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prettygirl-gabi · 5 months ago

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Title: Spicy Noodles Challenge

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: paige being a tease, Paige almost losing her life.

Paring: Paige Bueckers x fem reader x Azzi Fudd

Fandom: UConn's Women's basketball

Summary: spicy ramen and sheer willpower

TikTok Live was rolling, the ring light illuminating my face as I stared at the terrifyingly red bowl of noodles in front of me. Aubrey and Caroline sat beside me, all of us mentally preparing for what we were about to endure. The rest of the UConn women’s basketball team was gathered around us, off-camera but fully invested in our suffering.

"Alright, y’all," Aubrey said dramatically, looking at the screen. "We’re doing the spicy noodle challenge, and I already know I’m not making it out alive."

"Me either," Caroline added, shaking her head. "Why did I let y’all talk me into this?"

I scoffed. "Y’all got nothing to worry about. I have a reputation to uphold."

The comments were already flying in.

@p.y.aluver: "Y/n's about to humble everyone."

@UConnsfavtoy: "Paige and Azzi gon’ clown her if she starts crying."

@Purplepaigepurples: "Why do I feel like Aubrey is gonna tap out first?"

Paige and Azzi were standing behind me, flanking either side like my own personal hype squad—and personal menace squad. Paige rested her chin on the top of my head, peering down at my bowl.

"You sure about that, babe?" she teased. "‘Cause that looks lethal."

Azzi smirked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "Don’t get cocky now. You know you can’t handle spice."

I nudged her off me. "Y’all are so fake. Where’s the encouragement?"

Azzi patted my back. "You got this, baby."

Paige shrugged. "Yeah. You got this, but if you cry, just know I’m laughing."

KK Arnold snickered from the side. "You already know Paige and Azzi about to be the worst cheerleaders."

"I am offended," Paige said dramatically. "I support my girl in every way."

Azzi nodded. "Yeah, we just support her… with a little bit of clowning included."

Aubrey clapped her hands. "Okay, okay, less talking, more suffering. Let’s go."

We counted down together.

"Three… two… one—go!"

I took my first bite, and immediately, I felt the heat punch me in the throat. The spice didn’t creep up—it attacked. My tongue burned, my lips tingled, and my throat felt like I had swallowed actual fire.

Beside me, Aubrey was already gagging. "Nah. Nope. I’m out."

Caroline had taken one bite and was chugging her water like her life depended on it.

I powered through, despite my taste buds screaming at me to stop. My eyes watered, my nose was already running, and I could feel Paige and Azzi watching me, waiting for me to break.

"You good, baby?" Azzi asked, rubbing my back.

I nodded, swallowing another bite. "Yup."

Paige tilted her head. "Are you crying?"

I shot her a glare. "No."

The comments were going crazy.

@paxazxyn35: "Y/N IS STRUGGLING OMG LMAOOO."

@aubreyslefttoe: "Paige just wants to see her suffer 💀"

@ynrealluver: "Aubrey is already gone, Caroline is barely hanging on, but Y/N IS STILL FIGHTING."

Azzi handed me a napkin as I sniffled. "Babe, your nose—"

I wiped my nose quickly, taking another bite even though my throat felt like sandpaper.

"She’s fighting for her life," Ice Brady laughed.

"Ice, be useful and get me some milk," I croaked out, voice slightly hoarse.

Paige raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you need something?"

I exhaled, trying to cool my mouth down. "Yes, I need milk, now."

Paige smirked, holding up a glass of milk she had magically produced from somewhere. "I’ll give it to you… but you gotta kiss me for it."

I stared at her, deadpan. "Paige. Madison. Bueckers, if you don’t hand me that damn milk—"

Azzi, bless her soul, grabbed a different glass from the side and handed it to me before I committed a crime. "Here, baby."

I immediately chugged the milk, sighing in relief as the burn subsided slightly.

Paige pouted. "Wow, Azzi. You’re ruining my fun."

Azzi rolled her eyes. "You were gonna ruin your own fun when she knocked you out on live."

I slammed my glass down dramatically, after regaining the ability to truly speak. "I WIN. I FINISHED IT ALL."

The team burst into cheers and laughter, clapping for me.

"A TRUE CHAMPION," Aubrey declared, even though she had up two minutes ago.

Caroline wiped her own watery eyes. "I don’t know how you did that."

"Sheer willpower," I said, sniffling.

Paige kissed the top of my head. "Proud of you, baby. Even though you look like you just fought for your life."

Azzi cupped my cheeks, looking at me with faux concern. "Do you regret it, though?"

I leaned into her hands, sighing dramatically. "Yes."

Paige and Azzi both laughed before kissing me on either cheek at the same time.

"Never doing that again," I mumbled, still sniffling.

The chat was blowing up with laughing emojis and comments, but the best part? The stolen kisses, the teasing, and the way my girlfriends never let me suffer too much.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

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kdh-tally · 10 days ago

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Hi! I have a request of a scenario where a reality tv show or something like that where it stars Huntrix & Saja boys for a challenge as it would be like an eating competition or anything related to food of where the groups have to finished the whole table of food that could feed a whole family.

As the Saja Boys would start eating their food as Huntrix would stare at the whole table filled with food as all three members, Rumi, Mira & Zoey haven’t eaten much busying themselves to the point where now looking at the food they tried control their urges of just scarfing it down like a beggar who hasn’t eaten food for like a whole month. So, being professional but still slightly a bit feral, all three would take a deep breath before they started to go full blown on just eating every food each on the table as they ate in a fast but normal pace eating all with ease as they would still try to look professional but still letting themselves go just go on a whole speed run of finishing the food at record time as the Saja Boys would look at them before being baffled and surprised as how slightly feral Huntrix were eating their food so quickly

(I just imagine like the reaction of all five members of Saja Boys would be like Jinu expression surprised and eyes widened while holding his food, Abby holding his utensils that held his food not moving just staring at the girls, Romance would drop his utensils and be like a victorian woman clutching his pearls as Baby is similar dropping his utensils, eyes blown wide with mouth agape as for mystery, he silently stare at the girls as he would look back at his food before slowly taking a bite)

Some time Later, Huntrix would finished their food from the whole table while The Saja Boys only ate like maybe half or like a thrid?

{Are you fine making this?}

K-STAGE IDOL MISSIONS [HUNTR/X VS SAJA BOYS] EP 1

Prompt : Huntrix and the Saja Boys compete in an eating competition. Everyone thinks the Saja Boys will win but Huntrix haven't eaten in a while...

Author's Note : As i write this i realised i could've added an "they ate" (as in ate DOWN) pun somewhere but i didn't.... Anyways!!! Its written in episode style because i decided anything request or post where the groups do something variety shows will be another episode lol. Had so much fun with this so enjoy!!!!!!

