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pullmecloseman · 9 hours ago

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TAKE THE SHOT

Summary: A retro arcade night turns into something more when you're paired with Bob Floyd during a squad hangout. You start off teasing, competitive, and toeing the line—but every game, glance, and near-touch pulls you both closer to finally admitting what's been simmering for months. Sparks fly under neon lights, ending with a private moment that might just change everything.

Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: Inspired by old-school arcades, mutual pining, and the idea that Bob Floyd would absolutely crush a basketball machine just to impress you. don’t be afraid to comment or send asks, i love talking!

Warnings: Mutual pining, slow burn, suggestive language, light dirty talk, heated make-out scene, squad teasing, light possessiveness, and a lot of tension.

masterlist

The buzz of neon and the familiar clack of arcade buttons hit before you even stepped inside.

It was humid outside, the warm night sticky against your skin, but the instant the door swung open, cool air and the smell of popcorn and cheap floor polish wrapped around you like something nostalgic. The Dagger Squad spilled into the arcade ahead of you—half talking over each other, half already darting toward whatever game caught their eye first.

Rooster whistled low. “They really went all out with the ‘80s vibe.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, glancing around, unimpressed. “Even the carpet’s giving me vertigo.”

“It’s authentic,” Fanboy argued, already halfway to the skee-ball lanes. “You can practically smell the childhood trauma.”

Behind you, Bob’s shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. You turned just enough to catch the way his mouth tilted—not a smile, not really. But close. Warm. Yours.

“Pick your poison,” he said, voice low enough that only you heard him. You tilted your head, scanning the rows of flashing machines. “Feeling brave?” Bob lifted a brow. “Always.” That earned him a grin. You didn’t say anything else—you just grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the basketball machine glowing near the corner.

Phoenix’s voice followed you. “Buddy system!” she called, loud and amused. “Use it wisely!” Hangman “Translation: try not to make out behind the pinball machine.” You flipped them both off over your shoulder.

Bob just kept walking, long strides easy to follow, that same unreadable look on his face. But you knew the truth. You’d learned how to read him. The way his fingers lingered just a second longer when you passed him a wrench during maintenance. The way he always stood close—close enough to feel, not enough to touch. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You knew.

Tonight wasn’t going to end with just one game. Not a chance. The basketball hoop machine glowed in flickering amber, casting shadows on Bob's jaw as he leaned down to read the instructions even though both of you knew how it worked. His hand hovered near the coin slot while you dug into your back pocket and came out with two tokens. “Loser buys the next round,” you said, holding one out.

Bob took it without looking, slotting it into the machine with an audible click. “Define loser,” he murmured. You grinned. “The one with fewer points. Don’t think too hard about it.” You both took your spots, side by side. The countdown started.

3. 2. 1.

Then chaos. The orange foam balls rolled down in front of you, and your fingers flew. You sank the first. And the second. Missed the third. Bob didn’t miss. Not once. Calm, efficient, flicking the wrist like he’d been born for this. “Show off,” you muttered, sweat already beading at your temple. “What?” he asked, not breaking rhythm. “Nothing,” you said through gritted teeth, shooting again.

By the time the timer ran out, your score blinked up on the screen: 37. Bob’s: 38. You blinked. “You won by one?” He turned toward you slowly. His cheeks were flushed, chest rising with the effort, but his mouth pulled into something that made your stomach twist. “A win’s a win,” he said. You stared up at him, heart pounding too fast for the game. The air between you crackled. “So?” you asked, breath catching. “What does the winner get?”

Bob stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough for the energy between you to hum. “You said loser buys the next round,” he said. “That’s it?” He hesitated, then looked down at your mouth. “Not what I had in mind,” he murmured. Your pulse skittered. “Then what did you have in mind?” He didn’t answer. Just stepped even closer—until his chest almost brushed yours, until the noise of the arcade faded into a dull blur, until all you could see were the glint of his glasses and the heat in his eyes.

Then he leaned in and whispered, “You already know.” And then, without waiting, he turned back to the machine and grabbed another token. “One more game,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “Unless you’re scared to lose again.”

You almost choked.

“Oh, it’s on.”And just like that, the air around you shifted. The game was on. But it wasn’t about basketball anymore. Not even close. This time, you didn’t bother with small talk. You launched the ball with focus sharpened by adrenaline and something far more dangerous—the heat still lingering on your lips from where his breath had brushed them. You missed the first two. Swore under your breath. Bob stayed silent beside you. Too composed. Too good. He was clearly letting it get to his head. You threw faster, harder.By the time the timer buzzed again, you were panting. The scores blinked.

You: 42. Bob: 42.

“Tie,” you said, chest rising. “What does that mean?” Bob just looked at you. Took his glasses off with one hand. Wiped them slowly on the hem of his shirt. His shirt which lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of his waist. Your mouth went dry. “Means we both win,” he said, voice lower than before. And this time, he stepped closer. You froze, breath catching, until the buzz of your name being called made you blink. You turned to find Phoenix waving dramatically from the claw machine across the room.

“Break it up, lovebirds! Come win me a plushie!” You groaned. Bob chuckled. And when you walked away, he kept his hand on the small of your back. Like he’d already won.

The claw machine was surrounded by your squad like it was a matter of national pride. “Coyote already wasted five bucks,” Hangman reported as you arrived, arms crossed. “That bear was rigged,” Coyote muttered. Rooster tossed a token your way. “Redemption round. Your turn.” You caught it and looked at Bob. “Your claws or mine?” “Together,” he said. You blinked. “What?” He reached for the joystick. “You aim. I drop.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore. It was a tactic. An alliance. Bob stood close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, and his hand hovered over the button, waiting for your cue. “Left a little,” you murmured. “Now?” You stared at the plush shaped like a smiling plane. “Now.” He dropped it. The claw descended. Caught. And held. The plush thunked into the chute.

Your teammates lost it.

Fanboy yelled, Phoenix swore she was next, Rooster demanded a rematch. But you weren’t paying attention. Because Bob picked up the plush, held it out to you—and this time, he smiled. “For your collection,” he said. You tucked it under your arm, already glowing. “We make a good team,” you said softly. Bob glanced down at you. “We always have.” Phoenix elbowed you as the squad regrouped near a vintage pinball row lit up in reds and greens. “You guys sharing brainwaves now, too? That claw machine move was disgusting.”

“You’re just jealous we’ve got synergy,” you shot back, dodging the way she tried to flick your ear. Hangman leaned against the machine closest to Bob, narrowed his eyes, and drawled, “That synergy get steamy behind the basketball game, or you two just making intense eye contact again?” Bob, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He simply pressed the button on the pinball machine and said, “Your turn to lose.”

Hangman raised a brow. “To you?” “To both of us,” you clarified, slotting a token into the next machine and slapping your hand dramatically onto the flipper button. Rooster whistled low. “She’s getting competitive. We’re in trouble.” “Is this gonna end in another make-out?” Fanboy asked. “Only if you keep watching,” you said sweetly. That got a chorus of groans, scattered laughter, and a few half-hearted insults thrown your way. Bob didn’t say a word. But you could feel him behind you. Close. Calm. Watching.

You launched the ball and went for the flashing targets, your fingers fast, your focus sharper than it should’ve been. Half because you wanted to win. Half because you knew he was watching the way your body moved—arms, hips, every little twitch of tension. And you were doing the same to him when he took his turn. Bob leaned low over the machine, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, his mouth set just slightly. And when the ball came flying back at him, he reacted fast—shoulders flexing under his T-shirt, hands confident.

You might’ve stared a little too long. “Uh-huh,” Phoenix said behind you. “I knew she was watching the forearms.” “Can you blame her?” Fanboy added. “He’s got the arms of a man who builds airplanes and repressed feelings.” You snorted but didn’t deny it. Because yeah, you were watching.

When Bob finally lost the ball and the machine flashed GAME OVER, he stepped back and gave you a look. Not cocky. Not smug. Just… warm. Steady. Like he knew every single thought in your head—and agreed with most of them. You bit your lip and leaned in, voice low.

“Need a breather?” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You offering?” You nodded toward the back hallway. “Let’s take five.” No one said anything when you slipped away. But you were sure Phoenix wiggled her eyebrows and Fanboy made kissy noises behind your back.

The back of the arcade smelled like grease and warm plastic and distant popcorn. A little quieter, lit mostly by neon reflecting off the black-and-blue tile floors. Bob followed without hesitation, hands in his pockets, steps just a half-second behind yours. You found the vending machine room—empty, quiet, cooler than the rest of the place—and slipped inside. Bob didn’t say anything. You didn’t, either.

Not until you turned to face him. “Hey,” you said, breath catching. He looked at you. “Tonight’s been…” you trailed off. You didn’t know how to finish it. He did. “Different,” he said, stepping closer. “But not unexpected.” Your brows lifted. “No?” Bob shook his head. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“The way you look at me.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re the one who kissed me with your eyes back there.” His mouth curved. “You kissed me first—with that look.”Your back hit the vending machine behind you. Bob didn’t touch you. Not yet. “I’ve been patient,” he said, voice low. “For a long time.”“Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Because once I start, I’m not gonna want to stop.” And then he did touch you. His hand came up to cup your cheek, slow and careful, his thumb brushing over your skin like he was committing the texture to memory. You didn’t speak. You just leaned in. And he met you halfway.

The kiss was deep instantly—hot, sure, full of all the unsaid things between you. His body pressed against yours, not shy now, not hesitant. You felt the edge of the vending machine dig into your back as his hand slipped down to your waist, fingers gripping your hip like he didn’t plan to let go. Your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand slipping into the hair at the back of his head. He groaned—quiet and rough—right against your lips, and that was it.

Whatever line you’d been toeing? Gone. Bob pulled you even closer, hips pressing against yours. Your body fit against his like it had always meant to. Like it had been waiting.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured between kisses, mouth trailing down your jaw, then your neck. “You’ve got no idea.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I really do.” You barely noticed your hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. He sucked in a breath. Then kissed you again—open-mouthed, hungry, needy in a way that made your legs tremble. “You gonna stop me?” he asked. “Not unless you want me to.” His teeth grazed your throat. “Not a chance.”

And just when it felt like the world might collapse around the heat between you—

You both heard it.

A loud, unmistakable honk from outside the room. Rooster’s voice yelling something about a photo booth and a timer running out. Bob exhaled against your neck. “Saved by the cock,” you muttered. He laughed. Deep and ragged. “I’ll kill him later.” You pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your lips were red, your chest was rising fast, your skin flushed.

Bob looked wrecked. In the best way. “Come on,” you said, brushing your fingers down his shirt. “Let’s go before the strip comes out with them all trying to kill each other.”

And maybe, if you had time after? Lose a few more games together. Or win. Hard to tell which mattered more anymore.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia

#bob floyd #lewis pullman #robert floyd #top gun maverick #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #lewis pullman x reader #top gun fanfiction #jake seresin #glenn powell #miles teller #lewis pullman smut #top gun hangman #bob floyd x you #bob fluff #fanboy #mickey garcia #payback

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kjiscrawlingbackformore · 3 days ago

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Peace - Act IV : Chaper two

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

A/N: 🥺🥺🥺 lottie in this makes me soo 🧎🏽‍♀️‍➡️💔

Warnings: None

You were buzzing. Like actually, physically buzzing.

The paper trembled in your hand as you sat across from Mr. Weaver, his office still cluttered with stress balls shaped like planets and coffee cups filled with pens that didn’t work. He leaned back in his chair with that smug, knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and also kind of cry.

“Full ride,” he said, tapping the NYU acceptance letter like it was just some casual piece of mail. “Y/F/N Y/L/N, accepted into the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute. That’s what we call a Big Deal.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “You say that like you didn’t submit half my portfolio without telling me.”

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Weaver said, sipping from a mug that read World’s Okayest Counselor. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“And Mizzou,” You said, voice soft like you still didn’t quite believe it. “Honors program.”

Weaver arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re bigger than this town.”

You looked down at the second letter. The invitation was embossed in gold. It felt heavier than any other piece of paper you’d ever held. Like it might float you away if you stared too hard.

Weaver leaned forward, suddenly serious. “There’s one more thing I want you to look at.”

He slid a flyer across the desk. A national scholarship competition for journalism students. Competitive as hell. You scanned the fine print.

“Winner gets ten grand. That could cover flights, food, whatever the full ride won’t.”

You blinked, your breath getting caught in your throat. “You think I could win this?”

“I think you already won,” he said. “Now go prove it to yourself.”

You clutched the paper like it might disappear. “Thanks.”

“No problem, kid. Just don’t forget about us little people when you’re off winning Pulitzers.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, heart full and throat tight. For a moment, you let herself believe in the version of you that Weaver saw. The one with a future.

You didn’t tell anyone.

You hadn’t meant to keep it a secret, not really. But it was easier that way. Let the good things stay quiet, tucked somewhere safe where no one could mess them up. Your acceptance into the Mizzou Honors Program stayed folded inside the front pocket of her binder, nestled between a French quiz and an article draft about the Yellowjackets’ qualifying win. It was safer there, invisible, untouched. Like, if you didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t get ruined.

So when Tai cornered you behind the bleachers after sixth period, your guard shot up.

“You,” Tai said, low and casual, “are full of shit.”

You shake your head in confusion, a bit jarred. “Excuse me?”

Tai tilted her head. “Honors program at Mizzou?”

You froze.

“I have cousins in Columbia,” Tai continued, smiling like it was a dare. “They’re in the program. Only ten out-of-state students get invited a year. You’re one of them?”

Your jaw tensed. “How do you even know that?”

Tai shrugged. “I know things.”

You narrowed your eyes. Tai held herself with this brazen confidence. But it was so intense and aggressive, you were unsure what she was trying to prove. “That supposed to scare me?”

"How the hell did you get into the Mizzou Honors Program?" Tai asked, arms crossed, voice pitched low but sharp.

You looked around before blinking. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get flagged for that program since last spring. My mom’s already emailing alumni. I’m pre-law. You don’t even care about school.”

You bristled. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean-come on, you’re, like, yearbook girl. Why the fuck are they courting you?”

You hesitated. You didnt even know why you felt inclined to tell her. Maybe it was so someone else could know. But despite yourself, you sigh, “Because I wrote an article that won a national contest. Because I’m not stupid. Because I’m trying.”

Tai studied you, eyes narrowed like she was solving a puzzle. “Did Weaver help you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Tai took a slow step closer. “Look. I need your help. I want in. I need in. My mom thinks if I don’t land this, I’m wasting her time. I need my application to scream ‘elite.’”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you’re coming to me... for help?”

“Don’t get smug,” Tai muttered. “But yeah. I need someone who’s done it. Someone who can write something good, something worthy of the honors program. Quietly.”

You shook her head, a scoff of disbelief tumbling off your lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Don’t act like you’re above it,” Tai snapped. “We all lie a little. You’re not exactly broadcasting your big future, are you?”

That hit too close to home. You looked away.

Tai exhaled and leaned against the brick wall, then added, too casually, “Besides. I know about you and Lottie.”

Your head snapped up.

Tai’s smirk turned razor sharp. “Thought you were being subtle? Lottie is not that slick, her eyes are way too expressive. Van’s not as oblivious as she acts. Van clocked that a mile away.”

You stared at her, heart thudding. If Tai was going to be a bitch. Fine. So could you. Because she is not about to corner you about Lottie as if you haven’t noticed the way Van melts around Tai. The way Tai stares a way too long when Van enters the room. Or how they somehow are always gone at the same time. And without even thinking, almost a shot in the dark. “And speaking of Van,” You said slowly, “that new bruise on your neck isn’t from soccer practice.”

Tai froze, jaw tightening. She didn’t say anything, and that was enough. Checkmate.

You tilted your head. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Tai stepped in close again, low and lethal. “You breathe a word about me and Van to anyone and I will find a way to ruin your life. Mizzou, NYU, whatever—you’ll be lucky to get into community college.”

You didn’t flinch. Forcing yourself not to smile. “Noted.”

The air between them crackled, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

Then—

“Smalls!” a voice called, clean and cutting through the tension like a whistle.

Both girls turned to see Jackie Taylor approaching, soccer duffel slung over one shoulder, her golden-girl hair tied in a perfect braid.

Jackie looked between you both with careful curiosity. “Can I steal you for a second?”

Tai backed off without a word, stalking away like a storm cloud. You exhaled slowly. Jackie waited until Tai was out of earshot before speaking again. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, hoping to shake off the tension you felt from the conversation. “Peachy.”

Jackie half-smiled. “Weird energy.”

“School’s a weird place.”

Jackie shrugged, then handed you a crumpled sheet of paper. “Would you mind proofreading my Rutgers essay?”

You gave her a surprised glance. Your fingers grab the paper gently, like it were made of glass. Your heart clenched in your chest at the gesture. You and Jackie were tolerating each other at this point in the semester. Nothing of the friendship you used to have. So this felt like…like- “You trust me with that?”

“Of course I do. You’re a genius with words,” Jackie said. “Even when you’re quiet.”

You looked down at the paper. And without even thinking, you nod. “Sure. I’ll look it over tonight.”

Jackie’s hand brushed yours as she passed it off, fingers lingering just a second too long. “Thanks, Smalls.”

The way she said Smalls, was soft. You gave her a thin-lipped smile. And she gave you a wide, genuine one before you watched her walk away, the Rutgers logo sharp at the top of the page, Tai’s threat still buzzing in your ears, and your acceptance letters practically burning through your binder.

Secrets and futures. Lies and promises.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you, just trying to keep your balance. With eyes trailing Lottie, her curls in two pigtails, and a quiet grin. She waves at you from the field, and you wave back. Before standing up, making a beeline back inside.

The late afternoon sun poured through your bedroom window, soft and golden against her messy bed. Her binder lay open in front of her, Jackie Taylor’s college essay printed in faded ink, full of crossed-out lines and margin notes. You chewed on the end of a pen, eyebrows furrowed as you reworded a clunky sentence about community leadership.

The floor creaked near the door.

You looked up to see Lottie standing there, still in her soccer gear, bag slung low on one shoulder. Her pigtails had started to unravel. She wasn’t smiling. It was rare when you both stayed at your home. But your aunt has been gone hitting almost two weeks tomorrow. And Lottie’s parents are home.

You straightened a little. “Hey baby.”

Lottie’s eyes flicked to the essay. “What’s that?”

You hesitated. “Jackie’s Rutgers thing. It’s like her college essay. She asked me to proofread it.”

Lottie didn’t move. “Why would you proofread it?”

You tried for a shrug. “Because I’m good at it? And she asked?”

Lottie’s silence filled the room like a rising tide. She came closer, dropped her bag to the floor with a thud. “That’s the second time she’s asked you for something like that.”

You tried not to flinch at her tone. Slowly you licked your lips. Sitting back, blinking. “Okay… and?”

Lottie crossed her arms. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Lottie…”

“She’s obsessed with you, baby. Everyone sees it.”

Your laugh was dry, almost tired. “She’s not obsessed.”

“She watches you like she’s trying to read your soul,” Lottie snapped. “And now she’s handing you her college essay to edit? That’s like handing you her ticket to her dreams on paper.”

“She needed help with grammar. Not a blood pact.”

Jackie was a lot of things. Obsessed with you? Was not one of them. The way she ignored you like the plague after that kiss was proof of it. Yet your eyes softened when you saw Lottie’s expression, a storm barely held behind her eyes. Not angry. Hurt.

You set the pen down and gave her full attention. Feeling your heart flutter and something else swish within your stomach in an ugly mix.

“Okay,” You said gently. “Let me just finish this paragraph. I promised her I’d look at it, and I don’t want to be that girl who bails mid-favor. But once I’m done, no more editing Jackie’s personal statements, okay?”

Lottie didn’t answer right away, then nodded once, stiffly. You felt something hurt in the way Lottie’s eyes didn’t meet yours.

“I’m serious,” you added. “I won’t do more than I should with her. You’re the one I—” You caught yourself. “You’re the one I want to be with.”

Lottie sat on the edge of the bed, eyes still on the essay. “Okay.”

But you heard it in her voice. A flicker of doubt you couldn’t blame her for. Jackie was too perfect, too calculating, and always close.

Still, you reached over and took Lottie’s hand in yours. “I’m yours,” you said quietly. “I’m your girl.”

Lottie squeezed your hand but didn’t reply. And it broke something in you. She was your sweet girl, and she looked so small. You frowned, you didn’t know what you could say to make it better.

It only made your mind wander to the things you haven’t said to her either. Like how that this was nothing compared to the actual secret you were keeping. That your acceptance letters to Mizzou, and NYU, were still sitting in your backpack, unread by anyone but you and Mr. Weaver. That you might actually move away one day.

Or that you and Jackie kissed last year. Your eyes widened at the memory and willed the intrusive ghost of Jackie’s lips out of your mind. Instead you focused on Lottie.

Lottie leaned against your shoulder, quiet. You placed a kiss on the top of her head. And pulled her legs onto your lap. Because you didn’t want to think about any of that. Your thumb softly rubbed the back of her hand, as your other hand held onto her knees.

She curled into you. And after a few minutes of silence. “Can we shower together?” Lottie asks softly.

You try to stop the small smile stretching onto your lips. You had only ever showered together two other times before and both times was after having slept together. But the way she relaxed into you. Let you wash her hair. You loved the closeness she let you have.

“Baby, we can do whatever you want.” You answered.

Lottie doesn’t say anything. You move yourself away from her to get a clear look at her face. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Like she was fighting to stay present. You grabbed her face softly, the pads of your thumbs caressing each side of the apples of her cheeks.

