting, his chest pressed to your back, his arms still wrapped around your waist as you both come down from the high.

And in that split second when your brain finally kickstarts again—

“So,” you pant. “You love me so fucking much, huh?”

Phainon laughs, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. He tilts your chin back with a gentle hand, his summer blue eyes glinting with something softer now, though still edged with that reckless spark.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he murmurs, before capturing your lips in a long, passionate kiss that steals what little air you had left. His tongue moves sweetly and slowly and you melt into it completely.

You pull back just enough to smirk, your voice playful despite the haze in your head. “Big words for a guy who just ditched his own podium ceremony. Gonna have to explain that one to the team, loverboy.”

He chuckles, unbothered, his hands sliding down to scoop you up princess-style, cradling you against his chest with that effortless strength that still makes your core flutter. “Let them talk,” he says, carrying you toward the bed, his voice low and warm. “Worth it for this.”

You stare dumbly at him, having expected to start cleaning up. After all, you both should be rushing back to the circuit, damage control already spinning in your mind. But instead, Phainon lays you gently on the mattress, the crisp white sheets cool against your overheated skin. His spend leaks from your soiled cunt, a warm, sticky trickle that stains the fabric. You prop yourself up on your elbows, ready to protest, but then you catch sight of him crawling toward you, those unfairly beautiful blues dark with intent.

“Phainon,” you start, voice tinged with disbelief, “don’t tell me—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands nudge your thighs apart, spreading you open as he settles between them, gaze fixed on your dripping core with a hunger that makes your breath catch. “

“Not done with you yet, Chief,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, before he leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, his cum and your slick mixing as he laps at you, cleaning you with a reverence that feels almost obscene. You gasp, your head falling back against the pillow, your fingers gripping the sheets as he works you over, his tongue relentless, dipping inside to chase every drop.

All of a sudden, the year flashes through your mind in fragments—taking the job as Phainon’s race engineer, the late nights poring over telemetry, the tension of every radio call, guiding him through corners and chaos. He was a wildcard, a driver who pushed every limit, on the track and off it. You’d clashed at first, his arrogance grating against your precision, but somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

Stolen glances in the garage, brushes of hands during debriefs, the first time he kissed you in that afterparty in Belobog. It’s been undefined, messy, a secret kept between hotel rooms and quiet moments, but as he worships you now, his mouth working you with a devotion that makes your heart stutter, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The podium ceremony can wait. The fines, the questions, the media frenzy—they don’t matter. Not when Phainon, the most insatiable man on the grid, is between your thighs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he brings you to the brink again.

You’re his, and he’s yours, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

✦ afterword. you made it to the end, congratulations! have a glass of water bc writing the smut scene definitely warranted several gulps LOL i just want to take the time to thank didi for proofreading and giving her most honest thoughts on this piece as usual! i wouldn't have mustered the courage to finish writing this piece during the entire month i spent slaving over it if it weren't for her constant support. mae was also very understanding and encouraging every time i told her about my woes and shared snippets over discord :') honestly, this might be the last time in a while that i'll write for phainon bc honestly i've run out of juice for my amphoreus baddies </3 nonetheless, thank you so much for supporting me and my work! i hope to still see you guys in my next fic, whatever fandom i end up wandering in HAH!

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