“EPISODE 1: K-STAGE IDOL MISSIONS” [THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON THE TWO GROUPS STANDING BEHIND A TABLE FILLED WITH FOOD] [Bright game show music fades under the hosts yelling into their microphones.]

“Welcome to Idol Missions!” the host grins, practically shouting into his microphone to hype up the audience. “The show where we get your favourite Idols to compete in the craziest challenges!”

“This week, we’re doing our most interesting mission yet, finishing an entire table’s worth of food… before the other team does!” he continued.

There were two teams, a dangerously overfilled table, absolutely no time limit, and a shiny trophy between both groups.

The camera panned across the glorious feast. Stacks of steaming dumplings, whole grilled fish, massive hot pots, three different towers of fried chicken, cold noodles in broth, skewers, rice mountains, full jjigae pots, fruit, mandu, japchae, tteokbokki, ribs, stews, side dishes, desserts that looked like they were summoned from a palace banquet, and a whole other table dedicated to western food.

Enough food to feed a small army or at least a large idol company. “Teams,” the host yelled, “are you ready?!”

The Saja Boys, already seated and rolling up sleeves like they were entering war, shouted a confident, “YES!” Naturally, everyone expected the Saja Boys to dominate. Abby had the appetite of three men, Romance could crush six milkshakes without flinching and Baby had once eaten six orders of spicy tteokbokki during a live stream.

And let’s be honest, Huntrix didn’t exactly look threatening. They were polished, pretty even. Too elegant and calm. That was until they saw the food.

The girls just stared.

And stared.

No one moved.

“Three… two… one… START!”

The Saja Boys immediately dig in, moving in sync like they had practiced for this moment in advance. Abby was already biting into a steak, demon teeth being very useful, Romance was clearing away all the sweet treats and Mystery was halfway into finishing the broth before the others could get it.

They were focused.

They were organized.

They were doing well.

But the camera wasn’t focused on them.

It was on Huntrix.

Still frozen.

Still wide-eyed.

Still not moving.

Because this was the first time in days the three of them had sat in front of real food. Like actual sit-down food that wasn’t a protein bar, instant ramen, or a lukewarm sandwich shoved into their hands between rehearsals.

They hadn’t even eaten that morning.

Too busy doing their hair. Too busy in wardrobe. Too busy fixing each other’s mic packs and running lines and laughing and walking onto this set thinking, We’ll be fine.

They were not fine.

And now there was food. Everywhere.

And their souls were slowly ascending from their bodies, because there was no way this was real.

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - RUMI] "I didn’t think it’d hit me that hard but like," the purple haired leader stared right into the camera, as though trying to convey her feelings to the viewers soul. "They had cheesy corndogs on the table. You don’t understand. I almost cried."

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - MIRA] "I was gonna pace myself. I really was. But then Zoey grabbed the chicken and I just blacked out." The pink haired girl crossed her legs, a ramen cup she had snagged from the table in hand as she spoke.

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - ZOEY] "We’re professionals. We know how to act in front of cameras." Zoey sat neatly. The video then cut to her completely feral, lips glazed in sauce, a chicken skewer in one hand and kimchi in the other.

"However,” she raised a hand to cover her sheepish smile, “I might have been a bit too hungry…”

–

Back on set, the girls took a collective breath.

Rumi lifted her chopsticks, Zoey cracked her knuckles and Mira tied her thick hair into a ponytail without saying a word. Then they moved.

They don’t speak. Don’t make a single sound. But the way their eyes darken as they locked onto the food? Yeah. The Saja Boys feel that energy shift instantly. They weren’t gonna win this.

Mira’s was already scooping in rice like it was air. Zoey had grabbed three chicken legs in one go and somehow made it look elegant. Rumi? She was eating like she was personally offended that the food dared sit there uneaten this long.

They're chewing at lightning speed but somehow not messy. They were clean, polished and basically possessed.

–

[CAMERA ON SAJA BOYS]

Jinu froze mid-bite, eyes wide, mouth open, utensils still in hand.

Romance dropped his chopsticks like he just got slapped by the Holy Spirit. “What—”

Abby didn’t even blink. He just stared, his fork lifted halfway to his mouth.

Baby’s jaw dropped. He’d seen the girls eat before but never like this…

Mystery stared in silence for a solid five seconds. Then slowly turned to look at his own plate. Then back at Huntrix. Then back to his food. Then slowly, he took a bite of his food, hoping he’d get more before the girls completely demolished everything.

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - BABY] "I—i didn’t know Rumi could… was that even chewing? She was inhaling the food." He looks off-camera, haunted by what he had seen. "She smiled while doing it too. I’m scared, honestly."

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - MYSTERY]

Mystery had his hand in his hair, pulling at it as though trying to stabilize himself. "I tried to reach for a dumpling but Zoey smacked it out of my plate with her chopsticks."

He stared at the floor for a bit more before looking at the camera, “She hissed at me.”

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - ROMANCE & ABBY] "Mira grabbed the hot pot in one hand. Like. Picked up the pot. I’m going to marry her. I have to. I can’t risk being on her bad side." Abby spoke as Romance attempted to calm his breathing behind him.

–

Fifteen minutes in, the host returned, his voice louder, clearly shocked.

“And… and Huntrix has cleared the entire table?!”

The camera cut to the Saja Boys, still working through half their dishes.

Huntrix sits back, breathless but glowing. Rumi had sauce on her sleeve, Mira was sipping a drink like she just had finished a simple workout and Zoey was innocently dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin like she didn’t just demolish three pounds of meat.

There was silence.

Then clapping.

Someone in the back yelled “Those are my girls!!” The three smiled as they recognized Bobby’s voice.

Jinu was literally fanning himself.

Abby finally finished the bite he’d paused on. “We lost.”

Baby was still staring.

Romance puts his spoon down and exhales. “I’m full just from watching.”

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - ZOEY] "I think it's pretty cool that we won and got to take home the trophy. But more importantly, I’m happy that I can go to bed tonight without dreaming of convenience store ramen." She sighed wistfully, patting her belly in content.

–

[CONFESSIONAL ROOM - MIRA] “They thought we’d be cute and dainty. Sucks to be them” The pink girl shrugged, takeaway bags stacked behind her. She wouldn’t admit it but she had saved some for her boys. “They forgot we’re performers and starving women."

–

[CONFESSIONAL CUT - RUMI & JINU (he snuck in)] She grinned slowly, teeth unusually sharp for a human… "I told them we were normal. I never said we were tame."

Jinu stared at her from behind the camera, surrounded by the remainder of both group members. “I have no more faith in you.” Rumi burst into laughter.

–

[ENDING CREDITS CUE!] A slo-mo montage of Saja Boys still trying to recover. Romance wiping his face with his shirt. Abby whispering, “I think I just fell in love again.” Jinu staring into space as Rumi pats his head. Zoey licking sauce from her fingers with no shame in the background. Mystery chewing slowly, still watching like they’re something out of a nature documentary.