That made her look at you. Really, look at you. “Lot, baby. I’m all yours. There’s no one else I would rather shower with, sing off-key with on the way to school, or eat Burger King at midnight with. No one I’d rather kiss at a red light, cook grilled cheeses for, return stolen TJ Max clothes with, and do life with. It’s you and me Lot.”

Lottie nods, giving you a soft almost smile. You kiss her cheeks one at a time. Before moving to her nose, then the corner of her mouth, her forehead, all around her face, until finally placing a featherlight kiss on her lips.

When you pull away, Lottie’s face is flushed, and her eyes are glassy. Her grip on your shirt is a tight fist. “Me too. I think…my dad has been home more often. And when he’s there it just…I feel so off and broken. Not nearly good enough. And when I see you and her I wonder-“

“Baby, theres nothing to wonder about.” You say quickly. “Jackie…she’s a friend. But you? Fuck Lottie you’re everything.”

Lottie nods, and her eyes lock onto your lips. She presses her lips onto the corner of your mouth and then sighs. “I think I change my mind. I want to shower alone.”

You hum. “Okay, baby, whatever you want.”

“Can we cuddle after?” She asks quietly.

You chuckle, “It’s kinda the law to give me cuddles in my domain.”

That makes Lottie breathy laugh. “Right, I forgot. Was that before or after the eating me out part?”

“Great question, both actually.”

Lottie rolled her eyes, but a full smile was on her face, and it reached her eyes. That was a win. So you watched her go to take a shower, and you sighed alone in your room. And after a moment, you picked up the pen again, and started writing faster.

#jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #yellowjackets #jackie yellowjackets #lottie mathews x reader #lottie yellowjackets #lottie yj #charlotte matthews #taivan #taissa turner #lottie matthews #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader

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kittenan · 3 days ago

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Royal Racer

Pairing: Prince!Hoseok × Racer!Reader Word Count: ~7k Tropes: Secret identity, enemies/rivals to lovers, forbidden romance, intense smut, angst, fluff Kinks: Car sex, garage sex, light bondage, dirty talk, hand on throat, masking/unmasking tension Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, dangerous driving, injury, emotional intensity, power dynamics

The ballroom glitters like a jewel, chandeliers sparkling overhead. You’re miserable, dragged to this fancy charity gala by your sponsor—a slimy guy with a fake grin—for “publicity.”

You’re an underground racer, not some polished princess. Your black dress clings tight, showing off your back, but you’d rather be in your leather jacket, burning up the track. Sipping flat champagne, you roll eyes at the rich crowd, hating every second.

You lean against a pillar, eyeing the monarchy. They’re everything you despise—spoiled, fake, useless. Especially him, Prince Jung Hoseok. He’s across the room, looking sharp in a wine colored suit, dark hair neat, smile polite but distant. You roll your eyes. Just a pretty puppet, probably never touched anything real in his life.

You turn to the bartender, who looks as bored as you. “Bet that prince can’t even ride a scooter, let alone handle a real car,” you say, smirking.

The bartender snickers. “Probably rides in a fancy carriage instead.”

You laugh, loud and sharp, not caring who hears. But Hoseok does. He’s with some stuffy nobles, but your voice cuts through—scooter, real car, fancy carriage.

His lips twitch, not with anger but with something hotter. He knows who you are. Whispers of the underground racing scene reach even the palace, and he’s heard of you—the fierce driver with a mouth as fast as your car.

Your fire, your defiance, the way you mock him without a second thought—it sets something alight in him. You’re a challenge, and he’s already hooked.

Hoseok’s no stranger to the racing world. By night, he has tried racing often, in disguise, tearing up the same tracks you rule. But never bothered to compete, he just came to relieve his Crown's weight.

He’s turned on—not just by your curves in that dress but by your nerve, your spark. He wants to prove you wrong, to show you he’s more than a “puppet.”

When he slips out of the gala, he’s already planning to meet you on the track, mask on, ready to make you eat your words.

Midnight hits, and the city pulses with neon and danger. The rooftop race track is your sanctuary—concrete, sharp turns, screaming engines.

You’re in your red car, a beast you built, ready to dominate. Leather jacket on, boots scuffed, you’re cocky and untouchable. Until he shows up.

A matte black car rolls in, sleek and dangerous. The driver steps out—black racing suit, gloves, and a mask hiding everything but his eyes and lips. No name, no greeting, just raw confidence.

You size him up, unimpressed. “Hope your car’s faster than that outfit, sweetheart,” you say, smirking.

He tilts his head, lips curling into a grin that’s pure trouble. “Careful, hotshot. My car’s not the only thing that’ll leave you in the dust.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Big talk for a guy hiding behind a mask. Scared to show your face?”

“Scared you’ll fall for it,” he fires back, voice smooth as sin. “Wouldn’t want to distract you before I wipe the floor with you.”

You laugh, sharp and competitive. “Keep dreaming, mystery boy.”

The race is wild. You and this masked guy go hard, tires screeching, cars nearly kissing at every turn. He’s good—too good. He matches your moves, teases with near-overtakes, then pulls back just enough to keep you hooked. You win, but you know he let you. It pisses you off.

You storm over as he leans against his car, all smug. “You went easy on me,” you snap, poking his chest. “Don’t play games with me.”

He grabs your finger, holding it gently but firm. “Games? Nah, I just like watching you squirm.” His eyes glint through the mask. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Cute?” You yank your hand back, cheeks hot. “I’ll show you cute when I smoke you next time.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, leaning closer. “Bet you’re even prettier when you lose.” His voice drops, teasing, almost dirty. “Or when you’re begging.”

Your breath catches, and you hate how your body reacts—heat pooling, thighs clenching. “In your dreams, asshole,” you mutter, turning away before he sees you blush.

You strode to a quiet corner of the lot, needing to cool down. Pulling a cigarette from your jacket, you light it, taking a long drag. The smoke curls in the air, calming your nerves. But then he’s there, stepping out of the shadows, plucking the cigarette from your fingers before you can react.

“Not good for your health, sweetheart,” he says, crushing it under his boot. His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring you to snap.

Your blood boils. “Who the hell do you think you are?” you hiss, stepping closer, fists clenched. “You don’t get to touch my stuff.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Just looking out for you. Need you in top shape to lose to me again.” He winks, and it’s infuriating, making your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. You storm off, his laugh echoing behind you, stoking the fire in your chest.

He’s everywhere now. Every race, every night, the masked racer is your shadow. You’re rivals, but it’s more than that—it’s a game, a dance, a fire you can’t put out.

He beats you, you beat him, and every time, he gets under your skin a little deeper. The garage becomes your battlefield, not just for racing but for something hotter, darker.

One night, after he edges you out again, you’re done playing. The garage is empty, smelling of gas and rubber, lit by a single flickering bulb.

You shove him against the wall, your hands fisting his racing suit. “Who the hell are you?” you growl, inches from his face. The mask taunts you, hiding him, but his eyes burn, and his lips—god, those lips—are too close. “Some rich kid playing bad boy? Take this damn thing off.”

He grabs your wrists, pulling you flush against him. Your breath hitches as his body presses into yours, hard and warm. You can feel every line of him—his chest, his thighs, the unmistakable hardness against your hip.

“You want the mask off?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “Go ahead, princess. Rip it off. But you might not be ready for what’s underneath.” His gloved thumb brushes your hip, slipping just under your shirt, grazing bare skin. “Or maybe you’re just dying to find out how I’d fuck you with it on.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, heat flooding your core. You’re pissed, turned on, and way too close to ripping that mask off just to shut him up.

“You’re so full of shit,” you hiss, but your voice shakes. His hand slides higher, fingers splaying across your lower back, pulling you tighter. You can feel him—hard, ready—and it’s driving you insane.

“Full of shit?” He laughs, dark and velvety, his lips brushing your ear through the mask. “Says the girl who’s trembling in my hands.” He shifts, his thigh pressing between yours, sending a jolt through you. “Bet I could have you screaming my name right here, bent over your own car. Wanna test me?”

You shove him back, but it’s weak, your body betraying you. “Keep talking, mystery boy. All you’ve got is a mouth.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot more than that,” he says, stepping closer again. His gloved finger traces down your arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “And you’re gonna find out soon enough. Unless you’re scared to lose at this too.”

You’re trembling, not from fear but from the heat between you, the tension so thick it’s choking. You turn and walk away, but his laugh follows you, low and knowing. He’s got you, and you both know it.

Another race. Another loss. You’re still fuming from the race, the loss burning in your veins as you lean against your car in the empty lot, the city skyline a distant glow.

You’re about to light cigarette when his matte black car pulls up, a silent taunt. Before you can snap at him, he’s out, striding toward you with that infuriating confidence, yanking open his passenger door.

“Get in mine,” he says, voice low, commanding, leaving no room for argument. He catches the cigarette in your hand, plucking it from your fingers and tossing it to the ground.

“I’ll give you something else to get addicted to,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting through the mask, his voice dripping with promise.

Your blood spikes, a mix of anger and something hotter. You should tell him to fuck off. You should walk away. But your body’s betraying you, drawn to him like a magnet.

You slide into his car, the leather seat cool against your thighs, the scent of new leather and his cedar cologne filling your senses. He’s in the driver’s seat in a flash, mask still on. The air is heavy, charged with the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, your bodies slick with sweat, eyes wild.

“What’s this about?” you snap, but your voice trembles, betraying the heat pooling in your core.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gloved hand wraps around your thigh, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you across the center console, pulling you onto his lap with such ease it’s like you weigh nothing.

His muscles flex under the tight racing suit, the power in his grip sending a thrill through you. You’re straddling him now, thighs wrapping his, the hard press of him against your core unmistakable through the layers of fabric.

The seat’s pushed back, giving just enough room, but it’s tight, intimate, every movement amplified. The air is heavy, charged with the scent of new leather, his cedar cologne, and the sweat of the race, your bodies slick and wild-eyed.

“You talk too much,” he growls, his lips brushing your jaw, the mask grazing your cheek with a delicious roughness. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, the contrast of his warm breath and the cool leather igniting your nerves. “Let’s see if you can keep up off the track.”

Your hands fist in his suit, yanking him closer, the fabric taut under your fingers. “Shut up and do something about it,” you challenge, your voice low, daring him to cross the line.

He does. His mouth crashes into yours, a collision of teeth and heat, the kiss raw and hungry. The mask scrapes your skin, adding a thrilling edge, and you taste adrenaline, sweat, and something distinctly him—dark, intoxicating.

He removes glove from his one of the hands and slide it under your shirt, fingers digging into your waist, the leather cool against your heated skin. He grinds you down against him, and you feel him—hard, pulsing, ready—through the thin layers separating you.

A moan escapes you, swallowed by his kiss, as he deepens it, his tongue sweeping against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth.

“Princess like you needs taming,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. Other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding—firm, possessive, the weight of his palm grounding you. “Bet you’ve been dreaming of this since I smoked you that first night.”

You want to snap back, but he’s right. You’ve been burning for him, hating him, wanting him. You grind down harder, the friction sending sparks through your body, and he groans, the sound raw and primal, shooting straight to your core.

His free hand tugs at the zipper of your racing suit, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate drag, exposing your chest to the cool air.

Your skin prickles, but his mouth is there instantly, hot and wet, sucking a bruising mark into your collarbone. The sensation is electric, his lips soft but demanding, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck,” you hiss, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more. You reach for his mask, desperate to see him, to know him, but he grabs your wrist, pinning it to the headrest with a strength that makes your pulse race.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough, eyes dark and burning through the mask’s slits. “You don’t get to know me until I’ve made you come undone.”

The words are filthy, and you’re drowning in them. His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already soaked through your underwear.

He doesn’t bother pulling your panties off—just pushes them aside with a smooth flick of his fingers. Two fingers slide inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, and you clench around him, a moan tearing from your throat. The stretch is perfect, his fingers adding a strange, delicious friction that makes your hips buck.

“That’s it,” he says, his thumb circling your clit with agonizing precision, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Ride me like you ride that car, princess.” His voice is a low growl, dripping with command, and his hand on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin.

You do as he says, rocking against his hand, chasing the high. The car rocks slightly with your movements, the windows fogging up as your breaths come in short, desperate pants.

His fingers move faster, curling deeper, and his thumb presses harder, drawing you closer to the edge. You’re trembling, every nerve on fire, and he knows it. He leans forward, his lips brushing your ear, the mask grazing your skin.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “Show me how fast you can fall apart.”

The orgasm hits like a crash, a white-hot explosion that leaves you shaking in his lap. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out, the sound muffled against his neck.

He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, until you’re oversensitive, gasping for breath. Only then does he pull his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean through the mask’s slit. The sight is obscene, his eyes locked on yours, and it sends another jolt through you.

You’re panting, wrecked, but you manage a smirk. “Your turn, asshole,” you say, voice hoarse, reaching for his zipper.

He grabs your hand, stopping you with that infuriating smirk. “Patience, princess,” he says, his tone teasing but firm. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”

The words make your blood boil, frustration mixing with desire. He’s toying with you, playing hard and it’s driving you insane. You glare at him, the mask taunting you, and make a silent vow—next time, you’re ripping it off, no matter what.

You slide off his lap, fixing your clothes, and storm out, his low chuckle following you into the night.

The garage is your shared battleground now, a place where you fix cars and fight with him. Tonight, you’re both on edge, the latest race leaving you raw.

He beat you again, and his smug attitude is unbearable. The air smells of gasoline and metal, the flickering bulb casting shadows across your red car. You’re arguing, voices sharp, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” you snap, slamming a wrench onto the workbench. “Hiding behind that mask like a coward.”

He steps closer, too close, his masked face inches from yours. “Coward? I’m the one who’s been kicking your ass out there.” His voice is low, taunting. “Maybe you’re just mad you can’t keep up.”

You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back, laughing. “Fuck you,” you hiss, but the heat in your chest isn’t just anger. It’s desire, burning hotter with every word.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the garage wall. “Keep talking, princess,” he murmurs, his body pressed against yours, the mask grazing your cheek. “I like it when you fight me.”

You don’t think. You kiss him, hard and messy, teeth clashing, the mask a frustrating barrier. Your hands struggle against his grip, desperate to touch him, to claim him.

He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and releases your wrists, letting you tear at his racing suit. Fabric rips as you yank it down his shoulders, exposing tanned skin, lean muscle.

Your fingers find the edge of his mask, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. You rip it off, tossing it aside, and freeze.

It’s him. Hoseok. The prince. His sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and that damn smirk are unmistakable. “You,” you breathe, stunned, your heart pounding. Your mind races, piecing it together—the gala, the races, the way he always seemed to know you. “The prince? You’re… him?”

He smirks, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Surprised, princess? Thought I was just a puppet, huh?”

“You heard me,” you say, voice shaking, not sure if you’re angry or turned on or both. “At the gala. You heard every word.”

“Every fucking word,” he confirms, stepping closer, his hands on your hips. “And I’ve been dying to prove you wrong ever since.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Still think I can’t handle a real machine?”

You swallow, your body betraying you as heat floods your core. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but it’s weak, your hands already pulling him closer.

“Good,” he says, his lips brushing yours. “I like you mad.” He kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense, his tongue teasing yours, drawing a moan from you.

You push him back, needing control, and he lets you, a wicked glint in his eyes. “That scooter boy enough for you now, sweetheart?” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery as he lifts you onto the hood of your car.

The metal is cool against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands as he rips at your clothes, exposing skin to the humid air.

“Shut up,” you snap, but your voice is breathy, your hands tearing at his suit, desperate to feel him. He kneels between your legs, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your thighs, until he’s teasing you through your underwear.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough, his fingers hooking into the fabric.

“I want you,” you gasp, and he rewards you by pulling your underwear aside, his fingers sliding inside you, slow and deliberate. The stretch is perfect, his knuckles brushing just right, and you arch against the hood, moaning.

He works you with a skill that makes your head spin, his thumb circling your clit, his lips kissing down your inner thigh, leaving marks that burn in the best way.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs, his voice reverent, his eyes locked on yours. “All for me, princess?”

“Stop dreaming,” you manage, but it’s a whimper, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin as he kisses lower, his tongue joining his fingers. You’re trembling, close to the edge, and he knows it, slowing down just to torture you.

“Say my name,” he demands, his fingers curling inside you, making you gasp.

“Hoseok,” you moan, and he rewards you with a flick of his tongue that sends you over the edge, your body shaking as you come undone. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder until you’re panting, oversensitive.

He stands, undoing his pants, and bends you over the hood, your palms bracing against the cool metal. He kisses down your spine, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he enters you from behind.

The stretch is intense, filling you completely, and you cry out, your reflection in the windshield showing you wild, wrecked, alive. He moves slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then faster, harder, until the garage echoes with the sound of your gasps and the slap of skin.

“You’re mine,” he growls, one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to your throat, holding you just tight enough to make you dizzy. He pulls out at the last second, his release hot and slick across your spine, marking you in a way that feels primal, possessive.

You collapse against the hood, breathless, his hands still on you, grounding you. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a tired, sated smile.

He chuckles, kissing the back of your neck. “And you’re still mine.”

The Inferno Run looms like a storm cloud, the biggest underground race of the year—dangerous, no rules, zero forgiveness. Even the drunken people can participate.

You’ve been dreaming of this win your whole life, the title that’ll make your name in the underground forever. Hoseok—now unmasked,—begs you to skip it.

You’re in his car, parked in a secluded lot, the air heavy with the weight of what’s coming. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his face raw with emotion, no trace of the smirking prince or the masked racer. Just Hoseok, stripped down, vulnerable, his dark eyes pleading.

“Don’t do this race,” he says, voice rough, like he’s been screaming inside. “It’s not worth it.”

You laugh, but it’s bitter, your heart twisting. “Not worth it? Hoseok, this is everything. This is my life. You won't get it.”

He steps closer, grabbing your hands, his grip tight, desperate. “I get it more than you think. I’ve raced it before. I saw someone crash—burn. They didn’t make it out.”

His voice cracks, his eyes glistening. “The Inferno Run isn’t a race to win. It’s a race to survive. They don’t race to win there. They race to survive.”

You pull your hands away, your chest aching. “I’m not scared. I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect.”

“I’m not protecting you!” he shouts, his voice breaking, raw with fear.

“I’m fucking terrified, okay? I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair. “I can’t watch you disappear in fire just to prove something. Not when I’ve just found you.”

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than any blade. “Why does it matter so much?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He looks at you, eyes wide, like you’ve ripped his heart out. “Because I love you,” he says, the words spilling out like they’ve been trapped too long.

“I love you, and I don’t know how to say it right. You cracked me open, broke every wall I had. You unmasked me—heart and all—before you ever touched that damn mask.”

“I’d give up everything—the races, the mask, the fucking crown, the whole damn world—if it meant you’d stay safe. I’ll drop out of racing with you. I’ll leave the palace. I’ll give up my title. Or I’ll make you queen of the entire fucking kingdom if you just stay alive.”

Your heart stops, his confession crashing over you like a wave. You’ve cracked his armor, unmasked him emotionally long before you ever touched that physical mask.

He’s choosing you over everything, and it terrifies him. You can see it—the fear that you’ll choose the race over him, that you’ll burn up and leave him behind.

“You think being fast is worth dying for?” he continues, his voice raw, breaking. “What about me? What am I supposed to do if you don’t make it back?”

You’re shaking, torn between the fire in your veins and the way his voice breaks. You want to scream, to run, to hold him. “I have to do this,” you say finally, your voice soft but firm, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t need a crown, Hoseok. I need that win.”

He steps back, his face crumpling, defeated. His eyes are wet, his hands clenched into fists.

“Then I’ll be there,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Watching. Praying you make it back. But if you don’t…” He chokes, unable to finish, and turns away, his shoulders shaking. He’s not gone—not really. He’s waiting, ready to fall apart if you crash.

The Inferno Run is a nightmare and the track is a death trap—narrow, twisting, lined with rusted guardrails and littered with debris.

Your car screams, pushed to its limits, every turn a gamble, every second a fight for control. You’re in the zone, heart pounding, adrenaline burning through you.

You catch a glimpse of Hoseok in the crowd, disguised again, his eyes locked on you, wide with fear. It’s enough to make your heart stutter, but you shove it down. You have to win.

Then it happens. A sabotaged tire, rigged to fail. A turn slick with oil, deliberately placed. Your car hits the patch, skids violently, and flips. Once. Twice. The world spins, metal screeching, glass shattering.

Pain explodes through you—your ribs crack, your head slams against the seat, your arm twists unnaturally. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline chokes you as the car settles, a crumpled wreck.

Blood trickles down your face, warm and sticky, pooling in your mouth, tasting of iron and fear. Your vision blurs, the world fading but you see him, running towards you.

Hoseok’s scream rips through the chaos, raw and guttural, like his soul is tearing apart. He’s running before anyone can stop him, shoving through the crowd, mask forgotten, his face exposed to the flashing cameras.

He reaches the wreckage, smoke curling around him, the heat of the twisted metal searing his skin. He tears at the door, hands shaking, bloodied from jagged edges, until he pulls you out.

Your body is limp, blood streaking your face, your racing suit torn. He cradles you in his arms, his screams for help hoarse, desperate, as he sinks to his knees on the asphalt.

“Don’t you dare,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he holds you close, your blood smearing his hands, his face. “Don’t you fucking leave me.”

His tears fall, mixing with the dirt and blood on your cheek, his body trembling as he rocks you, praying, begging, while the world watches—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked, broken, holding the woman he loves in the wreckage of her dream.