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rmview · 5 months ago

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they have a low spice tolerance, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of what the stray kids boys are like when they find out they have a spice tolerance lower than yours!

contents — fluff, no warnings.

bang ☄︎ chan

bang chan always prided himself on trying new things, so when you casually suggested a spicy noodle challenge, he was on board. “how bad can it be?” he asked confidently, watching you prepare the fiery dish. but as soon as he took the first bite, his eyes widened, and a bright red flush crept up his neck.

“oh my god,” he gasped, grabbing his water bottle and gulping it down, only to find it made the burn worse. “how are you eating this so calmly?” he exclaimed, watching you casually slurp up the noodles like it was nothing.

you laughed at his reaction, offering him some milk. “i thought you were all tough and adventurous?”

“i am,” he insisted, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “but this is insane. it’s like eating lava.” still, his competitive streak wouldn’t let him back down, and he stubbornly took another bite, grimacing but determined.

by the end, he was slumped back in his chair, defeated. “never again,” he declared, fanning his mouth. “you win. i don’t know how you do it.” but even through the spice-induced torture, he couldn’t help but chuckle at your amused expression. “you’re scary good at this, you know that?”

felix ☄︎

felix loved food and was always down for an adventure, but spicy dishes weren’t his forte. still, when you brought out a bowl of spicy tteokbokki, he couldn’t resist trying it. “it smells amazing!” he said, his deep voice full of enthusiasm.

one bite in, however, his enthusiasm turned to panic. “oh no,” he croaked, his freckles standing out even more against his reddening face. “it’s so spicy!” he waved his hand in front of his mouth, trying to cool down the burn.

you couldn’t stop laughing as he fumbled for water. “it’s not that bad!” you teased, popping another piece into your mouth effortlessly.

felix pouted through his watery eyes. “not that bad? my tongue is on fire!” despite his struggle, he couldn’t stop eating, enjoying the flavor too much to give up. “this hurts so good,” he said, sniffling but smiling.

lee ☄︎ know

lee know was skeptical when you brought out a plate of extra-spicy wings. “this is nothing,” he declared confidently. “i’ve eaten spicier stuff before.” but one bite later, his eyes went wide, and he immediately started coughing.

“are you okay?” you asked, laughing as he reached for his drink.

“fine,” he croaked, stubbornly taking another bite. his pride wouldn’t let him admit defeat, even though his face was turning an alarming shade of red.

you handed him a glass of milk, smirking. “admit it, you’re struggling.”

lee know shook his head, his voice hoarse. “i’m fine. totally fine.” but when you turned away for a moment, he subtly pushed the plate toward you. “you finish it. i’m full,” he said casually, pretending like nothing had happened.

hyun ☄︎ jin

hyunjin was hesitant when you suggested trying a spicy curry together. “i don’t know,” he said, eyeing the dish suspiciously. “it looks like it might kill me.”

“it’s not that bad!” you reassured him, digging in with no problem.

encouraged by your confidence, he took a bite—and immediately regretted it. “oh my god,” he groaned, clutching his throat dramatically. “why is it attacking me?”

you couldn’t stop laughing as he gulped down water, his eyes wide and teary. “you’re so dramatic,” you teased, offering him some rice to help.

hyunjin sniffled, his pride wounded but his theatrics fully on display. “i think my taste buds are dying,” he said, glaring at the curry like it had personally wronged him. still, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself, especially when you teased him for being a spice lightweight.

i.n ☄︎

jeongin was cautiously optimistic as he watched you pile spicy noodles onto a plate. “it doesn’t look that bad,” he commented, although there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“don’t worry,” you teased, handing him a pair of chopsticks. “just try it. it’s not that spicy.”

trusting you, jeongin took a bite, and within seconds, his eyes widened as the heat hit him. “oh no,” he gasped, covering his mouth as he coughed. “this is way worse than i thought.” he waved a hand in front of his face, his tongue clearly on fire.

you couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. “want some milk?” you offered, trying not to smirk too much.

“yes, please,” he croaked, grabbing the glass and drinking it like his life depended on it. when the burn subsided slightly, he shot you a playful glare. “how can you eat that like it’s nothing? are you even human?”

“it’s a skill,” you replied smugly, taking another bite with ease.

jeongin shook his head, his competitive side kicking in. “alright, give me another bite. i’m not losing to you.” despite his clear suffering, he powered through, determined not to be outdone.

han ☄︎

han was all smiles when you brought out a dish of spicy stir-fry. “i love food, so this’ll be easy,” he declared confidently, grabbing his chopsticks.

but the moment he took a bite, his expression shifted dramatically. “oh no, no, no,” he mumbled, his voice muffled as he tried to fan his burning tongue. “why is this so spicy? did you add extra chili just to mess with me?”

you burst out laughing at his theatrics. “i didn’t do anything! you’re just bad with spice.”

han grabbed a napkin to dab at his teary eyes. “bad? my mouth is dying. this is torture.” despite his complaints, he kept taking tiny bites, clearly torn between the delicious flavor and the overwhelming heat.

“you don’t have to keep eating it,” you said, amused.

“i do,” he replied stubbornly. “it’s too good to stop, even if it feels like my tongue is melting.” his dramatic commentary continued until he finally gave up, slumping back with a sigh. “never again. you’re evil for enjoying this so much.”

seung ☄︎ min

seungmin gave you a skeptical look as you placed a bowl of spicy soup in front of him. “this doesn’t look like something i’d enjoy,” he said bluntly, but he picked up his spoon anyway.

one sip in, and his calm expression broke. he set the spoon down carefully and reached for his water. “this is ridiculous,” he stated, his voice even but his face visibly flushed.

you raised an eyebrow. “it’s not that bad. are you giving up already?”

seungmin shot you a look of mock annoyance. “i didn’t say i was giving up. i’m just questioning your taste in food.” despite his words, he took another spoonful, his determination shining through.

after a few more bites, he sighed and leaned back, giving you a small smirk. “you win. i’ll stick to non-lethal meals from now on.” his deadpan humor made you laugh, and he couldn’t help but smile at your reaction. “you’re way too proud of yourself right now.”

chang ☄︎ bin

changbin’s confidence was sky-high as he sat down in front of a plate of spicy wings. “you think i can’t handle this? i’m tougher than i look,” he boasted, taking a big bite.

but almost immediately, his bravado crumbled. “oh my god,” he choked out, grabbing his drink and downing it in one go. “this is insane. who eats this willingly?”

you couldn’t stop laughing as he fanned his mouth with his hand. “i thought you were ‘tougher than you look,’” you teased.

“i am!” he shot back, although his watery eyes and flushed face told a different story. still, his competitive nature wouldn’t let him back down. “i’m not letting you win this,” he declared, taking another bite despite the burn.

by the time he finished, he was slumped over the table, exhausted but triumphant. “that was the worst thing i’ve ever done,” he said dramatically, glaring at you through his tears. “but i survived. barely.” his over-the-top antics made you laugh, and despite his suffering, he couldn’t help but grin at your amusement.

notes: this request for so fun to do! hope you guys enjoyed!

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everrinsly · 25 days ago

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a/n; friends!! so sorry this took a while. work has been busy so I only have time on the weekends mostly. this is just chaotic energy and crackheads together hehe, very long too, but I hope you like!

a momager and her silly olympic team.

2x spicy buldak… and ref, do something! fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

team japan tries the spicy noodle challenge on their lunch break... only to realize they have a game against the team that gave them the buldak... sabotage—?!

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

It was lunch time for Team Japan, and the chaos should have ended with the final whistle.

Keyword: should have.

Because if there was one thing Team Japan excelled at, besides volleyball, it was turning carbs and free time into absolute freedom-fueled delinquency—like ‘our mamas ain’t here, so we can do whatever we want because our manager’s an angel’ energy.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The match against Canada had just wrapped—gritty, sweaty, loud—but a win was a win. With no immediate press or post-game debrief, most of the boys lingered near the sidelines of the court, sprawled out across the floor, jerseys half on, hair messy, all basking in that post-victory energy and ready to ruin lives with their ‘flirt for fun’ faces for no reason whatsoever.

You and Iwaizumi remained near the bench area, cleaning up athletic tape, recovery wraps, and empty water bottles while muttering about how no one ever put their towels back in the ‘need to be washed’ duffle bag.

“Why are there three banana peels under this seat?” you grumbled, holding one up by the neck.

“Bokuto,” Iwaizumi said flatly.

Of course.

You let out a long-suffering sigh and raised your voice just a little. “Bo…?”

There was a pause before Bokuto poked his head around the bench, already wearing his best ‘I didn’t mean to’ face.

“I told you to use the trash bag,” you said gently, walking over with the peels still dangling. “I even labeled it for you.”

��You… did?” Bokuto blinked.

You nodded, holding up the clear plastic bag with the words ‘Team Japan’s BANANA GRAVEYARD’ written in bold marker and covered in dramatic doodles of haunted fruit.

“Oh… I thought that was a joke!” Bokuto said, genuinely distraught. “Like, I thought it was haunted bananas… not actual trash!”

“It was haunted,” you said pointedly. “By your mess.”

Bokuto let out a tragic little whimper and slumped against the bench like someone had told him the Olympics were canceled.

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, reaching out and gently fluffing up the front of his hair where it had flopped sadly forward. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“You’re not mad?” he asked, peeking up at you.

You grinned. “No. But I am mildly haunted.”

“Haunted by bananas?”

“By your inability to read labels.”

Behind you, Iwaizumi muttered, “And the fact that I stepped on one earlier.”

Bokuto gasped. “Wait—Iwa, are you okay—?!”

“No, thanks to you and your potassium trail of doom,” he grumbled.

You giggled and gave Bokuto’s hair another little spike. “There. Emo mode off. Crisis averted.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

And then it happened.

It started with one sentence from Hinata.

“Let’s do the spicy noodle challenge!”

You and Iwaizumi paused mid-trash bag tie.

“No,” you said immediately.

“I second that,” Iwaizumi added without looking up. “You’ve got a second match in a few hours. Eat something that won’t destroy your stomach lining.”

But did Hinata listen?

Absolutely not.

He was already pulling something out of his gym bag with the sort of smug pride only a man planning his own funeral could wear.

Three big red packets of 2x Spicy Buldak Noodles.

“Where did you even get those?” you asked suspiciously, walking over as the rest of the boys gasped and leaned in.

Hinata beamed, waving the crinkled black and red packaging. “A South Korean player gave them to me! He said they’re only mildly spicy—mostly sweet!”

“Sweet?” Sakusa echoed, eyeing the warning labels printed in bold red across the back. “‘2x Spicy’ doesn’t sound sweet.”

“It’s marketing!” Hinata chirped. “You know, to scare people!”

Atsumu snatched a pack from Hinata’s hands. “I’m in. How bad could it be? I’ve had ramen with, like, loads of red pepper before.”

From beside you, Iwaizumi didn’t even look up from where he was crouched near the bench, dragging out an alarming collection of empty protein bar wrappers with a look of pure disappointment.

“That was chili oil,” he said flatly, flicking a wrapper into a trash bag. “And Osamu made it with extra soy sauce and sugar for you because you’re a wuss.”

Atsumu’s scandalized gasp echoed through the court like he’d just been personally betrayed. “You take that back!”

Iwaizumi stood up, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and dusted off his hands. “He told me himself. Also said you cried over the level one mapo tofu.”

“I didn’t cry, I sweated with emotion!” Atsumu shot back defensively.

“Oh, yeah?” Suna drawled, shifting just enough to dig into his pocket with one hand, the other lazily resting on Aran’s shoulders. “Because I got a picture.”

“No, you don’t,” Atsumu said instantly, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t—”

Suna had already pulled out his phone, casually flipping it around for everyone to see. “Behold. The moment our local golden boy met his match.”

Atsumu lunged. “DELETE IT—”

But it was too late.

The photo was zoomed in perfectly: Atsumu, hunched over the table, red-faced, eyes glassy, lips visibly swollen from spice overload. A single tear tracked dramatically down one cheek.

“Oh my god,” Komori wheezed, doubling over. “You look like you were going through a breakup and getting pepper sprayed.”

Kageyama let out a little huff. “He deserved every bit of that.”

“I told you to stop slurping,” Aran said, voice muffled with laughter.

“That was an allergic reaction!” Atsumu whined, flailing as Suna tilted the screen toward Ushijima, who blinked and offered a quiet, “You appear to be in great distress.”

“It was emotional damage,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu looked deeply offended, like a man wrongly accused in court. “You guys are dramatic. I’ll prove it. I’ll eat the whole thing. No water.”

“Make it two packs then,” Bokuto grinned, ever the instigator. “For science!”

“You people have zero survival instinct,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

“C’mon, sweets,” Hinata strolled up to you with a bounce in his step and the kind of wide-eyed pout that could shatter nations—certainly your self-control. He gave a little tug on your sleeve, swaying side to side like a pleading puppy.

“You gonna deny your favorite boys one little taste adventure?” he asked, voice dripping with mock innocence as his bottom lip wobbled just a little too perfectly.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I know that tone. That’s the ‘I’m gonna start chaos and pretend I didn’t’ voice.”

“What voice?”

And unfortunately, the rest of the team had already latched on.

“Please?” Komori added with puppy eyes that should be banned by the Olympic Committee.

“Yeah, boss,” Aran chimed in with a grin. “What’s a little spice among national treasures?”