You’re lying in a hospital bed, the world a blur of pain and darkness. Hoseok is there every damn second, a ghost of himself, his eyes red and hollow, his hands clasped tightly as he prays for you to wake up.

He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, just sits by your side, whispering promises, begging you to come back. His advisors try to pull him away, citing royal duties, but he snaps, his voice raw, telling them to fuck off.

He’s not a prince right now—he’s just a man, terrified of losing you. The news is everywhere—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked as an illegal racer, risking everything for you—but he doesn’t care about the headlines, only you.

Weeks pass, each day a knife in his heart, until you finally stir. Your eyes flutter open, the sterile hospital light stinging, your body aching like it’s been through a war.

Hoseok’s there, instantly, his face crumpling with relief, tears spilling as he takes your hand, his grip warm, trembling. “You’re awake,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re awake.”

“You idiot,” you croak, voice weak, throat dry. “You ruined your life for me.”

He laughs, a broken, watery sound, pressing his forehead to your hand. “You’re my life, you stubborn asshole.” His voice is raw, thick with emotion, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. “I thought I lost you. I sat here every day, praying, begging, promising anything if you’d just open your eyes.”

You want to argue, but you’re too tired, too sore, and his love is overwhelming, wrapping around you like a blanket.

He stays with you, every moment, fighting off his advisors, ignoring the world outside. He feeds you soup, his hands shaking as he holds the spoon, brushes your hair with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. You hate how much you love it, how much you need it.

“You drive like you’re not afraid to die,” he says one night, his voice breaking as he sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours. “I’ve never been more scared in my life than watching you do it without me.” He pauses, his thumb tracing the bandages on your wrist.

“I didn’t want to stop you from being brave. I just couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but firm. “I’m here,” you whisper, and he breaks, pressing his lips to your knuckles, his tears warm against your skin. The love between you grows, raw and unshakable, binding you tighter with every touch, every word.

Weeks later, you’re recovering, bruises fading but ribs still tender. Hoseok’s there every day, his presence a steady warmth, helping you walk, stretching your legs with hands so gentle it makes your heart ache.

Tonight, the hospital room is quiet, the only sounds the hum of machines and your soft breaths. He’s kneeling beside your bed, his lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, soft and reverent, like he’s worshipping every inch of you that’s still here.

“God, I thought I lost you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared me more than any race ever could. I kept imagining a world without you, and it was fucking empty.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, your heart swelling at his vulnerability. “I’m here, Hoseok,” you murmur, your voice soft but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses you, slow and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of your lips. His thumb brushes your bandaged waist, careful not to hurt you, but the touch is electric, grounding you in this moment.

“You’re such a sap,” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “What happened to the cocky asshole from the track?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, his eyes crinkling with that familiar spark. “Oh, he’s still here, princess. Just taking a break to make sure my favorite rival doesn’t break my heart again.”

He leans in, nipping at your earlobe, his voice dropping to a playful growl. “Don’t get used to this soft shit. I’m still gonna kick your ass when you’re back on your feet.”

You laugh, the sound weak but genuine, and it feels like a victory. “Keep dreaming, scooter boy,” you retort, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair. “I’ll be smoking you again in no time.”

His grin widens, but his eyes soften, and he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, I love it when you talk like that,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of teasing and adoration. “But seriously… I need you close tonight. I need to know you’re real.”

Your heart skips, and you shift slightly, wincing at the pull in your ribs. “Then get up here,” you say, patting the narrow hospital bed beside you. “I want to feel your warmth. No funny business, though—I’m still sore as hell.”

He laughs, the sound bright and boyish, and carefully climbs into the bed, maneuvering so he’s lying beside you without jostling your injuries.

His body is warm, solid, a comforting weight against you, and you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent of cedar and faint motor oil. His arm drapes over you, light but protective, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re gonna milk this invalid thing, aren’t you?” he teases, his voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. “Gonna make me play nurse forever?”

“Damn right,” you murmur, a smile playing on your lips as you close your eyes, savoring his closeness. “Spoon-feeding me soup for life sounds fair.”

He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest, and it’s the most comforting sound you’ve heard in weeks. “Deal, princess. But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you’re back on the track.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, the playful banter fades, replaced by something deeper, unspoken. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but heavy with promise. “Not ever.”

He swallows, his eyes glistening, and he kisses you again, soft and lingering. “Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Three months after the crash, you own the track again.

You cross the finish line, body humming, high on adrenaline, cheers blasting around you like music—and you barely get your helmet off before Hoseok is there, cutting through the crowd like a man possessed.

His eyes find yours—burning, wild—and he doesn’t ask.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you around the corner of the pit garage where your car’s parked, flings open the backseat door, and shoves you inside like he’s been waiting forever to ruin you.

The door slams shut. The air is thick. The silence? Carnal.

“You’re fucking insane,” he growls, already crawling in after you, slamming the lock shut. “And I’m so goddamn addicted to it.”

You barely get out a laugh before he’s on you, crushing your lips with his, teeth clashing, hands everywhere—yanking down your zipper, shoving your suit off your shoulders.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he mutters against your skin, dragging his mouth down your throat, biting hard enough to make you cry out. “The way you looked in that suit… knowing I’m the only one who gets to rip it off you.”

You wriggle under him, straddling his lap as he settles back on the seat. The space is tight, bodies pressed so close you can feel the shape of his hard cock straining against his pants. You grind down with a moan, and he growls low in his throat.

“You scared the shit out of me that day,” he hisses, undoing the last clasp on your gear. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, biting his lip. “But if you’re still scared… then I'll make you forget everything.”

He yanks your panties aside and slides two fingers into you without warning—deep, curling instantly. You scream into his mouth, nails clawing at his back.

“Already this wet?” he groans. “You really missed me wrecking you, didn’t you?”

You can barely answer, hips bucking into his hand, his thumb rubbing hard, fast circles against your clit. The slick sounds are obscene, filling the car with wet, messy music as your moans grow louder, higher, needier.

Then he pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean, eyes dark. “Get on the seat. Face down.”

You do it without hesitation—knees on the leather, hands braced on the window, breasts pressed against the fogging glass. You hear the sound of his zipper, then feel the thick, hot press of him at your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in. He slams into you.

You choke on a gasp, forehead dropping against the glass. “Holy fuck—”

“That’s right,” he growls, slamming into you again, again. “You don’t need a fucking finish line. This is where you belong.”

The car rocks violently with every thrust, creaking on its springs. Your moans are open-mouthed and desperate, loud in the small, enclosed space. His fingers wrap around your neck from behind, tugging your head back just enough.

“Look,” he pants, pointing to the side mirror. “Look at how fucked-out you look already.”

You glance—and whimper. Your face is flushed, hair a mess, mouth open as he rails you mercilessly. The mirror shakes with the rhythm of your bodies, fog curling along the windows like steam from hell itself.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarls, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “Come all over my cock like a good fucking girl?”

“Yes—yes, yes, yes—” you sob, grinding back against him, walls fluttering, body coiled so tight it hurts. “Hoseok, fuck— I’m—!”

You shatter.

You convulse around him, screaming into the window, whole body trembling as he fucks you through it—relentless, hips slamming, one hand tangled in your hair, the other still gripping your throat.

Then he flips you over, pins you down across the seat, and buries himself again—deep, hard, filthy.

He groans your name, kisses you roughly, bites your shoulder as he thrusts faster. “Gonna fill you up. Stuff you full till you’re leaking with me.”

“Do it,” you moan. “Mark me. Ruin me.”

He grabs your thighs, presses them back until you’re nearly folded, and with one final thrust—he spills inside you with a loud, broken curse, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning into you.

You lay there, panting, trembling, dripping, the windows fogged, the backseat wrecked, his cum warm inside you.

For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, tangled together in sweat and victory and something dangerously close to love.

Then, softly— “Hoseok...” You caress his cheeks.

“That was my last race.”

He blinks down at you, stunned. “What?”

You reach up, brush his damp hair back, voice calm. “I’m done. I won. That’s enough. I want you. You were willing to give up everything for me. Now it’s my turn.”

He stares at you, lips parted, eyes wet. “Fuck… You’re serious?”

You smile. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok. I love you.”

And then he kisses you—deep, dirty, tender. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against your lips. “But I swear to god, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life proving I do.”

You and Hoseok stand hand in hand, facing the palace—not as a racer and a prince, but as a team. A little mismatched, a little chaotic, but so full of love it could melt stone.

His parents, the king and queen, are intimidating in every sense. His mother’s expression is polite, but cold. His father’s gaze flicks down to your grease-stained fingers with a barely hidden sigh.

But Hoseok holds your hand tighter. And when he speaks in that calm, steady voice, the one that always makes your heart flutter, he leaves no room for doubt.

“She’s not just a racer,” he says, like he’s declaring something sacred. “She’s my partner. My love. My heart. My favorite everything. I’ll give up the crown before I give up her.”

You glance at him, heart bursting, then lift your chin and say, gently but firmly, “I’m not here to take him away from you. I’m here to be by his side. For all the potholes and palace halls in the road ahead.”

His mother blinks. And something softens. A tiny flicker, like a stubborn cloud letting in a sliver of sunshine.

It’s not instant. There are weeks of stiff dinners and awkward silences. But you charm them slowly—with the quiet strength beneath your playful wit, the way you patch Hoseok’s bruised knuckles with band-aids shaped like stars, the way you steady him without dimming his light.

Eventually, they see it. The queen reaches for your hand one afternoon, her voice quiet. “You make him better,” she says, simply. The king grunts, nodding. “You’re tougher than you look. We approve.”

That night, you sob into Hoseok’s hoodie for a solid twenty minutes while he rubs your back and whispers, “Told you they’d love you. You’re irresistible.”

And with their blessing, you finally dive headfirst into your dream—your own automotive startup, funded by your racing prize money. You swap racetracks for workshops, high heels for tool belts.

You’re happiest elbow-deep in engine grease, music blaring, messy bun half-falling out, building machines that hum like dreams.

Sometimes, Hoseok visits between royal duties, tiptoeing into the workshop in shiny shoes, immediately ruining his look when he kisses your forehead and ends up with an oil smudge across his cheek. “My hotshot CEO,” he teases, spinning on your office chair like a child. “Will you marry me now, or after I steal your coffee?”

The wedding approaches—glorious, glittery, a little overwhelming. The palace is buzzing with plans. One old tradition says you can’t see your groom the night before the ceremony.

Which is cute. In theory. But you miss him. A lot.

So naturally, you decide rules are for cowards.

You sneak barefoot through the palace corridors, giggling every time you hide behind a curtain to avoid a guard. Your silk nightgown flutters around your legs, and your heart races with excitement, not fear.

When you finally tap on his chamber door, it creaks open—and there he is. Standing sleepy-eyed in just grey sweatpants and messy hair, looking at you like you are the sunrise.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers, grinning like a little boy with a secret.

You shrug, stepping in and tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe my favorite royal dork missed me too?”

He scoops you up instantly, making you yelp as he spins you once, then carries you to the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“This is why I’m marrying you,” he murmurs, tucking a blanket around you. “You break into my room in designer sleepwear just to cuddle.”

You curl into his arms, resting your cheek on his chest, grinning so wide it hurts. “I just wanted one last night before the tiaras and titles and all that royal glitter. Just you. Just me.”

“And I figured if I’m about to marry a prince, I deserve one last cuddle as your girlfriend.”

His fingers start drawing gentle shapes on your back, and he kisses your forehead with a soft hum. “It’s always gonna be just us,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re wearing a crown and making scary palace decisions while I’m late because I was too busy to admire my wife even in dreams.”

You giggle, snuggling closer. “And I’ll still smell like engine oil at state dinners.”

“And I’ll still sneak into your workshop to ‘borrow a wrench’ and end up making out with my wife next to a half-built machines,” he teases, eyes twinkling.

You whisper and laugh through the night—about honeymoon plans, about adopting a dog and naming it Clutch, about building a secret racecourse behind the palace.

At one point, you whisper, “You’re gonna be the best king this kingdom’s ever had.”

And he kisses your temple, brushing your hair back like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Only because you’re gonna be my queen, the coolest Queen of this kingdom.”

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm and full of love, the kind that isn’t loud or grand—but steady, soul-deep, and forever.

A/n: Sorry for late updates, guys. Office is actually hectic nowadays. 😭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

#jhope x reader #bts jhope #jhopesmut #jhopefanfic #hoseok fanfiction #jung hoseok fanfic #hoseoksmut #hoseok #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #kittenanwrites

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kuronarnze · 2 days ago

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aika's flowershop order #4

Barou Shoei x Reader !

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order by... anon !

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Pure Fluff Barou Shouei Headcanons

(aka the grumpy lion who falls stupidly hard for you and doesn’t know how to deal with it)

- First off: He is sooooo bad at admitting he likes you

- “Tch. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not helping you because I like you or anything. You’re just pathetic without me.”

- Bro literally pulled the "tsundere in denial but made it buff" trope.

- Still, he always walks you home. Always grabs your wrist when you're about to trip. Always carries your bag when it’s too heavy and then acts like it’s your fault. “Why the hell are you so weak?? …Give me that."

- He wakes up early and bakes you bread from scratch

- Listen. Barou is secretly domestic. Man loves routines. (You would call him maid barou sometimes to annoy him 😭😭)

- You once offhandedly said, “I like the smell of fresh bread in the morning.”

- He took that personally and now you’re waking up to his ✨sourdough supremacy✨

- But he will NEVER say it’s for you. He just sets it on your plate and crosses his arms like:

- “Eat. Don’t waste it. I didn’t slave away for nothing.”

(He 100% braided the dough so it looked cute. Don’t ask.)

- Cat dad energy

- Absolutely refuses to admit he’s a softie. But one day you found a stray kitten and said “Can we keep it?”

- His eye twitched for a full 10 seconds before sighing. “Fine. But I’m not taking care of it.”

(Cue him buying it the most luxurious cat tower you’ve ever seen.)

- You catch him whispering “King’s too good for you” to the cat when it climbs on your lap instead of his.

- Touch-averse until he’s not

- Acts like he doesn’t want cuddles. Sits 10 feet away on the couch. Arms crossed.

- But then gives in when you pout and go “...’kay. I’ll hug the cat instead.”

- “...Tch. Don’t. Come here.”

- Now you're in his lap, squished under 80kg of muscle and he’s hiding his face in your neck like the closet softie he is.

- Grumbles while playing with your fingers absentmindedly. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

- Nicknames?? Oh you bet

- Calls you “Peasant” jokingly, but gets SO flustered if you call him “Your Majesty” in return.

- “STOP THAT—don’t say it like that, it’s weird—”

- If you ever say “My King” while looking up at him??

- He malfunctions. Turns red. Walks away.

- Avoids you for 2 hours while yelling at himself internally.

- Barou is VERY protective (but lowkey about it)

- He’s not loud or flashy about protecting you.

- But if someone talks badly about you??

- His eyes go dark. He stands up. Everyone shuts up instantly.

- “You got a problem?”

- One glare from Barou and even the most talkative people turn into NPCs.

- If you ever get overwhelmed or anxious in a crowd, he’ll silently hold your hand, put you behind him, and guide you out. Doesn’t say a word—but grips your hand like it’s sacred.

- Bonus: He gets SO competitive when you play games together

- You win UNO once:

- “NO. REMATCH. I’M NOT LETTING YOU WIN BY LUCK.”

- If you beat him in Mario Kart, he deadass trains secretly so he can win next time.

- “I wasn’t trying last round. Don’t get cocky.”

(He 100% was trying.)

- But he lets you win sometimes when you look tired. Won’t admit it. Ever.

- But most of all…

- When he loves, he loves hard.

- He doesn’t half-ass it. He’s not great with words, but he shows you in everything:

- In how he lets you braid his hair,

- In how he always listens when you rant,

- In how he silently memorizes all your favorites and adapts to your pace.

- He once said (very softly, at 3AM, after kissing your forehead),

- “...You’re the only person I’d give the crown to.”

- And you knew, right then and there:

- The king had already chosen his queen.

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a/n: I noticed that I never wrote for barou, so I AM VERY SORRY IF HE IS OOC 🙏🙏 but honestly writing for barou was super fun :)) thank you for your purchase and thank you for reading 🫶

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back to aika's flowershop !!

orders that have been received !!

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bigmercc · 1 day ago

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Fame

You and your twin brother a rising singers in the city of Seoul but what your fans didn’t know was that the both of you were demons luring fans into giving you their souls so your master can be fed. But there’s competition for your number one spot will the two of you be able to keep your spot as number 1?

Y’all already know what song I’m about to put for this fic

Looking for something… yeah ohhh

Yeah!

FAME!

The stadium was practically vibrating at the bass of the music. “I’m gonna live forever” your fans, hypnotized by your voices pushed closer and closer to the stage “I’m gonna learn how to fly!” You and your twin strutted towards opposite sides reaching down and satisfying your fans “I feel it coming together” you sang feeling their souls exiting their bodies “People will see me and cry”.

You smiled sinisterly feeling their souls fly towards your master behind you taking the place of the sparklers. “I’m gonna make it to heaven” your brother sang as you both reached towards the sky with your hands with a look of longing. “Light up the sky like a flame” You looked back at your master's sparklers growing bigger and bigger with the newfound strength. “ I’m gonna live forever”

“Baby remember my name”

Click

“Their demons,” Mira said clenching her fists “They haven’t shown their patterns though how about we just wait it out for a second to make sure” Rumi reasoned “Rumi’s right we don’t know for sure how about we take a closer look?” Zoey offered as she ate her chips in her robes. “Not today though this couch is too comfy to get up from” she sighed sinking deeper into the couch.

“Zoey” “okay fine!”

Now in their disguises, they walked the streets of Seoul coming across a crowd surrounding a group of…boys? Oh, they’re debuting but something seemed off and there it was they flashed their patterns these well-dressed pastel-colored coordinated boys were stealing the souls of the local public! “They’re demons” “magicians! Oh yeah, totally demons” “So we have 7 very well-known demons on our hands”.

Now in their demon-hunting outfits, they decided to go after the Saja boys first believing that once the bigger group was down it be a piece of cake to take down you and your brother. Oh, how they were wrong it took all of their energy just chasing them around the bathhouse.

Fortunately, Rumi and Juni were able to agree right before the idol awards to help them win so the five of them could live a normal life but now they had to worry about the number one singers in Seoul you and your brother who so happened to be performing at the idol awards right before them.

“We’re almost there just a few more souls and I’ll be back to full strength” your master spoke through your vanity then faded away “I don’t want to do this” your brother sighed sinking into the bean bag chair “I know but she’s the only way to us living amongst humans” you sighed “as soon as it’s over with we can go out to eat as humans” you smiled.

Suddenly the intercom in your shared rooms blared “Twins you’re on in 15!” Said some member of the stage crew “All alright let’s get this over with” your brother sighed getting up and walking to your vanity “How do I look?” You asked standing up twirling in your tight mini dress open-toe heels and fluffy cropped jacket your hair styled in a high ponytail with your natural hair flowing down to the back of your knees. “Stunning but I still don’t know how you keep up with all of this hair” he spoke taking your hands in his “For a new life?” “For a new life.”

“And now introducing ____ and ____!” The host yelled walking off the stage as the crowd roared with cheers you sprinkled some dust in the fog machines to get a few souls but not for it to be noticeable you and your brother didn’t need much. You moved to the platform where your brother stood as the intro to your song began while the platform slowly arose and you sung.

“Looking for something…… yeah ohhhh!”

“Yeah”

“Fame!”

The both of you rose up to the level of the stage and began walking towards the middle “I’m gonna live forever!” “I’m gonna learn how to fly!”

“So that’s them?” Jinu asked staring at you specifically instead of your twin “She’s kinda pretty” Romance hummed smirking “Focus these two are our biggest threats” Rumi spoke.

“I feel it coming together, people will see me and cry!” You sang dancing with your twin “I’m gonna make it to heaven! Light up the sky like a flame” You and your twin walked towards opposite sides of the stage “I’m gonna live forever baby remember my name” You slowed down your singing to match the music.

“Alright now’s our time to strike,” Mira said getting up with the rest of the idols following close behind “First we cut the wires to the speakers so the crown will barely be able to hear them” Zoey spoke cutting the wires with one of her daggers “and if that doesn’t work?” Abby asked “Then we’ll have to get on the stage and battle it out” Mira shrugged “Now let’s see if the crowd can still hear them”.

The group ushered back to the side of the stage it took a minute for your mics to go out but when they did you looked over at your brother tapping his mic shrugging you grunted quietly as your patterns showed for a split second “So they are demons” Mira said cracking her knuckles.

You signaled to your brother as the part for you to begin singing came your eyes glowed green as you began using your demon voice “All my greatness, it doesn’t come for free”

“Okay, we have to stop this now!” Rumi yelled to the others “You five dummies go evacuate the arena and we’ll handle them” she yelled over the music wielding her sword “Did she just call us dummies?” One of the boys asked as they ran away from the stage.

“All my talent it doesn’t grow on trees take a breather you’ll take it all away”

“If the tops where you wanna stay!” Your voice rose to a higher pitch

“You gotta work hard to make it look easy!”

“How are we gonna get them to stop?” Zoey asked “I have an idea!” Rumi spoke” Remember when we did archery at the training grounds? Let’s get to that side of the arena and shoot them down!” “That…actually might work!” Mira admitted

“You gotta live fast to keep making that money!”

“If you want to be as famous as me you gotta work gotta work gotta work!”