You looked at Iwaizumi, defeated.

He met your gaze, entirely unfazed. “They need to suffer.”

“Iwa!

“They’ll learn.”

Spoiler: they didn’t.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Within five minutes, the entire national team—grown men, national representatives, your supposed pride and joy—huddled in a ‘not-so-hidden’ corner of the athlete tunnel, squatting and whisper-yelling at each other in a circle like some shady back-alley spice cult.

They had procured exactly three items:

A Tupperware container that was unmistakably yours—fished from your purse, thank you very much—now clutched in Kageyama’s guilty hands.

A stream of steaming hot water being poured very seriously from Ushijima’s stainless steel thermos.

And of course, Hinata’s super suspicious packs of 2x spicy Buldak noodles, which he had failed around happily earlier despite it being rather sad-looking because it had also been squashed under Bokuto’s warm-up gear.

You stood a few feet away with Iwaizumi, watching it all unfold with the dulled horror of someone who had simply seen too much idiocy.

Bokuto had taken it upon himself to stir the noodles with a lone chopstick he found in his duffel bag, wrapped in a napkin of deeply questionable origin. No one knew where it came from. No one dared to ask.

He twirled the noodles, grinning, face flushed from the steam. “They need to steep.”

Sakusa let out a slow, exhausted sigh, already pinching the bridge of his nose because this was surely shortening his life span by the second. “Maybe close the lid, so it’ll cook better. Like trapping the heat. Like literally every ramen instruction ever written.”

Bokuto blinked. “Oh. That’s smart.”

“It’s basic,” Sakusa hissed.

Kageyama, ever the eager helper, reached for the lid—your poor, warped Tupperware lid—and attempted to snap it shut with the grace of someone who had never handled Tupperware in his life.

It didn’t fit.

The container had puffed up from heat and noodle expansion, and Kageyama just sat there frowning at it, trying to push one corner down. But when he got one side to settle, the other popped up. He kept pressing it down over and over, like that would suddenly solve the problem through sheer brute force.

Eventually, he just gave up and gently placed it on top like a sad little hat.

“Perfect,” he said confidently.

“That’s not even secure,” Sakusa muttered.

“It’s a metaphorical lid,” Komori offered helpfully.

“For what? Failure?” Sakusa snapped.

But before the said metaphorical lid could settle, Bokuto had already popped it off again—completely disregarding whatever steam had managed to build—and eagerly jabbed at the noodles with his lone chopstick. “Hey, they’re… kinda soft now.”

“They’re crunchy,” Aran said flatly. “Still literally crunchy. That’s not cooked.”

“They have texture,” Bokuto argued.

“They have resistance,” Sakusa corrected.

“That’s called ‘al dente,’ right?” Atsumu added, peering in and instantly tearing up from the rising steam. “Ow, it bit me.”

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “It’s just steam, ‘Tsumu.”

“It’s violent steam, like steam with knives, ya feel?”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Regardless of common sense, they had declared the noodles done, which meant it was time for the sauce.

A moment of triumph hung in the air. Bokuto was bouncing. Hinata had already torn open the terrifyingly red sauce packet with his teeth.

And then—

A real question suddenly emerged.

“Alright, smartasses,” Iwaizumi said dryly, watching them prepare to stir in the sauce. “You think that’s how you prepare Buldak noodles?”

The boys paused.

“...What do you mean?” Kageyama asked, blinking.

“You gonna strain it?” Iwaizumi prompted, raising a brow. “Before adding the sauce?”

“...Strain?”

“We need to strain?”

“What do you mean strain?”

“What’s strain?”

There was a beat of silence as all of Team Japan collectively realized they had, in fact, not thought that far ahead.

“That’s a really good point,” Aran muttered, squinting down at the sad, floating noodles sloshing weakly in the Tupperware.

Then—

“I have knowledge,” Ushijima said gravely.

Everyone turned.

“Of course you do,” Sakusa muttered under his breath, folding his arms.

Ushijima stood up and took a step forward, hands behind his back like a professor about to give a lecture. “I have watched multiple mukbangs on South Korean noodle preparation. You must leave approximately three tablespoons of cooking water in the container and strain the rest. This particular flavor, 2x spicy Buldak, is intended to be eaten as a dry noodle.”

“Dry?” Bokuto asked, blinking. “Like… no soup?”

“It is a stir-style ramen,” Ushijima continued, unfazed. “The concentrated sauce is meant to cling to the noodles. If you eat it as a soup, the spice dilutes and the flavor profile is compromised.”

“Flavor profile,” Suna whispered, staring at Ushijima in awe.

“That was beautiful,” Komori murmured, clutching his chest.

“What the hell do you mean you’ve watched mukbangs?” Atsumu demanded.

“I find them calming,” Ushijima replied without hesitation.

“Ushi-ushi,” Hinata said reverently, mouth slightly open. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“Should’ve led with that,” Aran added, elbowing him.

There was a collective moment of quiet—of respect, of finally realizing Ushijima Wakatoshi was the secret mukbang master of Team Japan.

But then—

“…Wait,” Kageyama said, brow furrowed. “What do we strain it with?”

The second silence that followed was painful.

Until Suna, unbothered as ever, casually leaned over to his duffel bag. “Got it.”

He pulled out a tennis racket.

There was a pause.

A long one.

“…What the actual fuck—?” Atsumu finally whispered.

“Why do you have that?” Aran asked, scandalized.

Suna just shrugged. “Got bored during training week. Komori and I were playing tennis with rolled-up socks.”

“I won,” Komori added proudly.

“It’s… technically a strainer,” Hinata offered. “Holes, surface area, net—”

“No,” Sakusa said sharply. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

Suna walked past him, completely undeterred. “Ushijima, tilt it.”

Ushijima, stoic as ever, picked up the Tupperware and dutifully angled it as Suna positioned the racket over a nearby trash bin.

And to their utter horror, the racket… worked.

Water drained through the strings.

Steam hissed into the air.

One noodle slipped through and plopped into the bin.

“NO!” Bokuto screamed, diving with the kind of desperate reach usually reserved for a match-point receive. “WE COULD’VE SAVED HIM!”

Iwaizumi palmed his face so hard it looked like he was trying to erase it. “This is the dumbest team in Olympic history.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You were about to respond, probably something sweet and patient and undeservedly kind, when a soft murmur rippled through the stadium speakers.

Unbeknownst to Team Japan, the jumbotrons had caught wind of their ‘we definitely know how to cook noodles, like definitely, for sure’ underground operation.

One of the roaming camera crew had been filming filler footage for the Olympic recap stream. That footage now filled the big screen in the arena, streamed live to all in-stadium monitors, and no doubt, broadcasted internationally.

The commentators, already halfway through wrapping up their post-match discussion, paused.

“Uh…” one of them said, blinking. “Can we get a shot of what’s happening back there with Team Japan?”

The camera zoomed in.

On Suna.

Holding a tennis racket like it was Michelin-starred equipment.

“…Is that… is that a tennis racket?” the other commentator asked, voice tilting somewhere between amusement and deep concern. “Why does Suna Rintarou have a tennis racket?”

The first one squinted. “I don’t know, but if he ever plays tennis professionally, I’m betting he’d sweep the league too. Look at that wrist control.”

The feed cut to Bokuto, who was now dramatically mourning the lost noodle with his forehead against the trash bin.

Then it panned to Hinata—wide grin, eyes sparkling—tearing open the fiery red sauce packet and dumping the contents into the still-too-crunchy noodles like he was summoning a demon.

“Oh my god,” one commentator said slowly, as the horrifying realization clicked into place. “Are they doing the 2x Spicy Buldak Noodle Challenge?”

“They have another match in two hours!” the other commentator shrieked. “Who approved this?!”

“Wait a damn—so they use a tennis racket to strain noodles?”

“Holy shit—!”

“Smartest team in Olympic history, don’t you think?”

“I agree. On court and off court.”

Back in the athlete’s tunnel, you and Iwaizumi shared a long, soul-deep sigh as the faint echo of the jumbotron’s live feed filtered into the background.

“We’re on camera,” Iwaizumi muttered, expression murderous.

You patted his arm gently. “Smile. We’re about to go viral.”

From somewhere behind you, Atsumu yelled, “THE SAUCE IS IN! WE’RE EATIN’, BABY!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Like wolves released into the wild, the boys pounced.

Bokuto was first, poking aggressively at the noodles with the single chopstick he’d been holding this whole time. Aran used two protein bar wrappers he folded into shape, muttering something about “innovation under pressure.” Hinata was just using his fingers, screaming about how it was too hot but refusing to stop. Sakusa stared at them all with the quiet resignation of someone who knew this would end in disaster but had no energy left to fight it.

And then, because chaos had no boundaries, Kageyama dove for your purse again.

“Tobio!” you hissed. “Stop going through my stuff!”

He looked up with absolutely zero guilt. “I’m looking for chopsticks.”

He pulled out the emergency wooden chopstick pack you always kept for lunch breaks. “These’ll do.”

“Tobio—!” you started, hands on your hips, already preparing your Mom Voice™.

But then—then he hit you with it.

Those eyes.

Big, round, slightly panicked but still somehow devastatingly sincere. The classic Kageyama ‘I’m a good boy’ look that you were absolutely not immune to.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he said quickly. “Reusable ones. Pretty. Pink. With… with flowers… or cute little animals on them. Sparkly, if you want.”

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your heart cracked just a little. “Okay, okay,” you relented with a sigh, trying not to melt. “But only because you offered sparkles.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The second the boys took their first bites, it was as if the air around them combusted.

Disaster.

“Oh—FUCK—!”

Hinata made a noise like a squeaky bike brake, face flushing crimson in an instant. “HOT—IT’S HOT—I CAN’T SEE!”

Bokuto let out a wheeze so dramatic you thought he was choking. “WHY IS IT—WHY—MY EARS ARE RINGING!”

Aran’s whole soul appeared to evacuate through his tear ducts. “I can feel it in my knees, bro—why my knees!”

Even Sakusa, who’d tried to maintain a shred of dignity, looked personally betrayed by life. “I-I shouldn’t have done this.”

Next to him, Ushijima calmly blinked, face flushed but posture unwavering as he chewed… and chewed… and then slowly reached for his water bottle.

Only to remember: the boys had used all of it to cook the noodles.

He stared down at the empty thermos in silence.

Atsumu hiccuped violently, then immediately hiccup-sobbed again. “WHY IS IT SWEET FIRST AND THEN HELL—!”

Komori was fanning himself with a paper napkin. “My tongue is numb. Am I okay? Look. Do I still have a tongue?”

“SWEETHEART, CAN YA CHECK—”

“NO, SHE NEEDS TO CHECK ME FIRST—”

“ME FIRST, BRO!

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi was already sitting down, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with the stone-faced detachment of a man who had absolutely no sympathy left in his body.

“I hope every single one of you remembers this moment the next time I say ‘don’t do it,’” he said evenly.

“WAIT—IWA!”

“No.”

“IWA, I-I DIDN’T EVEN SAY—!”

“The answer’s no.”

“SHIT—”

You were scrambling—scrambling—around them with your emergency napkin stash, a bottle of water, a sports towel, your poor little hands wiping sweat and tears and (unfortunately) snot from your giant, overgrown crybaby athletes.

“Atsumu, blow. Not sneeze—blow. That’s it, there you go.”

“Rin, stop filming and drink something—no, not more sauce!”

“Sho, sit down, I’ll put the towel on your neck—”

“Bo—don’t roll on the ground, you’ll get floor-burns.”

“‘Toya, don’t use your fingers to wipe your eyes!”

“Am I still your superstar? Even all snotty and crying…?” Aran asked, voice hoarse and lips trembling as he wiped at his tear-streaked, spice-traumatized face with the back of his hand.

You winced, hesitating just a second too long. “Uhhh…”

Aran’s bottom lip wobbled. “...No?”

And then—blubbering. Absolute tears. His eyes went wide and glossy, and he let out a pitiful noise that might’ve been a sob or a dying dolphin.

“Nononono, yes!” you panicked, grabbing his face with your hands. “Yes, Aran, my superstar! My bright shining, flame-mouthed, sniffling superstar!”

“Really?” he sniffled, hiccuping into your sleeve.

“Really!” you promised, patting his cheeks and frantically trying to dab his forehead with a napkin. “You’re the MVP of emotional resilience, okay?”

From behind you, Atsumu sniffled too. “I wanna be a superstar…”

“No,” Sakusa rasped.

“Yes,” you said instantly, handing him a tissue. “You’re all superstars.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t crying,” Suna pointed out flatly.

“Iwaizumi also didn’t eat the noodles,” you muttered, still wiping spice-tears off Aran’s chin.

“Iwaizumi is the real MVP,” Iwaizumi added helpfully, arms crossed and smug as hell, until his gaze landed on you.

You were crouched between Hinata and Aran, patting one on the back and dabbing the other’s tears with your sleeve, eyes full of concern and hands full of tissues.

His smirk softened slightly.

Then he sighed. Long-suffering. Tired. Kind of affectionate. “You’re enabling them.”

“They’re suffering, Iwa.”

“They deserve it.”

And of course, right when you walked over to pat Kageyama’s flushed cheeks, cooing at him softly while he stared at you with slightly teary eyes and steam practically coming out of his ears—

The jumbotron caught the whole thing.

Again.

The camera slowly zoomed in on you in full caretaker mode, dabbing at red faces and whispering gentle reassurances to each tear-streaked athlete like the world's most patient angel in a sea of spicy regret.