“Alright aim then fire!” Rumi commanded as they shot 6 magical arrows toward you and your twin. Luckily you saw them coming and dogged them while protecting your oblivious brother “Watch out for those arrows” you whispered in his ear while whirling him to the other side of the stage “Thank you” he mouthed

“You gotta work hard” and “I’m gonna live forever!” you and your brother overlapped your lyrics while simultaneously dodging the arrows “Keep makin that money” “learn how to fly!”

“If you want to be as famous as me you gotta work, gotta work, gotta work!”

“The crowds leaving why is that?” You heard your master demand in your earpiece “I don’t know” you gritted your teeth “Take the ones at the bottom it’s more than enough” “Very well”

You snapped out of your daze “You gotta work hard to make it look easy” “If the tops where you wanna stay!” You and your brother met in the middle of the stage “You gotta live fast to keep making that money!”

“If you want to be as- baby remember my name!” You sang as the platform rose higher and higher not noticing Rumi aiming precisely at your neck and firing.

Suddenly you were cut off from your singing with an arrow lodged in your throat.

TO BE CONTINUED

Ahh my first time writing for these divas my writings kinda shaky cause I wrote all of this on my phone but I’ll try to get part two out as quickly as possible!!!

#Spotify #mercurywrites #saja boys x reader #zoey kpdh #zoey kpop demon hunters #rumi kpdh #rumi kpop demon hunters #mira kpdh #mira kpop demon hunters #baby saja #romance saja #abby saja #mystery saja #jinu saja boys #huntrix #kpop demon hunters

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untilwefind · 3 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/sleepy-hyperfixations/787801657479184384/jo-imagine-will-wrestle-with-mack-for-fun-all-the?source=share

hope you don't mind me asking buuut were you up to write about Will using wrestling to rub his dick subtle on Mack's ass 👉👈🥺

(Both think the other one is straight, so they both try to get themselves off by wrestling and rubbing their dicks subtle at each other)

Just Guys Being Dudes

Another fun one! You guys have some banger prompts lately...

The Sharks have practice at 7 a.m. the next morning, but Will’s wired. His body’s tired, legs buzzing from drills, shoulders loose from lifts, but his brain is chewing through itself. So he throws on sweats and drives down to the team gym, because at least then he can pretend he’s doing something about it.

It’s quiet. Dim. A couple of overhead fluorescents still hum above the weight racks. The mats in the back corner look freshly wiped down, the rubber floor giving off that faint chemically clean smell.

Mack is already there.

He’s sitting against the wall, legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. His hoodie’s halfway off his shoulders like he gave up mid-strip. His hair’s wet at the roots, curls damp and pushed back from his forehead.

Will stops short, and something slow curls in his chest. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Mack looks up. Shrugs. “Just felt like moving.”

“Same.” Will ambles over, lowering himself to the mat with a quiet groan. “God, I’m so sore.”

“That’s what you get for racing Eky on suicides.”

“He was talking shit! I had to.”

Mack huffs a laugh, and the edge of it slides warm under Will’s skin. They fall into easy silence. Mack stretches his arms above his head, t-shirt riding up to flash a strip of taut stomach. Will very intentionally does not look. Or if he does, it’s just for one second.

Just to take in the competition.

Will nudges him with a toe. “Wanna wrestle?”

Mack turns, one eyebrow raised. “Like… for real?”

Will shrugs, heart picking up pace despite himself. “Combat cardio. You know. Old school.”

Mack stares at him for a long beat. Then he slides his phone into his shoe and pulls his hoodie the rest of the way off. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Will wasn’t actually expecting him to say yes.

They square off in the middle of the mat, barefoot, grinning like idiots. It starts half-hearted. Will circling, Mack mimicking him like it’s a game. Which it is. Kind of.

Will lunges, gets a hand around Mack’s waist, tries to flip him. but Mack twists and counters like a goddamn snake, slamming his shoulder into Will’s side until Will topples backward.

They roll.

Will laughs. Mack grunts. Will shoves. Mack pins.

Will’s breath catches.

Mack’s weight is fully on top of him now, thighs bracketing Will’s hips, hands planted on either side of Will’s shoulders. He’s breathing hard. So is Will.

Their hips brush.

They both freeze.

Mack’s eyes flick down to Will’s mouth for half a second before darting back up. His face is unreadable. His thighs tighten slightly where they’re straddling Will’s.

Will swallows. His mouth feels dry.

He should move. He should roll away or make a joke or laugh this whole thing off, like he always does. But Mack is still on him. Still flushed. Still staring at him like he’s waiting for something.

The air is hot. Dense.

Finally, Mack pushes up and off, quick and smooth, already retreating toward the wall.

Will lies there for a second, blinking up at the ceiling.

Then he gets up. Grabs his water bottle. Forces out a grin.

“You win this round, Celebrini.”

Mack tosses him a smirk, but there’s something sharp behind it. “I always do.”

Will showers with the water on cold and jerks off with his forehead pressed to the tile, teeth gritted, hand fast and mean.

He doesn’t think about Mack.

He doesn’t think about how good it felt.

He doesn’t think about why he’s lying to himself.

---

They’re two months into the season and already half-dead from travel. Anaheim back-to-backs suck in theory. Less sleep, less prep, too many post-game media requests. But in practice, it’s mostly just sitting in a beige hotel room trying not to kill each other with passive-aggressive sighs.

Will’s got nothing to do and nowhere to go. Him and Mack aren't rooming this trip so naturally, at 10:37 p.m., he texts Mack.

u up?

gym mat looks lonely

There’s a long pause. Then:

5 mins

Will doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not already half-dressed.

He tosses on a hoodie over his thin base layer and slinks down to the hotel gym like some kind of degenerate. It smells like old sweat and fake citrus cleaner and the walls are lined with sad motivational posters: Hard Work Beats Talent When Talent Doesn’t Work Hard. Will almost takes a selfie beside one and sends it to Mack, but before he can, the door opens.

Mack walks in. Tank top. Compression shorts. A faint sheen of leftover post-game sweat still clinging to his collarbone. His hair’s a little flat on one side, like he was lying down before Will texted. He doesn’t smile.

“You’re actually serious about this?” he says, stepping onto the mat and toeing off his slides.

Will shrugs, already rolling his sleeves up. “Gotta keep the heart rate up.”

Mack raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue.

They start slow again. Almost cautious. Will circles like a shark, no pun intended, while Mack just watches him, solid and quiet, weight settled evenly through his hips like he’s waiting for the right moment to strike.

Will lunges.

Mack ducks. They collide.

It’s sharper this time. Less laughing. Less banter. Mack’s grip on Will’s biceps is tight and focused. Will plants his foot and pivots, tries to twist free, but Mack yanks his arm and takes them both down in a heap.

They roll. Will ends up on top for half a second before Mack flips them, slamming his thigh between Will’s legs and grinding down instinctively.

Will gasps.

Not loud. But enough.

Mack freezes. Will does too.

They’re pressed together from knees to chest, Mack’s arms caging him in, Will’s hands still clutched in Mack’s shirt. Will’s heart is hammering. His dick’s already half-hard and pinned awkwardly beneath the friction point of Mack’s thigh.

They both feel it.

Mack lifts his head, face unreadable. “Are you—”

“Sorry,” Will says, voice high and fast. “That was—I didn’t—”

He tries to shift his hips, but the movement only drags them together again. His stomach flips violently. Mack goes still, eyes darting between Will’s face and his mouth like he’s trying to solve a fucking equation.

Will’s breath stutters out. He thinks, kiss me, for one terrible second.

Mack blinks.

And then he’s up. Off Will, away from the mat, palms on his thighs as he catches his breath.

Will lies there for a second, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers. Then he sits up too fast and regrets it immediately.

“You good?” Mack asks, too casually, voice sandpaper-dry.

“Yeah,” Will croaks. “Totally.”

They don’t talk on the way back to the elevators. Don’t talk on the ride up to their floor. Mack scratches the back of his neck and mutters a “see you tomorrow” before disappearing into his room without looking back.

Will gets in his own bed and stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, hard again for no goddamn reason except that his body can’t seem to forget the feel of Mack’s weight, the friction, the sound he made when their hips slotted just right.

He tells himself it was an accident.

He knows he’s lying.

---

They win in regulation. A clean, hard-fought home game that leaves the locker room buzzing with leftover adrenaline and mid-season optimism.

Everyone’s going out after. Steakhouse downtown, maybe somewhere sleazy after that. Toff throws an arm around Will and chirps him about not being late to team dinner and Will laughs, promises to catch up.

But he doesn’t.

Because Mack’s already packing up in the corner. Quiet. Focused. Still humming with tension like his blood didn’t get the memo that the game’s over.

Will doesn’t even think about it. He just catches Mack’s eye across the room, jerks his chin slightly.

Mack nods.

They don’t say anything.

The facility’s dark by the time they sneak back in. Staff’s gone home. The mats in the back gym are still laid out, slightly askew from earlier warm-ups.

Will sheds his hoodie the moment they step inside. Mack follows suit, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off a second skin.

No warm-up. No jokes. They crash together like magnets.

Will shoves first. Mack resists. They lock arms and jostle, the air thick with breath and the squeak of socked feet on the mat. Mack’s t-shirt clings to his back in a way that makes Will’s throat go tight.

“You’re holding back,” Will grunts, digging in.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Mack growls, actually growls, and throws his weight into it.

Will goes down hard.

The air leaves his lungs in a rush as Mack straddles him, pinning Will’s wrists above his head like he’s done it a thousand times in his sleep. His thighs are pressed tight to Will’s hips. There’s nowhere to go. Nothing to do except—

Rock up.

It’s instinct. Muscle memory. Need.

Will does it once, just enough to feel. Mack’s breath hitches. His grip loosens.

Will blinks up at him.

Mack’s lips part like he’s going to say something. But nothing comes out.

And Will, God help him, does it again.

This time slower. Deliberate. His hard dick grinds against the unmistakable bulge in Mack’s compression shorts, and they both just... freeze.

It’s not an accident this time. It’s not a joke.

Mack’s hands drop away like Will’s skin is on fire.

Will doesn’t move. Can’t.

“I—” Mack starts, but his voice cracks, raw.

Will sits up, chest brushing Mack’s. “We should—”

“I know.”

Neither of them finish the thought.

Mack scrambles off first, yanking his shirt down over his waistband. Will doesn’t look. Or he does, but only for a second. Long enough to see the flush spreading across Mack’s throat, the too-tight set of his jaw.

They don’t speak as they gather their clothes. Don’t speak in the hallway. Don’t even glance at each other when they split at the locker room doors.

Will showers with the water scalding and one arm braced against the tile while he jerks himself off aggressively with the other.

He comes too fast, a groan tearing out of his chest that makes him bite his own hand.

It’s not the orgasm that wrecks him.

It’s how clearly he hears Mack’s voice in his head right after, soft and breathless and very, very real: “I’m not.”

Not straight.

Not pretending.

Not alone.

---

They lose in OT.

It’s not even a bad loss, just one of those games where nothing quite clicks, where the puck bounces the wrong way and everyone walks out of the rink with that twitchy, unfinished kind of energy.

Will’s buzzing. Not the good kind. He doesn’t want a shower beer or a group hang. He wants to hit something. Or someone.

Or—

Mack.

Mack, who sits two stalls over and doesn’t say a word the whole way through undressing. Mack, who’s been avoiding Will’s eyes for three days, ever since the last wrestling session ended with Will on his back and Mack halfway hard on top of him, breathless and terrified and still not kissing him.

Will doesn’t ask this time. He just gets up, yanks a hoodie over his head, and walks out of the room without saying a word.

Mack follows ten seconds later.

The gym’s empty. Dim. Quiet.

Neither of them speaks.

Will throws his bag down beside the mat and turns around just in time for Mack to shove him, hard, full-body and loaded with something dangerous.

They crash together like it’s been waiting to happen. No circling. No warming up. Just arms locking, chests slamming, Will’s heel catching on the edge of the mat as they tumble to the floor.

Mack lands on top. It’s not graceful. It’s hot.

Will grabs him by the waist and yanks him down until their hips collide.

Mack stutters out a groan. “Don’t.”

Will’s voice is wrecked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t—fuck—don’t start this unless you’re gonna finish.”

Will huffs, grinning through his own dizzy pulse. “Pretty sure we’ve only been starting things.”

Mack breathes in deep, like he’s bracing for impact.

Then he kisses Will like a fight.

It’s teeth and spit and weeks of unsaid things, all of it breaking open in the space between their mouths. Mack groans when Will grabs the back of his neck. Will grinds up into him without shame this time, no half-excuses or pretend slippage. Hust pure, unbearable friction.

Mack is hard against him. Fully, obviously hard. And when Will reaches down between them to palm him through his shorts, Mack jerks like he’s been shocked.

“You sure?” Will mutters, even as he palms him again.

Mack pants against his neck. “I’ve been sure since fuckin’ camp.”

Will laughs, stunned. “You—”

“Shut up,” Mack breathes, rolling his hips. “God, shut up.”

They fumble out of their clothes with all the elegance of horny teenagers. Mack’s still wearing his base layer top when Will gets his pants down. Will ends up shirtless in his compression shorts, kneeing his own water bottle out of the way as Mack yanks them down.

Their dicks brush and it’s like a live wire snaps between them. Both of them gasp.

Will spits in his hand, reaches down between them, and wraps his hand around them both. Mack groans, loud this time, helpless. His hand comes up to cover Will’s, guiding the pace, their hips grinding in time.

“I’m not gonna last,” Mack whispers, forehead pressed to Will’s.

“Yeah, no shit,” Will breathes back, kissing him again, softer this time. Slower. “We've been edging each other for weeks, Celly.”

The nickname hits its mark. Mack lets out a wrecked little sound, hips stuttering.

They rut together like animals, skin sticking, hands slipping, breathing like it hurts.

Will loses it first, hips jerking, voice catching on Mack’s name as he spills between them.

Mack follows half a second later, gasping into Will’s mouth, whole body curling inward like he’s trying to crawl under Will’s skin.

They lie there after, tangled and slick and stupidly content. The room smells like sweat and sex and cheap gym mats. Mack’s cheek is pressed to Will’s bare chest. Will’s hand is still on his thigh.

Neither of them speaks for a long time.

Eventually, Mack says, “So… combat cardio?”

Will laughs. “Best workout of my life.”

Mack hums. “We’re gonna have to stretch next time.”

Will’s heart trips a little. He turns his head, looks at Mack, really looks at him, flushed and soft and smiling just barely.

“There’s gonna be a next time?” he asks, quiet.

Mack rolls his eyes, fond. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

#willmack #macklin celebrini #will smith hockey #mackwill #wacklin

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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

Note

Reader is teammates with LH44 they’re h2h fighting for championship , trading wins every other week BUT surprisingly without any clash. They’re respectful to each other in front of everyone. Media is shocked team so happy but reality is something else. They despise each other and have a very toxic situationship where each week they take it out in bed. But at the end of the season they fall in love.

you want to beat me, but you want to fuck me more - LH44 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: You and Lewis Hamilton are Mercedes teammates, locked in a season-long war for the championship — on the track and in bed. What begins as pure rivalry turns into secret hate sex, escalating across every continent until the tension combusts into something darker, deeper, and impossible to ignore. From Bahrain to Abu Dhabi, you fight, fuck, and finally fall — not just across finish lines, but into each other.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, hate sex, rivals to lovers, enemies with benefits, degradation, choking, praise, rough sex, mirror sex, public risk (garage, jet), competitive power dynamics, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), dom/sub tension, orgasm control, impact play (light slapping), possessive behaviour, emotional repression, slow-burn love confession, race-to-race psychological warfare, team politics, and emotional vulnerability masked by performance. Contains angst, obsession, championship tension, and a messy but earned emotional payoff.

The first time you look at Lewis Hamilton and think, I hate you, he’s laughing on the radio. Pre-season testing. Bahrain. You’ve just finished your first quali sim. P2. Solid. Quick. The car feels good. You feel better. You pull into the garage, unclip your belts, and hear his voice echo through your headset:

“Box this lap. Nice one, guys. Car’s feeling mega.”

P1. Of course.

Your engineer pats your shoulder. “Still a good run.”

You smile like you believe it. You don’t. Because Lewis Hamilton doesn’t win sessions. He erases them. Quietly. Easily. Smiling like it’s muscle memory. You hate him for it.

Toto is thrilled. The car is fast. You and Lewis are both dialled in. You trade purple sectors in every session like it’s a private war, but in the garage, everything’s clean. Calm. Professional. The media calls it a dream lineup. Two GOATs. No drama. You both play the game perfectly.

In interviews, you say things like “It’s an honour to work with Lewis.”

He says “She’s incredibly quick. I’m impressed.”

But behind closed doors? It’s a fucking bloodbath.

Australia. Race 1. You win. Barely. By 0.8 seconds. He’s faster in Sector 2. You’re quicker off the line. You manage your tyres better. Lewis pulls up beside you in parc fermé, helmet still on, and doesn’t even look at you.

You don’t care. Until the podium. Until he kisses your cheek for the cameras and murmurs, “Enjoy it. It won’t happen again.”

You laugh. Quiet. Cruel. “Wanna bet?”

Jeddah. Race 2. He wins.

He walks into the cooldown room like he owns it. Sweat glistening. Helmet tucked under his arm. He looks at you once and smirks. You clench your jaw. The cameras are on, so you hug him. Light. Controlled. For the team.

Later that night, in the hotel? You slam your suite door open and find him already waiting. Sitting on your couch. Water bottle in hand. Legs spread. “You’re breaking early into Turn 13,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

He shrugs. “Helping.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You cross the room in four steps. Grab him by the collar. Drag him up. And kiss him like it’s a fucking war.

It’s always like that. Race after race. Country after country. You trade pole positions like sex toys. One weekend it’s you on top. Next week it’s him. The team is obsessed. The press calls it historic.

And you? You spend every Sunday night fucking Lewis like your contract depends on it.

It’s not romance. It’s rage. He fucks you hard. Rough. Hands on your throat. Teeth on your shoulder. Always up against a wall. Always with his medals still around his neck. You claw his back like you want to ruin him. He tells you to shut up with your own panties shoved in your mouth.

You never sleep over. You don’t text during the week.

But when you race? He watches every onboard like a man possessed.

And when you beat him? He fucks you harder.

Imola. Mid-season. You win again.

And this time, the cooldown room is silent. You sit across from him. Legs crossed. Calm. He’s staring at the floor like he’s trying not to explode. You sip your water. “Everything okay, teammate?”

He lifts his eyes. They’re dark. Dangerous. “You think this is funny?” he growls, just low enough for the cameras not to hear.

You smile sweetly. “I think you’re sexy when you lose.”

He stands so fast the water bottle topples. “See you later, princess,” he snaps, walking out.

You finish your water. Slowly. He’s going to fuck you so hard tonight you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You’re counting on it.

And he does. He slams you into your suite wall without a word. Mouth on your throat. Hands everywhere. He lifts you, fucks you against the mirror, teeth on your earlobe, voice pure gravel. “You think I can’t take you apart?” he snarls.

“Try me.”

He makes you come twice before he even unzips his suit. You slap him when he finishes. He kisses you after. Hard.

The world keeps watching. You keep performing.

Singapore. You share a front row and a flight.

Japan. You trade fastest laps mid-race and share a shower post-podium.

Nobody suspects a thing. You don’t even speak to each other in public anymore. Not unless it’s press. But every race is foreplay now. The slow build of strategy. The tension of quali. The first corner. The DRS zone. The finish line. And then you fuck.

In hotel rooms. In garages. Once, dangerously, in a private jet bathroom while Susie Wolff sat two rows up. It’s not sustainable. Everyone sees fire. No one sees the burn.

Silverstone is electric. The kind of electricity that crackles in your blood and makes everything feel more alive than it should.

Your car’s fast. So is his. The gap in the standings? Five points. The pressure? Unbearable. Mercedes wants a clean result. The media wants drama. The fans want war. And Lewis? Lewis wants to destroy you.

Qualifying is biblical. You’re both in the zone, dead silent over radio, dialled in, lap after lap like poetry with teeth. Q3 comes down to thousandths. You’re on a flyer. Purple sector 1. Green sector 2. Clean exit from Chapel.

But Lewis? Lewis finds three tenths in Maggots and Becketts like he’s cheating the laws of physics. He takes pole by 0.008 seconds.

You pull into parc fermé with your visor still down. Hands trembling on the wheel. He climbs out beside you, calm, collected, smiling for the crowd.

You want to kill him. He pulls you into a podium hug that looks tender from the outside. It’s not.

“You brake too early into Copse,” he murmurs into your ear.

You smile for the cameras. “Your ego’s too big to fit in the cockpit.”

He kisses your cheek. You dig your nails into his side. The photos are stunning. The truth is violent.

The race is hell. You start P2. Hold it through Turn 1. You’re quicker through Sector 1, but Lewis blocks every fucking move. Lap after lap, you hound him. You’re faster. Smarter. Hungrier.

But he’s home. And Silverstone loves him.

Every overtake attempt is met with deafening boos from the crowd. Every lock-up from him is forgiven. You almost get him on Lap 38, divebomb into Stowe, but he closes the door like a fucking assassin. He wins.

You finish P2. Again.

And when he takes the flag? You don’t even look at him.

The cooldown room is unbearable. He throws you a bottle of water. You don’t catch it. You sit. Quiet. Boiling.

The cameras are on. The world is watching. “Still teammates,” Lewis says, to no one in particular.

You don’t respond. He looks over. Tilts his head. “Silent treatment?”

You breathe in. Count to five. “I will ruin you,” you whisper.

He smiles. “You already have.”

Later that night, the paddock clears. The parties start. And you hide in your motorhome, boiling in your own skin, staring at the ceiling, vibrating with rage and want and regret and shame.

Until he walks in without knocking.

“Get the fuck out,” you snap.

He doesn’t. He closes the door behind him. Locks it. Stares at you. “Say it,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “Say what?”

“Say you want me.”

You snort. “I’d rather choke.”

He steps closer. “Then choke on my cock.”

Your slap lands hard. His head snaps sideways. He turns back. Eyes blazing. Smiles. Then kisses you like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning since Bahrain.

You fuck like you hate each other. Because you do. You rip his shirt open. He tears your hoodie over your head. Your bra hits the floor. His teeth find your shoulder. You shove him against the wall, bite his lip, scratch his back until he hisses.

He throws you on the couch. Rips your joggers down. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. “Wanna be on top now?” he growls.

“Fuck you.”

“Then ride me.”

You straddle him. Sink down slow. Devastating. He’s big. Thick. Buried deep. You rock your hips and he groans like he’s dying. Your nails dig into his chest. He grabs your throat. “You think this makes you better than me?” you whisper.

“I know I fuck you better than anyone else ever will.”

You slap him again. He comes inside you ten minutes later, biting your neck, growling your name.

You come twice. Once riding him. Once against the mirror when he drags you there after. Still inside you. Still angry. You can’t breathe. You don’t want to.

Afterwards, you lie side by side on the floor. Sweaty. Bruised. Spent. You stare at the ceiling. He stares at you. “What are we doing?” you ask.

He exhales. “I don’t know.”

You laugh. Bitter. Soft. “I hate you.”

He nods. “Yeah.” Pause. “But I think I love you too.”

You blink. He doesn’t take it back.

You roll over. Press your forehead to his. “Then stop racing me like it’s war.”

“Stop fucking me like you want me dead.”

You both laugh. It hurts. But it’s real.

There are seven races left in the season. You’re tied on points. The whole world thinks Mercedes is making history. And you are. Just not the way they think.

Las Vegas. The most ridiculous fucking place on the calendar. Neon sin, fake royalty, desert heat that doesn’t let go even at 2am. It’s loud, synthetic, chaotic, perfect for Formula 1. And terrible for your sanity. Because Mercedes, in all their genius, has scheduled a “Team United” press tour before the race weekend even begins.

You and Lewis. Together. On stage. On camera. Sitting two feet apart in matching polos while journalists ask if you’ll crash each other in the final races. And all you can think about is how he fucked you against the mirror in Silverstone with his hand around your throat, moaning your name like a secret he couldn’t keep anymore.

You haven’t spoken since. Not really. Just texts about set-up strategy and flight changes. Cold. Polite. Calculated. It’s what the team wants. But not what either of you need.

The event is a media wet dream. A rooftop lounge. Strip view. Gold lights. Cheap champagne. You’re in a black dress, hair up, lips glossy. Lewis is in a suit that’s almost too tight. Chain visible. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

He looks like he wants to kill you. Or fuck you. Probably both.

The interviewer, some overexcited American podcast bro, starts asking about respect. About teamwork. About how the two fastest drivers in the world manage to coexist without tearing each other apart.

You smile. Sweet. “We trust each other.”

Lewis smirks. “It’s mutual destruction.”

The room laughs. You glance at him. He doesn’t look back.

Later, there’s an afterparty. The rooftop turns to a blur of noise and bad decisions. Lando’s dancing on a couch. Toto’s talking to a Red Bull exec in hushed tones. Champagne’s everywhere.

You lean on the railing. Breathe in dry heat. Try to relax. Then he’s beside you. Silent. Close. He doesn’t say your name.

He just murmurs: “Do you want to come upstairs or should I fuck you right here?”

You don’t flinch. “Upstairs. But only because I don’t want to be banned from another rooftop.”

He smirks. Ten minutes later, you’re in the penthouse suite. The curtains are open. The Strip glows beneath you. And Lewis? Lewis is already undressing you with his eyes.

“You think you’re winning this championship?” he says, pulling your dress off in one slow motion.

“I know I am.”

He grabs your jaw.

“You’re fucking delusional.”

You laugh. “You’re obsessed.”

He backs you against the glass. The city lights make your skin glow. He drops to his knees. “You look good up there,” he murmurs. “Might make the fans think I worship you.”

You smile. “Don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slides your panties down. Kisses your thigh. And eats you like it’s vengeance. Tongue deep. Slow at first. Then faster. Fingers curling inside you while your hips grind against the window. You moan his name. Loud. Wrecked.

He doesn’t stop until your knees buckle. You come hard. Crying. Nails in his hair. And then he stands. Mouth glistening. “On your knees.”

You drop instantly. Unzip his trousers. Pull his cock out. It’s thick. Hard. Leaking already. You lick the tip. Slow. Tease him.

He groans. Fists your hair. “Open your mouth.”

You do. He fucks your face like punishment. Slow thrusts that get deeper, dirtier. You gag. He moans. Mutters things under his breath. “Look so fucking good like this.”

“My perfect little problem.”

“You want me to come in your mouth like you don’t hate me?”

You moan around him. He comes with a grunt. Hot and heavy. You swallow everything. Then he lifts you. Throws you on the bed. And fucks you again. This time, it’s different. He’s desperate. Thrusts deep. Kisses softer. His hand cradles your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You don’t get it,” he whispers. “You drive me fucking insane.”

“You love it,” you breathe.

“I think I love you.”

Silence. Then his thrusts get slower. More deliberate. Like he’s saying it with every inch. You come again. Crying his name. He finishes inside you. Forehead to yours. You don’t speak after. Just lie there. Breathing the same air. Staring at the Vegas lights. Pretending it means nothing. Even though it means everything.

In the morning, the curtains are still open. Lewis is gone. But there’s a note on the pillow. “We’ll finish this in Abu Dhabi.”

And beneath it, his chain. Yours now. Just like the rest of him.

The sun sets over Abu Dhabi like it always does: warm, golden, final.

One race left. You and Lewis. Equal on points. The world is watching. Sky Sports calls it historic. Toto calls it “a team win no matter what.” Netflix calls in five extra cameras.

And you? You sit in your driver room, helmet beside you, gloves folded, and try not to think about the way Lewis kissed you in Vegas like it was the end of the world. Because he hasn’t spoken to you since.

No texts. No looks. Nothing. Just strategy briefings and DRS talk and empty eye contact across the hospitality floor.

He’s keeping his distance. Because if he touches you again, he’ll break. And if you touch him again, you’ll fall. You swore you’d never fall.

Qualifying is a knife fight. You take provisional pole. He snatches it back with one lap to go. The gap? 0.012 seconds.

He doesn’t celebrate. You don’t cry.

You walk past each other in parc fermé like strangers. But the cameras don’t miss it. The way he stares at you. The way you hesitate. The world is watching. But neither of you are really here anymore. You’re both already in tomorrow.

Race day.

Lewis is P1. You’re P2. The championship is one clean start away. And you feel sick. Your engineer talks through warm-up. Strategy. Pit windows. You nod. Smile. Pretend. But your hands are shaking on the wheel. And when you line up on the grid, visor down, engine humming, the air shatters. Because Lewis speaks into his comms. Quiet. A message for you.

“Tell her to please drive safe.”

You breathe in. Then reply.

“Only if he does.”

The lights go out. And everything else disappears.

The race is chaos. Tire smoke. ERS drain. DRS games. Every corner a battleground. You fight like hell. So does he. Clean. Violent. Respectful. But by Lap 47, he’s still ahead. Your tires are dying. His are worse. You’ve got one shot left. A double DRS zone. You line it up. Open wing. Breathe once.

And go. The move is insane. Outside line. Late on the brakes. He sees you. Moves just enough. You take the lead. Lap 50. Lap 51. Lap 52. The gap: two seconds.

You win. You win the fucking championship.

The radio explodes. Cheers. Screams. Fireworks. But all you hear is your own heartbeat. You pull into parc fermé. Hands numb. Face soaked in champagne before you even unclip your belts. Mechanics screaming. Reporters yelling.

You look up. Just once. And see Lewis. Standing at the back of the garage. Still in his helmet. Watching. You know he won’t come over. You know why. Because if he touches you now, in front of the world, he’ll crack. And if you see his eyes, you’ll break too.

So you smile for the cameras. Lift the trophy. Wave. And pretend.

You find him later. Not in his driver room. Not in hospitality. Not in the garage. But in your room. Sitting on the couch, still in his fireproofs. Helmet off. Hands in his lap. Silent. You close the door. Don’t say anything. Just look at him. And he looks wrecked.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He doesn’t. So you walk over. Drop the trophy on the counter. Climb into his lap. And kiss him. Soft. Real. He pulls back first. Barely. “You won,” he murmurs.

You nod. “You okay?”

He exhales. “I don’t care about the title,” he says. “I care about you.”

You freeze. Then whisper, “Say it again.”

He touches your cheek. “I care about you.”

Your throat tightens. “You hate me.”

“I loved you,” he breathes. “Even when I hated you.”

You kiss him again. Slower.

“I thought I had to beat you to be worthy of you,” he whispers. “But you were always what I wanted.”

“You have me.”

He closes his eyes. “Do I?”

You straddle him fully now. Your forehead against his. His hands on your thighs. His breath ragged. “Take me,” you say. And he does.

This time is different. No anger. Just need. He carries you to the bed like you’re something sacred. Peels your race suit off inch by inch. Kisses every mark. Every scar. Your chest. Your knees. Your fingers.

When he fucks you, it’s slow. Deep. He whispers your name like a prayer. Tells you you’re beautiful. Tells you he’s sorry. Tells you he’s yours. You cry when you come. He kisses your cheeks. You make love like people who survived something. Because you did. Because you made it. Together.

You wake up with his chain around your neck. His hand on your waist. His heart under your palm. And when you look at him, sleepy, raw, soft, he just smiles. “Champ.”

You kiss him. “Forever.”

The media still thinks you hate each other. The team still thinks it’s a miracle you didn’t crash. And you? You know the truth. You didn’t cross the line first. You crossed it together.

#lh44 #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton smut #f1 fic #f1 smut #formula 1 smut #f1 grid x reader #f1 x reader

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jalebi-weds-bluetooth · 2 days ago

Text

IPKKND OS: Slip of Tongue

Sangeet was supposed to be a friendly family ritual.

A charming little dance competition between the bride's and groom's sides - a harmless pre-wedding tradition to bond, laugh, and mildly embarrass oneself on stage while attempting vaguely synchronized Bollywood moves.

Again, that's what it was supposed to be.

Until Arnav Singh Raizada decided to turn it into Dance India Dance: Apocalypse Edition over a mere challenge by Khushi Kumari Gupta.

Who now stood in the middle of Shantivan’s garden, lehenga flaring, bangles clinking with her hands on hips, chin jutted out and eyes ablaze with moral indignation.

"You are a cheater!" she yelled at his back.

Arnav Singh Raizada didn’t bother to look up from his phone.

“This is a family dance competition!” Khushi yelled again.

“Yeah, excuse me-,” Arnav signaled NK, "NK please tell her it's a competition and Khushi... try to keep up.”

Khushi gasped at his insult. Trust Arnav to find inventive ways of ridiculing her!

"Haan Nanheji, what else can a talentless man do?" Khushi smiled as Arnav stiffened, turned slowly toward her, arms folded, jaw sharp enough to slice through the tension.

Now, she had his attention.

"Excuse me?" he said, like her accusation had personally offended his entire bloodline.

The said bloodline had stopped whatever they were doing in the name of dancing and watched the battle that was yet to begin.

Khushi marched toward him, dupatta flying like a battle flag. "You’ve flown in professional choreographers and actors for Jiji's wedding?! Who does that? It’s a wedding, not Jhalak Dikhhla Ja!"

Arnav took a single step forward and stopped her march, his eyes zeroed straight on hers.

The intensity always, always, threw her off.

But it was not the time to think of those things. Her accusations had barely begun!

Regaining her composure she began her tirade, "So what’s next, backup dancers in silver jumpsuits? Fireworks? Smoke machines?!"

"You're overreacting," Arnav replied, going back to his phone for a message from Aman.

"Oh, am I?" she snatched his phone. "You are not even calling actors who are Jiji and Jijaji's favorite - no, no you're straight up calling Hrithik Roshan AND Shahid Kapoor to perform in OUR SANGEET FROM YOUR END. HOW DARE YOU! HEY DEVI MAIYYA THEY ARE NOT EVEN FAMILY."

"Do they remember it's our sangeet?" Akash whispered to Payal.

"Akash ji, I don't think they even remember this is our wedding." Payal replied, hoping Buaji isn't around to whack Khushi for yelling at Arnav.

Even if he deserved it.

"Khushi, just accept that you're afraid of losing." Arnav grabbed both her wrists with one hand, plucked his phone from her fingers and smirked at Khushi, who had turned red in rage.

Khushi scoffed, and freed her hands from his. "Oh it's not me who is afraid of losing. Because you wouldn’t need to ‘win’ so desperately by hiring others if you could actually dance. Admit it. You’ve got two left feet and a fragile ego."

He stepped closer, just enough to crowd her personal space - not that Khushi ever backed down.

"You think I can’t beat you on that stage?" he said, nostrils flaring at her insult.

"You?" She laughed. "Even Lakshmi ji can dance better than you-" on cue, the goat blared nearby. Arnav, for once, really craved a mutton biryani. Khushi gave Lakshmi a high five in the air.

Arnav's jaw twitched. "Khushi-"

"What?"

"On that stage, I could you eat you out in a sec-"

His mouth clamped shut a second too late.

Silence.

A pause.

Then, full stop.

Arnav’s breath caught.

His eyes widened fractionally.

Khushi blinked.

Arnav blinked.

They blinked at each other.

The world froze. Akash looked like he'd swallowed his own tongue. Payal had turned a curious shade of crimson. Anjali faintly murmured, “Not like this Chhote...” NK wheezed with barely-contained laughter.

Khushi's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again like a dying fish.

Then - in what could only be described as a tactical retreat - Arnav turned on his heel and walked away.

-- -- --

Arnav didn’t sleep that night. He lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling like it had wronged him.

He tried to be logical. Maybe she didn’t know what it meant.

Maybe she was just embarrassed because he’d shouted something vaguely weird in public.

Maybe—

No.

Khushi, had very briefly, looked at his lips before he left.

He had heard the slightest, softest gasp.

Which was worse - making an image lodge itself in his brain.

Khushi.

Under him.

Eyes dark.

Lips parted.

Calling his name. In soft, sweet, gasps.

He flung a pillow over his face.

This was torture.

-- -- --

The next morning, the rest of the family acted like nothing had happened - bless their collective denial.

But Khushi?

She acted like he was contagious.

If he stepped into the kitchen, she evaporated. If he glanced at her across the room, she snapped her head away like he was staring into her soul.

And while ignorance was bliss, a part of him felt like an apology was due. Even if that apology was like a thousand thorns on his tongue.

He wouldn't want to embarrass Khushi in public.

-- -- --

Khushi drowned herself in jalebis. Walked into a tree. Told Payal she was just “hot” when she was visibly sweating bullets.

“We need to talk,” Arnav said - having appeared from nowhere. How does he keep doing that?

Khushi spun, startled. "Talk?"

"About yesterday."

"What are you even talking about?" she said, too fast. Too fake. Arnav rolled his eyes at her terrible lie.

"Khushi, you know what I meant.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her cheeks flushed.

And then she exploded.

“Is that what you want?! A girl who doesn’t know anything? A clueless little thing you can shock and corrupt and then brag about? Is that your thing, Arnav Singh Raizada?!”

He took a sharp step back. “What the f—? No!”

“You want some poor naive girl who doesn’t even know what it means so you can-so you can teach her?! You disgusting, horrible, cocky, ALPHA MALE- no-flower-giving, no-dating, no-LOVE-having—"

“Khushi-”

“—Laad Governor with no heart and no shame and - what the hell kind of man are you?!”

"THE ONE WHO WANTS TO SAY SORRY."

That made her pause.

He took a slow breath, the kind that meant he was gearing up to be serious. “I shouldn’t have said that. Not like that. Not in public.”

“And I just needed you to know that,” he added, almost awkwardly.

Khushi didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “It's not that Arnav ji...”

That made him look up.

“What does make me want to hurl a chappal at your handsome face is that Arnav Singh Raizada doesn’t even know how to date someone!”

He blinked. “What?”

“To what extent must I analyze you? Where are the flowers? Where’s asking a girl out with words and not…LED screens and groin-level hip thrusts?”

“I didn’t hip-thrust at you.”

“You THOUGHT about it.”

He looked genuinely offended. “What the f-no, I didn’t! What's wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with me is that you're not normal!” she cried. “You’re the kind of man who seduces women by glaring at them across rooms and then wonders why we’re all confused! What am I supposed to do, Laad Governor? Paint a signboard that says FLIRT WITH ME, YOU BRICK WALL?”

He stared at her. “You want me to flirt with you?”

“YOU’RE MISSING THE POINT.”

"You have a point?"

"I do! You can't even take me out and you're straight into eat-" Khushi clamped her hands over her mouth.

"Hey Devi Maiyya," she shrieked, and fled with her dignity on the floor.

Arnav stood in stunned silence.

And then slowly, a smile crept across his face.

Because she had just handed him the playbook.

-- -- --

That night, Khushi curled up under her blanket with a mountain of jalebis and a heart rate comparable to a dhol beat.

What had come over him? What had come over her?!

How had they gone from talking about a dance competition to... to whatever in the world these things are.

And he didn't have to apologize. They both were had foot in the mouth disorder.

She tried reading a romance novel.

Mistake.

The hero's name was Arman. And in Chapter 4, he was eating strawberries off the heroine’s-

She threw the book across the room. Then quickly rescued it and put it in her secret drawer. She would die before anyone got to know what she read.

Clutching her dupatta, she tried to screw her eyes shut to sleep.

She was in a red saree. The pallu floated like in the wind. A man stood by a rain-soaked window, transparent white shirt clinging to his chest in a way that would definitely get a sanskaar warning on Doordarshan. 'Teri Meri' swelled in the background. She ran into his arms. There was spinning. Wrist-grabbing. A full-blown neck kiss that would put SRK to shame. Wait... why did the man look familiar? And then, with one hand, Arnav... Arnav! reached behind and tugged at the dori of her blouse.

Khushi sat up in bed with a gasp.

“Hai Devi Maiyya!”

Hands over her mouth. Wide-eyed. Very, very awake.

And so incredibly flustered.

She couldn’t face him.

She wouldn’t face him.

-- -- --

Devi Maiyya disagreed.

Khushi and her friend had practiced 'Teri Meri' as a mockery. As to how Jijaji and Jiji didn't really have a conflict but created this dramatic love story out of nothingness.

But the funny commentary CD and her friend - were both delayed so she was left on the stage in her green saree and just the original soundtrack.

And Arnav showed up. Sans the actors and choreographers - who were apparently cancelled last minute.

Arnav and Khushi danced.

He made her feel the rhythm.

And Khushi's heart absolutely misbehaved.

Because he let her win in more ways than one.

-- -- --

Khushi ran into the guest room, clutching her heart and knocking over carpet into the bed where there were a few things.

A white rose, a box of jalebis, a long rectangular box that she suspected had bangles and a handwritten note that was impossible to decipher.

Blue Orchid, 8pm, Saturday?

She stared at the note for three solid minutes.

She squeaked. Then panicked. Then almost fainted. Then screamed into a pillow and promptly knocked over a stack of bangles.

And of course — at that exact moment — he walked in.

"Khushi."

"Ji Arnav ji," she panted, snapping back to poise like she hadn’t just done the Macarena of joy.

"Tum theek ho?" She nodded so hard at his question that her head could've nearly fallen off.

And then, he stepped in.

Arnav Singh Raizada, in all his devastating, smirking calm.

“Uh… someone left this,” she said, clutching the note like a weapon.

Arnav raised his eyebrow. So this is how she was going to play it.

"Someone?" He asked.

"Someone," Khushi shrugged, twisting the end her saree between her poor fingers.

"Khushi. Kumari. Gupta." Arnav punctuated each word with a step towards her, making her hit the wall behind her.

"N-not like this." Khushi whispered, closing her eyes.

"But Khushi... if not like this-" Arnav tucked her hair behind her ear, "then how will I tell you that-"

Khushi gripped his hands, hoping whatever Arnav was planning quickly got over-no-no-it lasted long enough for him to not change his mind!

Hey Devi Maiyya she was not ready for a kiss! She needed at least five more minutes to scream.

"T-tell me what A-Arnav ji?"

"That Di is calling you downstairs." Arnav stepped back and hid a smile at her obvious disappointment.

Khushi turned red - this time in anger - and picked up the rectangle box to fling it at him.

"Khushi! The bangles will break!" Arnav ducked.

"HA! YOU BOUGHT IT FOR ME!" Khushi cheered,

"I knew it! And who leaves notes without signing their name? What if it was for someone else? What if someone else wrote this? Must I assume everything written around me is by you? You and your God complex. And okay this is cute... but-but I don't know why you're doing this. Tell me why? You can buy these things for me but can you tell me-"

She stopped.

Because Arnav had leaned in and kissed her cheek. Quiet. Certain. Just once.

It was over before she could inhale.

"I hope that answers your questions," he murmured.