CAPTION—

TEAM JAPAN: UNITED IN SPICE-FUELED SUFFERING.

Pretty Manager Controlling the Heat Wave.

Iwaizumi Disappointed.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Suna was the first to speak once the chaos died down into sniffly, spice-sweaty whimpers.

“…Hey, Iwa,” he rasped, eyes still red and unfocused, “who are we playing next?”

Iwaizumi, whose only regret in life was saying yes to coaching this exact group of idiots, pulled out the folded match schedule from his pocket and checked it with a sigh.

“South Korea.”

There was a beat.

A long, ominous pause.

Ushijima slowly turned to Hinata, who was curled up on the floor with his head on your lap, trying to breathe through the burn. “Shoyou,” he said calmly, “who gave you the noodles?”

Hinata blinked. “Huh?”

“The noodles,” Iwaizumi clarified, eyes narrowing. “The ones that tried to kill all of you.”

“Oh!” Hinata perked up, then winced. “Right! It was one of the South Korean players. Remember? I told you guys he said it wasn’t that spicy… more sweet...”

There was absolute silence.

Suna sat up straighter—eyes dark, expression calculating. You could practically see the gears in his spice-damaged brain grinding.

“…Wait a damn minute,” he muttered. “They knew. They KNEW.”

“What?” Aran blinked, still crying a little.

“Do you not get it?” Suna hissed, jabbing a finger at the now-empty Tupperware like it was a crime scene. “This was sabotage. Psychological warfare. They wanted us to burn from the inside out before we even hit the court.”

Atsumu stared, slowly putting the pieces together. “Ya think… they tried to weaken us?”

“Poison by spice,” Sakusa mumbled hoarsely. “A very underhanded tactic.”

Hinata’s eyes widened in horror. “Did I get… weaponized?”

“Yes, Sho,” you murmured, gently stroking his hair as he clutched his stomach. “You got used.”

Bokuto gasped, smacking the floor. “This was an international incident!”

Komori looked absolutely scandalized. “Should we call someone? Like the Olympic committee?”

“You can’t prove anything,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because you idiots cooked it yourselves.”

Ushijima nodded slowly. “And now I don’t have hot water for my green tea.”

“Do ya think we can tell the ref?” Atsumu croaked, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jersey. “Like—maybe he’ll go easy on us.”

“He won’t,” Sakusa muttered. “Because that’s not how volleyball works.”

But it was already too late.

Bokuto, eyes wide with a newfound sense of justice and absolutely no impulse control, had taken off down the tunnel at full speed, lungs on fire and pride half-functioning.

“REF!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls. “REF, DO SOMETHING! IT WAS A SETUP!”

“No—wait—Bokuto, get back here—” Komori tried, chasing after him.

Iwaizumi didn’t even bother reacting anymore. “Let him go. Maybe they’ll lock him in the penalty box.”

“See?” Atsumu leaned into you, pouting. “We’re unraveling. Spiraling. Don’t you wanna help your favorite setter feel better with, like, a forehead kiss or somethin’?”

Before you could answer, a new presence slid in on your other side.

“Maybe also something sweet,” Suna murmured, voice as dry as ever, “for your favorite middle blocker?”

You gave them both a flat look—one pouting and glistening with sweat, the other looking smug despite the fact his eyes were still faintly watering.

Then you grinned cheekily, sunshine laced in betrayal.

“No.”

Atsumu blinked, tongue poking out, ready to try again. “...Maybe some… spicy love, ya know. For all that spicy suffering?”

You just shoved a napkin at his face and sighed.

And in that moment—faces red, sinuses cleared, and pride thoroughly shattered—Team Japan rose (or more accurately, staggered) as one.

United in suffering.

Bound by noodles.

Ready for vengeance.

Sort of.

268 notes · View notes

slattlicker · 1 month ago

Note

absolutely need jschlatt with a gf who loves taking pictures. i'm talking digi cam and phone pictures just of anything and everything but especially her big handsome boyfriend

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * flash me, baby ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re obsessed with taking pictures of your boyfriend. he pretends to be annoyed. he’s not. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: thank you to the lovely anon who requested this ♡ because of you, i now present this soft and slightly spicy scrapbook of domestic pda and boyfriend worship.

warning: digital love letters via camera. pics of big boyfriend ahead.

enjoy! ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

✧✧✧

you were somewhere in osaka. or maybe yokohama. one of the quieter shopping strips with too many stalls and not enough sidewalk. your camera kept bouncing against your ribs with every step, but you didn’t mind. you were too busy watching him weave through the tables like he knew exactly what he was looking for.

he didn’t.

he stopped in front of a folding table covered in chopstick holders—tiny ceramic animals in little baskets.

he picked one up immediately. a beige cat hugging a pair of dark chopsticks like it was hanging on for dear life.

"look at this guy," he said. "this is you when you think i’m gonna steal your fries."

"that’s you when you realize i did."

he turned toward you, hand still holding the cat up like an offering. the look on his face was smug—half-challenge, half-invite. the kind of look that always made your hands itch for the shutter button.

"don’t," he said, seeing your fingers twitch toward the lens.

"say cheese."

you lifted the camera and caught him mid-eye roll. caught the curve of his mouth, the sun on his face, the slight shift in his expression when he saw you smile behind the viewfinder.

click.

he sighed, dropped the cat gently on the table, and muttered, "you're gonna owe me for that one."

"you buying it for me?"

"are you buying it for me? that's the real question."

you didn’t say anything. just grinned, walked up to him, and brushed past him, looking among the other vendors' goods with a shake of your head.

later, you found it on your desk, along with a bowl of dressed up ramen noodles, with a bowl covered in similar beige-colored bears.

✧✧✧

you’d promised yourselves you were just going in for drinks.

it was almost midnight. you were both tired, a little sweaty from the walk, and your feet had started to ache in that way that made you pretend they didn’t. but the convenience store was glowing like a little plastic oasis—too bright, too cold, absolutely irresistible.

he made a beeline for the hot food section like he’d been thinking about it all day.

"they’ve got... meat tubes?" he said, pressing his hands to the glass like a child. "wait. is that... a pizza bun?"

"you’re not eating that," you said, pulling him gently by the sleeve.

"you don’t control me."

you did, but he still grabbed one of those vacuum-sealed sandwiches with the crusts cut off like it was a gourmet dinner. he also picked up something labeled “egg salad but more mysterious” (your words), two types of onigiri neither of you could confidently identify, and a soft drink that, according to Google Translate, said “please shake gently before love.”

you bought it anyway.

you sat outside on a low concrete step next to the trash bins—him with the sandwich, you with your camera balanced on your knees. the old one. the cheap little digi cam you dug out of your parents’ closet. it made everything look warm and grainy, like a memory before it even happened.

he unwrapped the sandwich like it was a relic.