Khushi blinked. Brain buffering. And then, on impulse, she stood on tiptoe and planted a quick, nervous kiss on his cheek too.

Arnav - who had faced boardrooms, buyouts, and Buaji - actually looked startled.

"I-uh-okay so if we're doing this, then-then you can’t just show up in your car. Buaji will have a heart attack. And Happy ji’s garage is too crowded, also oil stains. No, no, maybe you stand near the paan stall and I 'coincidentally' come for... for tamarind-no, that’s not believable-OH DEVI MAIYYA."

Arnav folded his arms, watching her with quiet disbelief and far too much fondness.

"Khushi."

She looked up, mid-rant.

"It's not a heist. Just a dinner."

"It’s not just dinner! It’s our first proper-thing. And our families are nosy. And your face is too famous. And I panic around candlelight. And I don’t know what fork to use. And-"

"Khushi."

"Haan?!"

"We’ll go to dinner."

"That's what I’m trying to figure out!"

"In Delhi. Like adults. I’ll pick you up at 8. Ring the bell. Say hello to Buaji. Like a normal human man. She won't question me at all"

He reached for her hand and linked their fingers. Gently, not claiming. Just there.

She stared at their joined hands.

"...Okay, but if Buaji throws a chappal at you, I did warn you."

"I’ll bring a helmet."

Khushi laughed.

"Fine," she muttered, cheeks pink. "Come at 8. Ring the bell. Say you’re here to discuss… lights. Wedding lights. That’s believable, right?"

"Not even a little."

"Whatever, just bring jalebis. She’ll forgive anything. You're beginning to be her favorite anyway - ever since your advertisement for the steel factory. And if nothing else, praise the company or the fabric of the sarees she stiches." Khushi chuckled.

Only Arnav could defend the Guptas gift by citing the revenue of the company that made the steel thali.

He laughed under his breath. "Okay."

"And," she added, voice soft, "don’t forget to bring yourself."

"Khushi... I think that's the plan."

-- -- --

Khushi wore the bangles that night.

And the next day.

And to the mandap rehearsals and while eating laddoos and while yelling at NK about choreo counts. She wore them to sleep, even though Payal teased her about it.

One night, Arnav noticed.

He was helping her up after she tripped over yet another strategically misplaced rug in Shantivan.

"You're still wearing these?" he asked, catching her wrist.

Khushi shrugged. “They’re pretty. They go with everything.”

“You wear them all the time?” he asked casually, eyes flicking to the glass bangles.

Khushi looked down. “Haan. All the time.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Impossible.”

“Oh, it is very possible!” she huffed. “While eating, yelling, dancing, fighting - oh, remind me to tell you how Hari Prakash ji said jalebis can't be sugar-free, I mean who is the halwai's daughter here? Anyway, yes, fighting, sleeping, bathing-”

Arnav smirked and stepped closer. “Bathing?”

Khushi blinked.

Blushed.

Internally screamed.

The fairy lights blinked rapidly between them like scandalised chaperones.

"Sir, I need these files-" Aman, the savior (and sautan when he called right when Arnav and Khushi tried kissing, again), showed up in time and helped Khushi run away in mortification.

Because Arnav was right.

Apart from the fact that the chime of these bangles told her that everything was a reality, there was something else that Khushi felt too intensely in her heart when these were the only pieces of jewelry she wore in a bath, or clinked in between her very very unsanskaari dreams at night.

Now all she had to do was wait, wait for Jiji's marriage and tell the family about the latest development.

-- -- --

(": THE END :")

Tagging the usuals (pls mention if you’d like to be tagged - also this is a new list so if I’m forgetting anyone - sorry!)

@chutkiandchotte @dreaming-star @professor-cant-fuck @thedupattaknowswhatsup @bigfatreader @muttonthings @da-ka-ba @fresh-child-bouquet @hand-picked-star @fancydreamphilosopher @scorpio-smiles @thenainitaldisaster @titaliya @sankititaliya @sampigehoovu @jalebicheesecake @dnkkpi @nammy07

#ipkknd #jalebi writes #ipkknd ff #an accidental slip #EEEEHHH

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ladylooch · 1 day ago

Text

His Best Win Yet - [Nico x Lexi]

Summary: After date five, Nico and Lexi finally take their relationship to the next level.

On a Wednesday night, Nico’s heart hammers in his chest as he watches Lexi fiddle with the keys to get into her apartment. Inside his ears, blood roars so loud that he isn’t hearing a word she is saying. All he can do is stare at her hands, wondering if she’s making the universal sign for “come inside and fuck me.”

It’s been five dates. The four before tonight, Nico went home and ended each night fisting himself to thoughts of Lexi riding him. Five dates is a perfectly respectable number. Reasonable. They’re both consenting adults. Hell, most of the girls he has slept with before this, they didn’t even do one date together.

But none of those girls are Lexi. His perfume queen. None of them made him feel like it was his first time all over again: nervous, excited, desperate to get this right for her.

“Neeks?” Lexi snaps him out of his thoughts with a gentle hand wrapping around his wrist. Red explodes into his cheeks as he focuses on her amused green eyes. “I asked if you wanted to come in? Watch a movie?” She offers innocently. Or was it with insinuation? Fuck, why hadn’t he been listening to her before. He would know if he had heard her the first time. Probably.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind? I know it’s late.” He turns his wrist over, seeing the 11:00pm time. Wow, time flies by with her. He could do 100 more hours of this night together and never once get bored. They had a fun date walking around their neighborhood, stopping in every place that looked interesting whether it was a shop, a bar, or a restaurant. They tried new foods they’ve never heard of and bought crystals even though neither of them understand what they are for. Lexi liked the colors and Nico liked whatever made her eyes light up like that.

“I don’t work tomorrow.” She reminds him.

“Sorry, you told me that.” He sighs, closing his eyes at sounding like such an ass. “I was listening. Just… not a few minutes ago.”

“You better come in… so a medical professional can make sure you’re okay.” She jokes, putting her key in the lock and then pushing the door open. Nico peers in. He’s seen her place from the entry way, but hasn’t spent time inside with her before now.

“Don’t check my pulse.” Nico smiles at her knowing smirk.

“Do you want something to drink? I have beer.” She offers as she tosses her keys onto a shelf by the door.

“Sure.” Nico nods, then shrugs his jacket off. He holds it in his hands as Lexi walks into the kitchen. She pops the fridge open, then pulls out two chilled bottles of Budweiser. “You can put that anywhere.” She motions to his jacket as she pops the two bottle caps off. Nico lays it neatly on the chair, out of the way from the couch he assumes they will share together.

“Nice place.” Nico says as he motions to her apartment.

It’s so homey and lived in, cluttered but not overly messy. It’s nothing like his place. He keeps things neatly tucked away and has minimal keepsakes here in Jersey. All his prized possessions are in his house in Switzerland. Here, he lives with the bare necessities and the stuff his apartment came with since he rents it fully furnished. Alternatively here, plants are stuffed into every square of Lexi’s window sills. Some are in full bloom, others are thorny looking cactuses and succulents. There are a few cuttings that look like the start of some longer, vine-like plants that stretch towards the window for sun access.

“Thanks. It’s the first time I’ve lived alone and I am struggling with getting a theme together. It’s a mosh-posh of all the things I’ve had in different stages of life and what I’ve picked up through traveling for work.” Lexi takes a long sip of her beer. “Definitely not as big as your place.”

“Is it a competition?” He asks, tilting his head with a smile.

“No, but if you’re claustrophobic, I understand.” Nico laughs.

“My mom would love this. She always filled our place growing up with tons of plants. There were some years we lived in a place where she couldn’t have gardens, but she believed in no plant left behind. So Emma and I had plants fill up our rooms too.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It wasn’t.” Nico shrugs. “This reminds me of that. Like home.”

“Well, I have plenty, so if you want to adopt one or five, I would be happy to contribute to making your place more of a home.” Nico nods, knowing he will take her up on that. Not only to have a greener, more lively space, but to have some of her amongst his things.

“You’ll come visit them?” He asks following a sip of beer.

“I’ll have to. Visitations are part of the adoption contract.”

“Contract??” Nico raises his eyebrows at her. “This sounds serious.”

“You don’t want to know what happens if you kill them, Hischier.”

“Understood. I’ll make arrangements for when I head home to Switzerland.”

“I’m sure you and I could work out a care plan. Co-parent these plants together like civilized adults.” She saunters over to her blue couch, settling into the far corner of it.

Nico doesn’t think so. It’s a few months out, but he wants Lexi to come home with him for the off-season, whenever that begins. Sometimes, he feels like he is moving too fast with his feelings for her, but then another part of him senses she is who he’s been waiting all his life to know. Finding a balance between that feeling and the newness is what has him fumbling around her half the time.

How can he love someone so completely in a few dates? When did he fall for her? Was it one moment or over the last several months of whatever this was before their first date? Is this even normal? Those answers are what Nico continues to search for each time he sees her.

“Planning on joining me?” Lexi asks, tapping the couch cushion beside her.

“In a minute. Wanna look around here.” Nico gestures to the massive gallery wall she has. It’s filled with pictures of people and various art prints. Each one has it’s own, colorful frame so every color is represented in some way. Nico sips his beer as he studies the pieces. There are cheeky prints like “Does the process know we are trusting it?” in bubble letters and “I am the cherry on top” with a disco ball looking cherry hanging down. But the pieces Nico is most curious of are the ones with Lexi in them.

There’s pictures with who he assumes are her parents. His eyebrows pull together, noticing there aren’t any of the three of them together; only Lexi with them as individuals, except for one picture of her as a kid. She’s sitting on the front porch between them, frilly socks folded over at her ankles with her feet stuffed into pink, jelly sandals. Her hair is pulled into a turquoise scrunchy, fluffing out in a whale spout with her elbows resting on her skinned knees, covered with two bright yellow bandaids.

“You were a blend of both your parents as a kid.” Nico observes.

“Yeah. You know, rumor has it that’s the last picture of my parents together.”

“I thought they split up when you graduated school?” Lexi is clearly young in the picture on the wall.

“Yeah, should have been before.” She rolls her eyes, swallowing down her beer. “My dad moved out before everything was official. They just signed everything after graduation so my dad didn’t have to pay child support.”

“That’s fucked up.” Nico frowns back at her.

“They were.” She nods, looking resolved and detached from it. “My mom would rather have sawed her arm off than take a hand out from my dad.”

Nico turns back to the wall, still frowning. He can’t imagine his parents not together. He looks back at hers in the picture, seeing genuine happiness there. It’s sad.

“I’m sorry.” Nico says, without looking at her. Lexi is quiet for a moment.

“It was a long time ago.” She finally says.

“Yeah. But I’m still sorry for her.” He points to the picture of her high school graduation beside her college one, each with only one parent in it.

“What do you want to watch?” Lexi asks, changing the subject.

“Whatever you want to.”

“Nico ‘can never be decisive’ Hischier.”

“I’m decisive when it matters.” Nico insists, pointedly dragging his gaze to her. Lexi hides her smile by putting her beer bottle to her lips. He watches her lick a drop of beer off her top lip. His cock twitches curiously and Nico pulls his gaze back to the wall of pictures.

There is a picture of Lexi with a group of girls on a snowy mountain somewhere that catches Nico’s attention next.

“She skis.”

“She does.” Lexi confirms, navigating to one of her apps on TV. “My dad taught me. We would do a week-long trip to Colorado or Montana growing up. It was fun.”

“I’ll have to get you into the Alps.”

“Are you ever there during ski season?”

“Well during COVID…” Nico trails off. “But good point. Although if I sent you over there, my mom would take you.”

“Your family seems so picture perfect.” Lexi says quietly. “Filled with love the way it should be.”

“Yeah, I don’t know where I would be without them. This can all be…” He gestures about his career and fame. “A lot. They keep me grounded. Focused too. It’s nice to go home and be Nico to them. Not NHL captain Nico.”

“I can see that.” Lexi murmurs.

Nico turns away from the gallery wall. He can inspect it more later, but right now he wants to be close to her. The magnetic pull of her vibrates through his veins as she watches him cross the room.

Like his family, Lexi brings out the man he wants to be all the time too. He doesn’t have to plaster on an act or a smile. He can be exactly who he wants to be and turn off the other parts of him he has to present to the public. After being drafted first overall, he wasn’t sure if he would find anyone that made him feel such a way. He’s had his fare share of run-ins with girls who want him to be his public persona only. But it’s an act Nico can’t keep up with all the time anymore. He needs the rest and recharge in his home life, so he needs a partner he feels comfortable with.

Most importantly, Lexi let’s Nico pick who he is going to be with her as though she likes all the versions of him he can come up with. He feels safe enough to be the one he truly wants to be in her presence. This colorful, normal, hard working, beautiful inside and out woman is his ticket to everything he has ever desired. He doesn’t need years more of nights like tonight to figure that out.

The movie Lexi selects is a new Netflix Rom-Com that has them both laughing. The entire movie, Lexi lays curled up into his side, warming Nico from the inside out. She kept turning to kiss his chest, or his neck, or his arm as they shift around the couch every few minutes to stay comfortable. His fingers trail along her right side, wherever they can reach. They dance up to her neck and all the way down to slightly above her knee. The urge to dip into other places tempts Nico, but he doesn’t dare, even as her fingers tease along his thigh in a way that has him hoping she can’t see the half erection popping up in his jeans.

Yeah, he wants to have sex with her, but she isn’t giving him clear enough signals for him to not feel like a creep. She seems very interested in this movie so whatever Netflix and chill Nico thought was coming for them has disappeared. Although to be fair, this movie is pretty good. He can’t stop laughing at the one-liners and pop culture references that he proudly understands.

When the credits begin to roll, Lexi chuckles, rubbing his thigh. Her fingers stroke along his inner thigh, close enough to touch him but discreet enough that Nico is still questioning if she is hinting at wanting more than this. She turns slightly inwards, pressing her breasts into his chest as she looks up at him with sweet but lusty green eyes.

“Hi.” She says.

“Hi.” He repeats, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. It slips back into place again, puffier than before, drawing Lexi’s attention.

“I love your lips.” She sighs, bringing her hand up to cup his cheek.

Her thumb strums his bottom lip. Nico aches, deeply, to kiss her and give in to the urge to lay her back. Their lips connect, sending lighting bolts through his body. One of his hands cups her neck, needing the anchor to the Earth or he might float away. In response, Lexi presses her body into him more. The fingers of hers on his thigh brush the bulge of his zipper as she uses his leg for leverage to kiss him harder. Her other hand slides from his cheek into his hair, tangling in the brown locks. Nico’s hand on her lower back dips slightly lower, tips barely disappearing into the waistband of her jeans. Lexi reaches back, placing it further down on her ass so he has a handful of her. Nico pulls away questioning in his brown eyes.

He needs to be sure this is what she wants.

He can’t fuck this up.

“I just realized I haven’t shown you my bedroom yet…” She bites her lip. Nico stares at her, feeling time slow around them. Yes, his inner voice hisses, pride swelling in his chest.

“What’s in there?” He wonders cheekily, fingering a chunk of her hair that hangs between their faces.

“Nothing now. But maybe in five minutes it could be you and me with a lot less clothes.”

“I don’t… have anything…. on me….” He trails off, worried that maybe he is killing the mood. But he respects her too much to be unprepared and presumptuous. She bites her lip, eyebrows sliding together in disappointment. “I didn’t want to expect this.” He fills in, eyes going honest and a tad sheepish. He is still just a man.

“God that makes me want to fuck you more, Neeks.” Lexi groans, then looks towards the kitchen, away from his intense gaze. Her directness has Nico’s cock standing to it’s full height, ready to perform. “Do you upstairs?” Lexi asks as Nico nods eagerly. “Maybe you could show me your bedroom instead?” She re-asks, trailing finger tips down the center of his chest. Her eyes fall down to the zipper on his jeans. Her lips part open in a quiet gasp and when she looks back at Nico, saliva begins to soak his tongue.

Nico grins, then holds his hand out for her to take.

Thank God he cleaned his place up before he left.

The entire journey to his unit, Nico hopes Lexi can’t tell how much he is shaking with need. It’s feral and consuming. His brain keeps chanting, running a mile a minute with everything he has imagined doing to her. Where should he start first? Eat her out? Ask her to suck him off? No he’ll come in two seconds. He should ask her. No, fuck, that’s not cool. He should just take charge and be direct. Kiss her, take his time undressing her, and go slow so he can remember everything about this. Do everything he can to ensure it won’t be a one time thing.

But when they get into his apartment and Lexi cups his cock through his jeans, there is no fucking way they are going slow. Nico isn’t going to last. His hips buck up into her hand as he holds onto each of her cheeks, walking her backwards to his couch.

No, not the couch, not enough room.

He changes directions quickly, causing Lexi to tumble to the side at the swing in direction.

“Shit, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Nico breathes out, catching her around the waist. He pulls her ass into his lap and she twirls her hips so their steps falter. He groans now, eyes screwing shut. They could end it all right here in the hallway. She could roll her hips a few more times and he would explode in his pants.

All thoughts move from how he is going to fuck her to making sure he actually does fuck her. He pulls out math problems, and recites the various, famous mountain peaks in Switzerland as he pushes her towards his room again. He runs through the power play set up they started implementing last game. He thinks about the most awful speeches coaches have given to him about his play. He visualizes a cold ice tub as Lexi squeezes him again.

“Nico, you’re big.” She gasps, eyes wild with anticipation.

God. Fuck. She is killing him with those gorgeous, needy eyes and the way she knows how to grab him, firm enough to spring pleasure across his skin, but not hard enough to be painful. He forces his eyes shut to focus on his breathing like this is an opening face off.

“I’m ready. Let’s get on the bed and go.” She begs him, unbuttoning his jeans as he gets her into his bedroom. She roughly shoves at his pants until they fall at his ankles. Nico hops out of them, pulling her shirt up and over her head immediately after. He needs to see her. Her brown hair fans out in gorgeous waves and he can’t wait to see how they look against his comforter when she’s beneath him.

Nico wraps an arm around Lexi’s waist, gasping for air, trying to keep himself somewhat together as he kisses over her breasts. His other hand comes up, squeezing her right tit as she lets out a happy groan.

“I love that.” She confirms, scratching her pink nails along his biceps as she grips his shoulders. Nico folds the cup of her bra down, taking her nipple into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the stiff peak. Lexi moans, loud and sexy, making the tip of Nico’s cock leak. His cheeks tingle at the taste of her, encouraging a slobbery mess to coat her spiked nipple. He releases her with a pop, a thin bubble of spit following him off her tip. His cock pulses again and Nico recognizes he is in big fucking trouble.

“I need you. Now.” Nico says, shifting his hands to her hips so he can push her onto his bed. Lexi eagerly crawls backwards up the bed to make room for Nico after he grabs a condom from his bedside table.

Nico’s hands shake mortifyingly hard as he fumbles with the wrapper.

“Shit.” He mutters as the foil refuses to tear under his slippery pressure. Lexi watches with tender green eyes. “Sorry…” He mumbles when it doesn’t tear open again. He brings it up to his teeth and it finally gives way. He looks down at her, heart skipping a beat at how fucking sexy she is sprawled out beneath him in his bed. He has been yearning for this for months, honestly since before he even knew the person attached to the perfume that kept lingering in their apartment spaces. But knowing how incredible the girl attached to the scent is now, Nico can barely believe his luck. His chest squeezes and for a moment, breathing is out of the question.

“Can I put it on?” She asks curiously.

“No…” Nico winces regretfully. “I’m… a little too close for that.” He chuckles awkwardly as he rolls the latex down his shaft. His cock bobs with a pulse from that movement as if to prove his point.

“That’s so hot.” Lexi giggles, reaching for his balls. She cups them in her hand, nails gently teasing the taut skin of his scrotum.

“Oh my- fuck.” Nico grabs her wrist. He carefully pulls her away from him, eyes screwed shut. Matterhorn, Rosa, Eiger, Jungfrau… “I’m serious.”

“I can see that.” Lexi giggles, beaming at him as if his struggle turns her on more.

She falls back to the bed, then drives her fingers over her soaked folds. Nico watches, savoring how good she looks playing with herself in front of him. Her other hand comes to the clasp at the front of her bra. She pops it open and Nico drools as her breasts fall out. They’re perfect- a handful with pretty mauve nipples that beg for more of his mouth. Nico leans down, kissing them, giving her the attention she deserves. He works her up, savoring her sweet praises and desperate whines. Her orgasm is building as her fingers work her clit in consistent, tight circles. Nico pushes her fingers out of the way, not removing his mouth from her nipple.

“You taste better than I imagined.” Nico fills her with a finger, shuddering at how wet she is for him. His cock oozes more into the condom and he knows it’s time. He could come just touching her without a hand on himself.

Nico fists the base of his shaft as he pulls away from her breast with a final slurp of her skin. Lexi is blissed out and wild beneath him. He has never experiences her this out of control. He loves that she is this way from him. From how badly she needs this too. He rolls his cock over her wet folds, then lines himself up with her entrance. He eases himself into her an inch, then another, until she perfectly swallows all of him. They both exhale, deeply satisfied when he sits to the hilt. He pauses there, leaning over her to kiss her. Lexi kisses him back with a desperate ferocity.

“You’re wild with my cock in you.” Nico murmurs. “That an okay word to say?” He asks her. Lexi nods enthusiastically. “Feel good?” She nods again just as eagerly.

“I’m ready. Fuck me, Neeks. Please.” She pleads. He doesn’t even have to ask for it. She readily gives it to him as easily as the moans that begin to descend from her lips as he delivers on her request.

His imagination never had a chance of conjuring up how good Lexi feels surrounding him. Even through the condom, her wet heat washes over his cock, holding it in all the right ways that he needs. Nico’s head falls forward, chin on his chest in slight defeat as his eyes screw shut. He makes an attempt to last longer. But fuck that, he wants to drown in her, die in this ecstasy so he can be reborn as another man. As hers and only hers. He wants every part of him who didn’t know what this was like with her to die off so he can remember himself this way only.

“Oh my god.” Lexi groans. Her arms fall away from him, spreading out into his sheets to grip them in her fingers. The pink of her nails is a compliment to his navy sheets. They’ve never looked better than they do now, crushed and used, soaking up her warmth. “I love your cock, Neeks.” She groans. Her hips press backwards into the mattress, creating a different angle so he strokes her walls perfectly where she needs. “I’m going to come. Oh god, I’ve never come this fast.” She squeaks, eyes sliding shut as wild, breathy gasps fall from her puffy lips. “Please. Yes.”

Nico’s hands tremble as he holds her hips at that angle. He grips her harder to keep them steady, not willing to stop her pleasure because of his fumbling. He drives his thrusts hard and focused, watching every part of her orgasm wash over her body. It starts with her mouth quieting, but falling apart in a silent scream. Her cheeks flush in a pink that cascades down to her chest. Her nipples tighten further as goosebumps dance across the perfect mounds. Internally, her walls tighten then release a flurry of flutters that takes Nico under immediately. His hips buck awkwardly as he fills the condom. A string of Swiss German swear words hit the air between them. Lexi’s hands grip Nico’s wrists next to her head as she grinds herself into him, throughly damn satisfied by the end of their highs.

“Holy shit.” Nico mutters, eyes close, chest gasping.

“Yeah!” Lexi agrees enthusiastically. “Let’s go again!”

“Oh my god, baby, wait a sec.” He chuckles, blinking rapidly. He brings a hand up to his face, rubbing at his stubbled cheeks before he puts his brown eyes on her. He loves her just fucked look almost as much as her getting fucked look.

“Oh sorry. Do you need to cuddle first?” Lexi immediately starts to giggle which has Nico laughing too. He leans down to kiss her smart mouth, smiling into their kiss when she quietly, gratefully, moans. His tongue teases her, urging their connection to continue for a few extra moments. “You make me feel so good. And I don’t mean only like this.”

“I like that.” Nico murmurs, kissing her lips for a final time, then sitting back up to slide out of her.

He gets off the bed, disposing of the condom in the trash before he grabs a cloth to clean himself up. He grabs a fresh one for Lexi too, putting it on the counter for her as she joins him in the bathroom to use it. Nico slides out of the room, then heads back to his bed. He looks at his discarded underwear, but decides against it, laying in bed naked. Lexi can drive what happens next. If she wants to get dressed, he will too. If she wants to stay naked, all the better.

Nico almost chokes on his tongue when she walks out of the bathroom. She looks relaxed and gorgeous, confidently strutting across his bedroom in a way he wants to see night after night. She climbs into bed next to him, opting to stay naked too. He opens his arm for her to wiggle into his side which she does, followed by a content sigh.

The silence that follows is light, comfortably quiet but filled with soft touches of the other. Nico strokes her hip with his fingers. Lexi combs her nails over his chest. Their breathing evens into sync with each other. When Lexi shivers from the cool night air, Nico pulls the covers up to enclose her shoulders. A sudden yawn stretches his lips apart, interrupting the quiet.

“I can leave if you want me to. So you can go to sleep?” Lexi’s shy whisper comes reaches his ears.

“The last thing I want is for you to leave.” Nico admits freely. “Stay.”

“Okay.” She responds softly, a tinge of relief in her voice.

The two fall into a comfortable quiet, continuing to rub at each other’s skin comfortingly for themselves and each other.

“Nico, I’m really into you.” Lexi breaks the silence while drawing a heart on his chest. “This feels different than anything I’ve ever had. I like that.”

“I feel the exact same, Sweets.” Nico says, unwilling to fumble this girl by being anything but honest. “I hope you’re not seeing anyone else because I’m not. Don’t want to either.”

“I’m not.” Lexi murmurs. Nico can feel her cheek tighten in a big smile against his pec. “Just waiting for you to ask…”

“Didn’t want to freak you out by moving too fast.” Nico confesses softly. Lexi presses up, looking into his face.

“Nothing with you would be too fast.” She shakes her head slowly as she says it. Her lips are pulled into a tender, vulnerable smile.

“Then be mine?”

“Yes.” She says confidently, without a moment of hesitation between his question and her answer.

Nico collects her back to his chest, his heart beating rapidly but happily in his chest. He has always been more of a relationship person, but it’s been a long time since he met anyone he wanted to commit to this way. Lexi has changed so much for him.

As his girlfriend drifts to sleep in his arms, satisfied and comfortable, Nico finds contentment in believing he won’t have to navigate single life again.

He isn’t going to let her go. No matter what comes, they’ll face it together.

Because the girl in his arms is end game.

Undeniably his best win yet.

Read more Nico and Lexi here.

#what my world spins around au #nico hischier x oc #nico hischier fic #nhl au #nhl fan fiction #hockey writing #hockey fan fiction

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soft4changbin · 2 days ago

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Three’s just right

Soulseob x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Soul, Jeongseob, and their girlfriend spend a chaotic, sweet day out—complete with competitive games, street food, and stolen kisses.

Word count: 1,525

It was your day off, and somehow, both Soul and Jeongseob had managed to get free too. A miracle, honestly. So when they asked what you wanted to do, the answer came easily:

“Let’s just go out. Somewhere fun. I don’t care where.”

Jeongseob was already smiling. “Arcade?”

Soul raised a brow. “You just want to win again.”

“You’re just mad you lost last time.”

“I let you win.”

You laughed, slipping your arms through theirs. “Let’s go before you two start fighting in the hallway.”

The arcade was a sensory overload—flashing lights, thumping music, and the chaos of kids screaming over claw machines—but it was perfect. Jeongseob went straight for the basketball hoops, dragging you and Soul behind him.

“Watch and learn,” he said, tossing in shot after shot.

You clapped, genuinely impressed. “Okay, okay. Mr. Pro Athlete.”

Soul took the next turn, casually sinking the first three shots, then missing on purpose just to hear you giggle.

“You’re terrible,” Jeongseob muttered.

“I’m cute,” Soul corrected. “And she likes me like this.”

“True,” you said, leaning against him.

The rest of the arcade was a blur of goofy competitiveness. Jeongseob beat Soul at racing games, Soul crushed everyone at the dancing machine, and you nearly caused a scene at the claw machine when you somehow managed to win a tiny stuffed penguin on your first try.

Jeongseob gasped. “You’re magic.”

“I am,” you said proudly, handing the penguin to Soul. “For you.”

He blinked. “Why me?”

“You looked the most stressed. Needed emotional support.”

Jeongseob looked mock-offended. “Wow. So I get nothing?”

You leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You get me.”

He smiled, looking like he was trying not to melt. “Okay. That’s fair.”

You left the arcade with sore feet, light heads, and two bags of random prize snacks and toys. Soul insisted on carrying your stuff, and Jeongseob walked slightly ahead, scouting out street food stalls.

“Hotteok?” he called, pointing at the stand.

You and Soul shouted at the same time: “YES.”

The three of you sat on a bench nearby, sharing bites and swatting at crumbs. The golden syrup oozed out of the hotteok as Soul tore off a piece and carefully held it up to your lips.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

You took the bite, humming in approval. “So good.”

Jeongseob looked at Soul. “Okay, now feed me too.”

“Get your own,” Soul said flatly, though he was already tearing off a bite for him.

You watched them bicker with affection burning in your chest. They had their own rhythm—Soul’s dry sarcasm, Jeongseob’s playful energy—and you’d been lucky enough to find yourself in the middle of it. What started as friendship turned into flirting, and eventually, the three of you just… fit. Like puzzle pieces. No weird jealousy, no weird expectations. Just comfort. Balance. Love.

After finishing your snacks, the three of you wandered toward the riverwalk, the sun dipping low and painting the water orange. Couples strolled past, hands linked, soft conversations blending with the gentle sound of the current.

“I like days like this,” you said quietly.

“Me too,” Jeongseob replied, swinging your hand back and forth between his.

Soul was on your other side, silent for a moment. Then, “We should do this more. No schedule. No noise.”

You smiled. “You say that like you don’t love chaos.”

“I like this kind of chaos,” he said, glancing at you. “You. Him. Snacks.”

Jeongseob laughed. “That’s the name of our autobiography.”

“You, Him, and Snacks?” you said.

“Best-seller, for sure.”

You found a quiet spot to sit, the three of you sinking into the cool grass. Soul lay back, arms behind his head, while Jeongseob sat cross-legged beside you, picking at a blade of grass.

“I think my mom would cry if she saw how much you two spoil me,” you said.

Jeongseob leaned his head on your shoulder. “She’d thank us for having such good taste.”

Soul smirked, eyes closed. “She did. Remember? Last time we visited, she told me I had ‘excellent instincts.’”

You snorted. “That’s because you brought her expensive tea.”

“Which is why she loves me more than Seob.”

“Hey!” Jeongseob nudged him with his foot. “She said I was ‘adorable and easy to feed.’ That’s high praise.”

You looked between the two of them, fondness tugging at your heart so strongly it almost hurt. “I’m really lucky, huh?”

They both looked at you then, Soul sitting up, Jeongseob brushing hair out of your face.

“No,” Soul said. “We’re lucky.”

Jeongseob leaned closer. “You’re the glue, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “Glue?”

“Yeah. You keep us grounded. Calm. You make everything feel… real.”

Soul nodded, brushing your knee lightly. “You make me want to slow down. I don’t do that for anyone else.”

You blinked, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks. “You guys are gonna make me cry.”

Jeongseob grinned. “Do it. We’ll take turns hugging you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was beating loud in your chest.

Soul leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “Seriously. I know this whole thing—us, the three of us—doesn’t make sense to everyone. But it makes sense to me. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Jeongseob’s hand found yours. “Same here. You both matter more than any weird looks or questions.”

And then, in the fading sunlight, you felt it—all of it. Love in its quietest form. Shared laughter, gentle teasing, fingers brushing yours just because they could. Not a flashy kind of love, not the kind that needed loud declarations or dramatic moments. Just this. Just them.

You leaned in and kissed Soul first, soft and slow, and then turned to Jeongseob and kissed him too, laughter spilling from his lips as he pulled you closer.

“Okay, I vote we end the day with ice cream,” he said breathlessly. “Celebrate love and lactose.”

Soul groaned. “You’re gonna be a menace all night.”

“Worth it.”

You stood up, linking your arms with both of theirs. “Come on. My treat. Because I love you both and I’m in a dangerously generous mood.”

As you walked toward the ice cream stand, sandwiched between the two boys who had somehow stolen and healed your heart all at once, you smiled to yourself.

Three wasn’t a crowd.

Three was home.

#soulseob #soulseob x reader #p1harmony #p1harmony x reader #soulseob p1harmony #haku shota x reader #kim jongseob x reader #p1harmony soul #p1harmony jongseob #jongseob x you #soul x you #shota x reader #p1harmony fluff

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thewayilikemycookie · 5 hours ago

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📞┆Too Busy Being Yours .ᐟ

Spencer Agnew x gn!reader

Summary: When you are feeling overwhelmed, Spencer is there to comfort you in every way he can.

Word count: 684

You could count with your fingers the amount of times you’ve zoned out during this video alone. It was a ‘don’t win Mario party’ scheduled at the end of the shoot day and you were sitting next to Spencer and Chance, who were both bringing the energy for this video.

“Hold” Alex called “Scott needs to fix an issue with your mic, Chance, can you come over here? And you guys can take five.”

Spencer instantly tuned to face you “You okay?” He asked with sympathetic eyes

You looked at his concerned expression and tried to speak your feelings, but no words came out. You decided to simply bury you head in the crook of his neck and reach for his hands. You felt as if he understood your thoughts immediately, shifting his position to comfort you.

You felt him place a soft kiss on your head. And though you were eternally grateful for his sweetness and wanted to thank him, you couldn’t even formulate a coherent sentence at the moment.

“You got this” He whispered and the tenderness of it all made you look up

“I love you so much” you said

“I love you more” He softly smiled and laid a final kiss to your forehead

You managed to survive the rest of the video, getting second place overall, profusely thanking Shayne for getting first, as you dreaded the idea of wearing the cone for the next one.

After you took your mic off, you walked towards Spencer “When are you leaving?” You asked

“I gotta fill out a few requests for the art department” You frowned at his answer “why?” “Cause I want you to come home with me” you frowned, reaching for his hand

“I’m sorry baby,” tucked in a strand of your hair “but their deadline is today”

“Can I wait for you then?” You asked

“You’re welcome to,” he smiled “but I would feel a little guilty to be the one to keep you waiting”

“I would wait until eternity for you, Spencer Agnew”

You laid down on the games pod couch while you waited for him, using the time to read your book. After Spencer was done, you both made your way to his apartment and he did everything he could for you. He ordered your favorite food for you, landed you makeshift pj’s for when you’re done with your shower and put on a cooking competition show, knowing you loved them.

Now, you were curled up on the couch right next to him, wearing one of his hoodies (which you suspected he chose because he likes seeing you in his clothes) and eating your favorite food.

“isn’t it crazy how you’re always joking about being misogynistic but then you do all of this for me”

“It’s just a joke though, I would never treat a woman like that, specially you” He looked over at you with a smile

“I know. You’re one of the good ones,” you smiled back at him “the best.”

“Isn’t that the bare minimum?” He laughed

“treating someone well, yes,” you explained “but ordering their favorite food and watching their favorite show, I don’t think so”

Spencer nodded, but he didn’t agree with you exactly. In his mind, he would do all of it and more without any hesitation if it means you would feel at least a little better. If he loved someone, he would make sure to show them that through every single way he could.

When he noticed you were starting to drift off, Spencer asked you if you wanted to go to sleep, to which you said yes. You tried helping with the dishes, but he told you not to worry.

So you got into bed with Spencer holding you tightly and started to drift off again. After you fell asleep, he kissed your head once again. If he felt like you needed it, he would do it all over again tomorrow, then the next day, then the day after.

Maybe it was a little surrealistic, but he was too busy being yours to care.

A.n: Inspired by Hozier’s cover of “Do I wanna know?”. Also I’m sleepy so idk if this is good, hope you have/had a good day, love ya!! <3

#smosh #spencer agnew x reader #smosh x reader #smosh x you #smoshblr #spencer agnew #spencer agnew x you #spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew fic

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kash98 · 1 day ago

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She’s the Storm, He’s the Fire (Jungook x reader)

Pairing: Jungkook x reader, y/n Age restrictions: 18+ Ongoing Series: Chapter Three Read Chapter One: Curiosity’s a Dangerous Thing — So Am I Read Chapter Two: What Fire Does to a Storm Summary: The night may be over, but its consequences aren’t. One reckless dare at the after-party left more than just a lingering heat — it cracked something open. Now, in the quiet morning after, the tension between them simmers just beneath the surface. She’s poised, practiced, and pretending it didn’t rattle her. He’s amused, unbothered, and far too observant.

And when the city’s next party looms, she’s not sure she wants to go—until he makes it personal.

Some things aren’t just flirtation.

They’re challenges.

And neither of them knows how to walk away from those.

"Storms don’t leave quietly. And fire remembers."

Let the game continue...

Chapter Three: False Hope

Same Night

Dessert was supposed to be the wind-down—the soft landing after a meal. But as soon as the last fork scraped against a plate and someone pulled out a bottle of soju, the energy shifted like someone had flipped a switch. Laughter got louder. Bottles clinked. Music turned up as someone found a speaker in the corner, cueing up a playlist that was suspiciously designed to cause chaos.

“Why do I feel like the night just started?” you asked, half-laughing as Taehyung handed you a shot with a wink.

Jungkook leaned back on the couch, glass in hand, eyes already gleaming with mischief. “Because it did.”

Namjoon yelled, “Beer pong!” and just like that, the living room transformed. Jin and Hobi dragged the table to the center, Yoongi arranged the cups in perfect triangles, and Jimin took it upon himself to pour the drinks with dramatic flair.

You barely had time to protest before Alisha looped an arm through yours. “You're with me.”

Across the table, Jungkook tilted his head, smirking as he joined the opposing team. “You sure you wanna do that to her?”

Alisha grinned. “Please. She’s lethal.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to you, amused and a little cocky. “We’ll see about that.”

You raised a brow. “Try not to cry when we wipe the floor with you.”

He let out a low laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t cry. I win.”

“Bold words for someone about to lose in the first round.”

Taehyung let out a whoop. “This is going to be so messy.”

And with that, the first ball flew across the table—wild, competitive energy in the air, the night nowhere near over.

Jungkook made the opening shot with a maddening level of precision, the ping pong ball landing squarely in the front cup.

Cheers erupted from his team. He didn’t even try to hide his smug expression as he looked at you.

“Beginner’s luck,” you said flatly, grabbing a cup and downing the beer without breaking eye contact.

He leaned on the edge of the table. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Your turn. You narrowed your eyes, calculated the angle, and flicked your wrist—clean hit. Jungkook blinked as the ball plopped into one of their middle cups.

“Beginner’s luck?” you echoed sweetly, batting your lashes.

Jungkook’s brows lifted in amused challenge. “Okay. You wanna play like that?”

“I was born to play like that,” you shot back.

Round after round, the game escalated. It was no longer about winning—it was about outdoing each other. He threw curve shots with annoying confidence, and you countered with precision that had him raising a brow every time.

“You practicing in secret?” he asked as you sank another shot.

You shrugged innocently. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

At one point, when he missed—barely—you clutched your heart. “Tragic. I thought you said you don’t lose.”

“I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m just giving you false hope.”

“Aw. How thoughtful.”

The room was loud, chaotic, full of laughter and trash talk—but for some reason, it felt like it was just the two of you at that table.

And the night was only getting started.

“Okay, new rule!” Jimin shouted over the music, wobbling slightly as he poured more soju. “If you miss a cup, your team picks a dare for you.”

A chorus of chaotic agreement followed. Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle this?”

You smirked, arms crossed. “You worried about me, Jeon?”

“Worried for you,” he replied with a wink.

Two rounds later, Jungkook missed.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” you grinned, spinning the empty cup in your hand dramatically. “Let’s see... Taehyung, you got anything evil in mind?”

Taehyung didn’t even blink. “I dare Jungkook to kiss the person he finds the most attractive in the room.”

A loud “OHHHHHHHHH” went up around the room.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He casually scanned the room, dramatically stroking his chin as if weighing options.

You rolled your eyes.

He took one step forward. Two.

And then stopped right in front of you.

Your smirk faltered just a little. “Cute joke.”

“I don’t joke,” he said softly, and before you could say anything snarky, he leaned in—close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath and feel the warmth radiating off him—but his lips brushed your cheek, just barely.

A near kiss. A ghost of one.

The room went wild. It shouldn't have meant anything. But your stomach still flipped like you’d stepped off a ledge.

You stared at him, heat creeping up your neck. He pulled back with a glint in his eye.

“False hope, right?” he whispered.

You blinked, gathering your thoughts. “Oh, you’re so getting destroyed next round.”

“Oh, I hope so,” he shot back, turning to refill his cup.

Game on.

You were still reeling—not that you'd admit it—when your team missed the next shot. Miserably. Thanks, Hobi.

Across the circle, Jimin leaned forward, chin resting on his palm. “Truth or dare?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

His smile turned wicked. “Okay, sweetheart. Since golden boy over there almost kissed you earlier”—he nodded toward Jungkook, who didn’t even flinch—“I dare you to whisper something dirty in his ear.”

The circle exploded.

Even Jungkook looked momentarily caught off guard, one pierced brow lifting, lips twitching.

“It’s harmless,” Jimin said, sipping his drink like he hadn’t just set the room on fire. “We don’t get to hear it, but he does. Fair’s fair.”

Taehyung leaned in, murmuring, “Do it. Melt him.”

Jungkook leaned back, clearly intrigued. “Come on. I can take it.”

You walked over slowly, the air buzzing around you as you closed the space between you and him. He watched every step—chin tilted up, arms sprawled, inviting.

You bent over, fingers grazing his shoulder for balance, your lips brushing just close enough to feel the heat of his skin. Then, casually, your mouth dipped to his ear… and you kissed it. Light. Barely there. A mirror of how he’d kissed your cheek earlier—sweet, deliberate, and just a little cocky.

He froze.

And then, with a breath warm against his skin, you whispered, “You’re acting all cocky… but I know you’re dying for me to kiss you.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes, when they found yours again, were dark and unreadable.

Revenge? Achieved.

The room broke into exaggerated “Ooooooohhhh!”s and playful shouts, everyone howling at the boldness of the moment.

Jimin practically fell over. “God damn, I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

Alisha clapped like a seal. “That’s my girl!” But all the noise faded into the background as Jungkook tilted his head, lips ghosting just near your ear—his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“You have no idea what you just started.”

His tone was velvet and promise, heat simmering beneath the calm. You shivered.

Alisha, squinting between you two with sharp curiosity, she added, “Wait—what did you just say to him?”

He pulled back with that maddening smirk, like he hadn’t just sent goosebumps racing down your spine.

“That’s between the devil and me,” he said smoothly, gaze still locked on yours.

And just like that, the game had changed again. You stood up, straightening your shirt and clearing your throat as if it didn’t suddenly feel five degrees warmer.

The others were already moving on to the next dare.

But Jungkook? He was still watching you like you were his next challenge. And for the first time tonight…You weren’t sure if you wanted to win.

-------------------------------------------------------------- The game carried on for a few more rounds—someone dared to do the worm (badly), another confessed to a long-time celebrity crush, and yet another tried to balance a bottle on their head for thirty seconds while everyone else tried to make them laugh.

Laughter filled the air, but it was slower now, lazier.

Jimin was curled up on one end of the couch, an arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, lips parted in deep sleep. Hobi wasn’t far behind—sprawled across the carpet with an empty snack bowl on his chest like it was his prized possession.

The rest of the group sat scattered around, slouched into pillows or hugging cushions, talking in lower voices. The buzz had mellowed into a warm haze of friendship and exhaustion.

“Okay, okay,” Taehyung said, yawning into his shoulder. “I think that’s enough chaotic confessions for one night.”

Someone hummed in agreement.

You stretched your arms over your head with a soft groan, catching Jungkook’s eyes across the room. His gaze dipped for a second—slow, intentional—before he looked away, biting back a grin.

The game might be over.

That was just getting started.

Just as someone attempted to get up—and immediately flopped back down like a ragdoll—Alisha clapped her hands, cutting through the drowsy lull.

"Alright, that's it," she announced, standing with the smug authority of someone who knew she was the only one sober enough to make decisions. “No one’s going anywhere tonight. You’re all sleeping over. My penthouse has six bedrooms—and enough spare blankets to build a whole village.”

There were a few groggy cheers, one sleepy “I love you, Alisha,” and another snore that sounded suspiciously like Jimin.

You really don’t want to see Taehyung try to parallel park while drunk,” Alisha announced, flopping back on the couch with a groan. “It’s like watching a toddler try to operate a tank. Chaos.”

“I’m fantastic at it,” Taehyung slurred from somewhere under a pile of throw pillows. “That pole had attitude.”

“Right,” Alisha snorted. “Which is why you’re staying. No deaths tonight, please and thank you.”

One by one, the group began to drift — some heading down the hallway to claim rooms, others surrendering to the pull of sleep where they were. Jimin and Hobi were already passed out, dead to the world.

“You got a room already, huh?” Jungkook said, strolling up. “Cousin privileges.”

“You sound bitter,” you replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Not bitter. Just mildly offended. I was gonna offer you mine, y'know. Real gentleman stuff.”

You smirked. “And sleep where? The bathtub?”

“Please. I'd charm someone into sharing.”

You gave him a look. “Good luck with that. Most of them are unconscious.”

He chuckled lowly, then stepped in just a little closer — not enough to cross a line, just enough to notice.

“Well, guess I’ll manage,” he said, voice quieter now. “Unless you’re offering.”

You laughed under your breath, brushing past him with a teasing glance over your shoulder. “Not that charming, Jeon.” “Yet,” he called after you.

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

You stumbled into the bedroom, and the moment the door clicked shut behind you, your mind—unfortunately—did the exact opposite.

All you could think about was Jungkook. His voice. His smirk. The ghost of his fingers on your skin, and the kiss — too slow, too deliberate — from that stupid dare.

It all replayed in your head like a movie on loop—loud, vivid, and annoyingly addictive.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as if that would help clear the fog, but his ridiculously attractive face still flashed behind your eyes every time you blinked.

With a dramatic sigh, you stripped off your party clothes and grabbed the oversized t-shirt from your bag—the one you always traveled with. It was soft, worn-in, and hung loose over your frame, brushing past mid-thigh. No shorts, no effort. Just comfort.

You climbed into bed and flopped onto your side, hoping sleep would take over.

It didn’t.

At first, it was just an uncomfortable fullness in your stomach. Then it twisted—sharp and hot—before settling into a dull, burning ache.

You pressed a palm over your belly and muttered, “Ugh, too much food.”

And alcohol. And sugar. And those stupid vodka-soaked gummy bears.

The nausea came quickly after that. You barely made it to the bathroom before everything came back up twice.

By the time it was over, your throat burned, your forehead was clammy, and you were way too sober to pretend this was just indigestion.

After rinsing your mouth and catching your breath, you stared at the empty glass on the counter with growing despair. No water. No antacids. No patience left.

Barefoot and still a little dazed, you stepped out of the room and made your way downstairs, each step slow and careful so you didn’t wake the entire house.

You pushed into the kitchen, tugging open cabinets and muttering curses under your breath.

“Looking for something, or just cursing Alisha’s spice rack for fun?”

You startled — then groaned.

Jungkook leaned against the fridge, hair a bit messy like he’d just woken up from a nap he hadn’t meant to take.

“You scared me,” you muttered, slamming a cabinet shut.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. His eyes dropped to your legs, just for a moment. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

“Well,” you snapped, rubbing your temple, “apparently my stomach wants me dead.”

His brow rose. “Food poisoning?”

“Acid reflux,” you sighed. “Too much food. Too much drink. My body’s staging a coup.”

Jungkook opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of cold water, then handed it to you wordlessly.

You accepted it and mumbled a soft, “Thanks.”

He watched as you took a few slow gulps, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “I feel like a gremlin,” you added. “A bloated, angry gremlin.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Cute gremlin, though.”

You glared at him.

“What?” he grinned. “I meant that nicely. You’ve got that... post-party glow. With a side of murder.”

You rolled your eyes, finally cracking a tired smirk. “You're always this annoying when the sun’s down?”

“Only for you,” he said lightly. “Want me to help find something for the acid? I think Alisha has a drawer of emergency meds.”

You hesitated. “If you’re just going to stand there and flirt while I suffer—”

“I’ll be very respectful while you suffer,” he promised, holding up his hands.

That got a laugh out of you. Small, but real.

And when he knelt to rummage through the lower cabinets, his tone quieter now, he asked, “You alright otherwise?” You didn’t answer right away. Just watched him move like he’d done this a hundred times—like he belonged here. How many nights had they all spent here like this? Laughing, drinking, and turning Alisha’s penthouse into a second home. How many of those had you missed?

You kept staring, some part of you aching with the realization.

Maybe it was your workload. Maybe it was your talent for keeping people at arm’s length. Maybe it was that you’d never had enough close friends to begin with.

Whatever the reason, it hit you all at once—how easy it was for him to fit in. And how easy it would’ve been for you, too, if only you’d let yourself.

His brows were furrowed, just a little. Like he meant it.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just... not used to nights like these.”

“Guess we’ll have to fix that,” he murmured, handing you a small foil packet of antacids. “Start slow. No greasy fries next time.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his. “And maybe skip the tequila.”

“Speak for yourself,” he grinned.

You popped the antacid into your mouth and grimaced at the chalky texture. “Tastes like mint-flavored regret.”

Jungkook snorted, leaning his weight against the counter. “Still better than puking into Alisha’s ficus.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you said, rubbing your stomach. “At this point, I might as well give the plant some trauma too.”

He gave you a once-over again, slower this time. “You sure you’re okay? You look...”

“Say ‘rough’ and I swear I’ll find that ficus,” you warned.

Jungkook grinned. “I was going to say ‘hot in a chaotic, half-dead way,’ but go off, gremlin queen.”

You gave him a tired look but didn’t even try to argue. “I need air.”

Without waiting, you turned on your heel and pushed the balcony door open, stepping into the cool night. The breeze kissed your legs, goosebumps rising immediately — but the fresh air helped. You closed your eyes for a second.

“I said I needed air, not an escort,” you said without turning, feeling his presence following you.

Jungkook stepped out anyway. “Yeah, well, I figured if you passed out, someone should be here to catch you.”

“How chivalrous,” you muttered.

He leaned on the railing beside you. “Also, you looked like you might fight that poor ficus. Thought I should separate you two.”

You huffed a laugh. “It started it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, side-eyeing you. “You always this dramatic when you’re tipsy?” “Only when I mix tequila and regret.”

Jungkook let out a laugh, warm and low. It lingered for a second before the quiet settled between you, the kind that didn’t need filling. You pressed your forehead gently against the railing, the cool metal grounding you as your shoulders slumped.

He glanced at you, expression softening. “You should sit,” he said quietly. “I’ll grab a blanket.”

You started to shake your head, but he was already turning back toward the door.

“I’m serious,” he added over his shoulder. “I know that look — five minutes from now you’ll either cry or fall asleep standing up, and I’m not prepared for either.”

You huffed a tiny laugh but didn’t argue as you lowered yourself onto the small outdoor loveseat tucked into the corner of the balcony. Your legs folded up without much grace, and your arms curled around yourself out of habit.

He disappeared inside, and you were too drained to stop him — and honestly, too cold. The city lights flickered below, far enough away to feel unreal.

He came back a minute later with one of Alisha’s giant throw blankets — the obnoxiously soft kind you always teased her about hoarding — and a bottle of water he’d snagged from the fridge.

“Here,” Jungkook said, draping the blanket over your shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Hydrate, gremlin.”

You took the water, smiling faintly. “Didn’t know you were moonlighting as a nurse.”

“I’m multi-talented. Very underappreciated.”

You let out a soft sigh, sinking deeper into the cushion as the warmth started to spread through your skin. He sat beside you, not too close, but not far either — elbows on his knees, head tilted toward the night.

After a moment, he glanced at you. “You okay now?”

You didn’t answer immediately, just leaned your head slightly toward him, the edge of your blanket brushing his arm.

“Getting there.”

Jungkook stayed quiet, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lost in the city lights below. The hush between you wasn’t heavy anymore — just still. Safe.

You leaned into him without a word, your blanket slipping slightly as your head found his shoulder. He didn’t flinch or shift away — just glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

Your breathing had slowed, each exhale softer than the last.

He was just about to ask, “Are you sleepy?” — but the words never left his lips.

You were already out, the weight of exhaustion tugging you under, lashes resting gently against your cheeks.

Jungkook let out a soft breath, his gaze returning to the night.

He didn’t move right away.

Only when the breeze turned a little cooler, and your fingers curled subconsciously at the hem of your blanket, did he shift — carefully, gently. One arm slid beneath your knees, the other behind your back.

You stirred faintly as he lifted you, but didn’t wake.

He carried you in without a word, each step slow, steady — quiet enough not to disturb the peace that had finally found you.

When he laid you down, tucking the blanket up to your chin, your lips parted slightly, still caught somewhere between dreams and the weightless stillness of being near him.

Jungkook stood there for a moment longer.

Then, with the barest trace of a smile, he whispered, “Sleep well, brat.” And turned off the light. --------------------------------------------------------------

Next Morning

You stirred before the sunlight reached your face. The first thing you noticed was warmth — not from the sun, but from the blanket wrapped tightly around you. The second was the faint scent lingering in the room. Clean cotton and something else.

Him.

Your eyes blinked open slowly. For a moment, your brain tried to catch up — bed? You didn’t remember making it to your room. You sat up slightly, blanket still bunched around your shoulders, and glanced around.

No sign of Jungkook. Your chest ached with something soft and heavy — the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t touch. You sat there for a while, listening to the silence, fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket.

Eventually, you rose. The floor was cool beneath your feet.

The hot shower helped ease the stiffness in your limbs. You let it run longer than usual, as if the warmth could chase away whatever bits of confusion or hesitation were still clinging to your thoughts.

By the time you stepped out, your hair was damp but brushed out, left loose over your shoulders. You changed into a soft, knitted co-ord set — oatmeal beige with a wide neckline that kept slipping off your shoulder. Comfortable, but not careless. It felt like the kind of morning that needed softness.

As you made your way downstairs, the house was quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s still fast asleep — not the awkward kind, just peaceful.

In the kitchen, Alisha was the only one awake.

She stood at the stove, hair piled up in a messy bun, swaying slightly to music playing faintly from her phone. Pancakes sizzled on the pan, and a bowl of fruit was half-prepped on the counter beside her.

“You’re up early,” Alisha said without looking up, focused on the sizzling pan. “Didn’t think anyone would survive last night’s tequila showdown.”

You slid onto the stool with a yawn, pulling the sleeves of your knitted top over your hands. “Technically, I didn’t. I just reanimated.”

She huffed a quiet laugh and handed you a mug. “Drink this. You look like you wrestled your sleep and lost.”

You took a grateful sip. “Where is everyone?”

“Scattered like bodies after a battlefield. I’m guessing we won’t see life signs for another hour.”

You laugh, and the sound of heavy footsteps made both of you glance toward the hallway.

Namjoon appeared first — hair a mess, hoodie barely hanging on one shoulder, glasses askew like he'd wrestled with a pillow. He squinted toward the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he mumbled.

“Good morning to you, too,” Alisha said, already reaching for another mug. “You look like you tried to fight gravity in your sleep.”

He grunted, flopping into the stool beside you. “Gravity won.”

Right behind him came Taehyung, wrapped in a throw blanket like a toga, eyes half-lidded but still somehow managing to look ethereal and slightly offended at the morning. “Why is it so bright in here?”

“It’s called the sun,” you said helpfully, sipping your drink.

He blinked at you, unimpressed. “Can someone turn it off?”

“You guys sound like hungover raccoons,” Alisha muttered, sliding pancakes onto a plate.

“You invited us,” Namjoon said, muffled by his sleeve.

“And you’re getting fed,” she shot back. “So don’t push it.” You smiled into your cup, the warmth of the morning wrapping around you — a little too many bodies in now what feels like a small kitchen, still tangled in sleep and sarcasm. But it felt… good. You felt…happy. -------------------------------------------------------------- Taehyung had slumped sideways onto the couch with a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth.

Namjoon was reading something on his phone, glasses now properly in place, muttering about needing to start journaling again. The kitchen smelled like syrup and butter and leftover dreams.

You stayed perched on the stool beside Alisha, the two of you in no rush. Quiet laughter, small talk, the kind of morning that didn’t demand anything.

Then came the telltale shuffling of socks down the hall.

Jimin.

He looked like a wreck in the most charming way—hoodie three sizes too big, eyes still swollen with sleep, hair flat on one side and sticking up on the other. He spotted you and made a beeline without saying a word.

“Ugh,” he groaned dramatically, dropping onto the stool beside you and slumping sideways until his head rested on your shoulder. “Kill me.”

“Hangover?” you asked, amused.

“I didn’t even drink that much,” he whined, burrowing closer. “Just...bad decisions in liquid form.”

You chuckled softly, lifting a hand to gently pat his hair. He sighed at the comfort, nestling in like a sleepy cat.

Time passed easily like that. The kind you didn’t measure in minutes, but in moments. Conversations drifted in and out. Laughter came and went.

But your mind had already wandered elsewhere. Not that you’d admit it. Especially not to yourself.

You rose slowly from your stool, stretching just enough to mask your real reason for leaving. “Gonna grab my phone. Left it charging last night.”

No one questioned it. Alisha only hummed, and Jimin, still half-buried in your side, gave a sleepy groan of acknowledgment.

The hallway was quiet. Light from the tall windows bled across the floor. You padded past a guest room, casually glancing in — only to find the bed untouched. Sheets still crisp. Empty.

You didn’t stop.

Your room was just as you’d left it. You didn’t bother closing the door behind you — you weren’t staying long.

At the dresser, you found your phone, still plugged in. The screen lit up instantly with a flood of notifications. Messages. Mentions. Articles.

Headlines painted the screen:

“A Vision in Gold — Grammy Showstopper” “Beauty, Talent, and Unmatched Presence”

Your photo stared back at you — poised, powerful, every angle curated by luck and camera flashes. You looked at it all without reaction. Not because it didn’t matter. But because you’d already expected it. And maybe… because it didn’t touch the part of you that was still tired.

Then—

A shift.

The unmistakable sense of someone behind you.

“Morning,” came a voice — low, unhurried, gravel-soft with sleep.

You turned.

Jungkook leaned against your open door, one shoulder braced lazily against the frame. A black shirt hung loose in his grip. His chest bare. His hair damp — strands clinging to his forehead and neck. Droplets of water trailed down his collarbones like they had somewhere to be.

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Did you… sleep well?” he asked, smirking like he already knew the effect he had on you.

Your brain faltered. Mouth opened, then closed. The way he looked — all morning heat and unbothered confidence — short-circuited something in you.

He noticed.

And stepped inside.

“I—” you started, then gave up. “Did you carry me to bed?”

He nodded, easy. “Could’ve left you curled up and freezing on that balcony. But,” he added with a grin, “I’m a gentleman.”

You scoffed, folding your arms — more for protection than sass. “Right. Sounds like you’ve been fantasizing about carrying me for a while.”

He chuckled low in his chest, stepping closer. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things,” he murmured.

Another step. Close enough now that the damp tips of his hair nearly brushed your forehead.

A single drop of water slipped from a dark strand — cool and sudden — landing softly on your cheek.

You flinched just slightly at the unexpected sensation.

Then stilled completely when his hand came up — slow, deliberate — and his fingers brushed the drop away.

A gentle touch. Warm skin against your face.

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t break eye contact.

“Like what you said last night…” he added softly.

Your heart did something stupid. You knew exactly what he meant — your dare-soaked words replaying like a taunt:

You’re acting all cocky, but you’re dying for me to kiss you.

You met his eyes, trying not to flinch. “Not even in your dreams,” you said, voice dry. “And definitely not when I’m unconscious.”

His smirk returned — slow, knowing, devastating.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice barely a breath, “if I want you… I’ll make damn sure you’re wide awake for it.”

You slapped his hand away with a scoff — playful, but edged. “Touch my face again and I’ll break those delicate idol fingers.”

He laughed, deep and unbothered, like you’d just flirted instead of threatened. “You talk a big game,” he said, voice low and teasing. “But that heartbeat says otherwise.”

You opened your mouth — to deny, to fire back, to say anything — but nothing came.

Because the heat in his eyes didn’t match the lazy curve of his smile. Because his gaze dipped to your parted lips for just a second too long. Because your body—traitorous, thrilled, sparked before your brain could stop it.

But he didn’t push. Just smiled — slow, maddening — and stepped back with easy grace, slinging his shirt over one shoulder.

“Try not to miss me,” he said, already turning. “I’ll be back before your pulse slows down.”

And then he was gone — leaving you flushed, flustered, and far too aware of how long it had been since someone really got to you.

You let out a shaky breath.

Goddammit. You were turned on. --------------------------------------------------------------

When you returned to the kitchen, you were composed.

No trace of fluster. No sign of the fire Jungkook had casually left smoldering in your chest. Your posture was calm, expression unreadable, like nothing had happened at all.

But instead of reclaiming your old seat beside Alisha, you circled the island slowly… and sat down right next to him.

Jungkook’s head turned slightly, eyes flicking toward you with a sliver of surprise he didn’t bother to hide. You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Your presence was loud enough.

You took a sip of coffee. Slow. Smooth. Like a woman who hadn’t just threatened to break his fingers and then nearly melted under his gaze.

Jungkook’s smirk returned, curling at the edges. But he said nothing. Just shifted slightly in his seat, knee grazing yours under the table.

You didn’t move away.

Someone coughed lightly — Alisha, flipping through her phone, one brow raised. “Okay,” she said. “Heads up — there’s a party tonight. Big one. Jacob Parker's place. Invite-only. Paparazzi won’t get near it.”

You didn’t react. Just kept sipping.

“Yeah,” Namjoon added, not looking up. “Our team already RSVP’d. We’re going.”

That got your attention.

You were invited, of course. You were always invited. But attending? That was another story.

Alisha looked at you, expectant. “You in?”

You set your cup down, deliberately. Didn’t rush.

Then, bone-dry: “I’d rather drink lukewarm coffee in silence than pretend to laugh at a producer’s jokes.”

Jungkook choked — just barely — into his juice.

Alisha snorted. “Come on. It won’t be that bad.”

You sighed, “I’m not in the mood. Too much small talk. Too many people pretending they’re not just there to name-drop.” She leaned in, voice dipping toward persuasion. “You’ve ghosted the last three events. Don’t make me mingle with men named Bryce all night by myself. Also, I miss having you next to me when everyone starts name-dropping.”

A pause.

Alisha gave a tiny shrug, like she hadn’t expected to win anyway, and moved to rinse out her mug.

But then Jungkook let out a low hum, quiet, almost amused. Like he’d caught something in your tone.

“You sure that’s the reason?” he asked, eyes still on his plate.

Your gaze snapped to him, sharp.

He finally looked up, meeting your stare with just enough heat to make your pulse kick. “If you’re worried about being the center of attention…” he said casually, “I could take one for the team. Steal the spotlight.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose — a half-laugh, half-scoff. “That’s cute. You think anyone’s looking at you when I walk into a room?”

His smirk was slow. Dangerous. “Then prove it.”

The words hung in the air — a dare, not a suggestion.

You didn’t reply. Just met his gaze, steady. Calm.

But your fingers curled around your mug a little tighter.

Because part of you wanted to.

Not for the crowd. Not for Alisha. Not even for the game.

Just to prove him wrong.

You took another sip of coffee, eyes still locked with his.

And though you didn’t say yes…you didn’t say no either.

-------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter Four: Coming soon.... Read Chapter One: Here Read Chapter Two: Here --------------------------------------------------------------

Hi Kookies,💜 Chapter Three got a little long...but can you blame me? I just didn’t want to end it 😩. Thank you for sticking through the tension, the dares, and all the chaos brewing between them. Your support means everything — seriously.

Drop your thoughts, fav lines, or unhinged reactions 🫣💬

Can’t wait to hear them!!

Love always,

xx 💌✨

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