"jesus christ," he mumbled, full-mouthed. "this is terrible."

"i told you," you laughed. "let me take a picture."

he turned toward you, mouth open, still mid-chew, eyes half-lidded in betrayal.

"are you serious?"

"deadly."

click.

he groaned through a mouthful of bread.

"you’re gonna show people that, aren’t you."

"maybe."

"it’s food crime. i look like i’m eating drywall."

you flopped onto the bed with a rice ball in one hand and your phone in the other. "you chose that sandwich. you chose this life."

"i chose you too," he groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still chewing.

you leaned your head against his shoulder, balancing your camera on your thigh, and quietly enjoyed one of the onigiri you still couldn't identify.

✧✧✧

you should’ve known he was up to something.

you were only gone for five minutes—just went to wash your face, swap your jeans for sweats, nothing serious. but when you came back into the hotel room, there he was:

on the bed. fully clothed.

propped up like it was a fucking modeling shoot.

"what," he said, like he hadn’t clearly posed himself. "you’re looking at me weird."

you blinked. he had one of those ridiculous round pillows pressed to his chest, hands spread over it like he was about to pitch it at your head—or dare you to come wrestle it from him.

"you’re about to start shit," you said.

he smirked. "depends. you bringing that camera over or not?"

you did. obviously.

he watched you cross the room like he was bored. like he wasn’t arching his back just a little. like he didn’t know his shirt had ridden up slightly, waistband showing, belt askew. his shoes were still on. his eyes followed you the entire time.

you raised the camera.

click.

he grinned at you, lazy and mean and gorgeous.

"hope you’re printing that one for your little shrine."

"it’s going in my folder," you said, checking the screen.

"yeah? label it 'daddy issues' while you’re at it."

you threw another pillow at his head. he caught it one-handed. didn’t break eye contact.

you didn’t take any more pictures after that.

your hands were busy.

✧✧✧

you found it by accident.

you weren’t snooping—you were just digging through his suitcase looking for your hoodie. he was still in the shower, humming something that sounded suspiciously like the Wii theme. but the zipper was half-undone, and something inside caught your eye.

you thought it was one of your notebooks. but when you tugged it out—spiral-bound, soft cover, a little bent at the edges—it wasn’t yours at all.

you opened it to reveal...

photos.

not just of him—though there were plenty of those, ones you’d taken with your digi cam and others pulled from your phone. there were little receipts from your outings, handwritten notes scribbled in by him.

but the further you flipped, the more things changed.

your photos stopped.

his photos started.

they were different—grainier, less composed. less frequent. like he was trying to take the picture, but then got caught up in the moment of it all to care about framing or

one of you cooking in his kitchen, back turned. one of you at the window in your hoodie, lit up by the vending machine glow. a blurry one of you asleep with your mouth open and a candy wrapper stuck to your cheek.

"you weren’t supposed to find that yet."

his voice came from the doorway. towel slung low around his neck, hair damp, face unreadable. you hadn’t even heard the water shut off.

you looked up, startled. "you took pictures of me."

"yeah," he said, slow. "didn’t think you’d mind."

you swallowed. turned another page.

the hotel bed again, but this time you were in it. sprawled on your stomach, still in your clothes from the day before, one hand buried under your cheek. the light was low—soft, orange, early morning. you could tell he’d taken it while you were still asleep.

underneath, scribbled in his handwriting:

my sleepy girl...pretty even with drool <3

you felt your chest tighten.

“there aren’t as many of me,” you said, quieter now.

he stepped closer. “you move too fast.”

you turned to look at him.

he was closer than before, towel slung over the back of a chair now, shirt damp where it clung to his collarbone. but his face—open, warm, that rare brand of sincere—was what made your pulse skip.

“you’re always the one behind the camera,” he said. “thought maybe i could be the one to memorialize us...you, for once.”

"...memorialize?"

"uh...commemorate. remember. preserve..." he glanced away, then back at you, eyes flicking down to the open album in your lap. “but hey...you’re always catching me when i’m not looking. you ever notice that?” he said. “eating something gross, in a stupid pose...”

“...you make it easy.”

"you make life easy."

your breath caught.

that one hit different—unexpected in how simple it was. how true it sounded coming from him.

he shifted forward, just slightly, like it pulled at him to say it. like he couldn’t not.

“seriously,” he said, voice low. “you make it easy to be... seen. i know i act like i hate the camera, but i don’t. not when it’s you.”

you stared at him, the photo album forgotten in your lap. his hair was still damp. his shirt clung to his chest. and that look—soft, wrecked, like he meant every word—made you ache a little.

“you want more pictures of me?” you asked, just to tease.

“i want all of you,” he said. then, after a beat: “in every light. every season. every angle. even the ones you hate.”

you smiled. small, stunned. maybe a little shy.

“...you’re such a sap.”

"good thing maple is my favorite flavor." his grin cracked wide at that—boyish, stupid, all teeth.

“gross,” you said, nudging your foot against his.

“romantic,” he corrected, stepping in close enough that your knees brushed.

you didn’t back up. didn’t look away. just let him lean down until his forehead bumped yours, until the air between you got syrupy with something warm and dumb and dangerous.

“go get the camera,” you said, breath barely above a whisper.

his hands slid to your waist.

"i don't think we'll need the camera for this next part, babe." he leaned in, smile brushing against your jaw.

"oh yeah?" you breathed, tilting your head in an attempt to chase his smile.

"some things are better in motion."

#i wrote the scenes first and then looked for pics to match #so i hope ??? they match ??? lolol #vuewrites #respondingtorequests #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #schlatt x you #jschlatt x you #jschlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt headcanons #schlatt imagines

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presswoodterryryan · 4 months ago

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The Great Spicy Ramen Quest: A Fluffy Tale of Fiery Noodles

By Mr. Fluffernutter Not all quests begin with a treasure map or a riddle whispered by an ancient sage. Some begin with a single, fearsome noodle packet. It happened on an otherwise peaceful afternoon. The air was calm, the kitchen smelled of warm toast, and I, Mr. Fluffernutter, was nestled on Alice’s shoulder, pondering the finer mysteries of snack time. Then, it arrived. A red packet,…

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

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How well do you think Nanami Kento would handle eating spicy food? What would his reaction be towards his girlfriend/wife who LOVES spicy food?

Domestic Bliss: Nanami Kento #6, Spicy

"Hey, Kento," you whispered conspiratorially into his shoulder, nuzzling him from behind, "that new ramen place just opened round the corner. I hear they have the biggest range of hot sauces going. Big. Huge. International."

Your bad impression earned you a scowl.

"And you want to try them," Kento intoned, flat as he flipped through his newspaper, "I assume."

You draped yourself over the armchair, pushing his newspaper away with your feet. Kento grumbled, trying to avoid their push, until his newspaper crumpled, and he rolled it up, hitting you with it while you laughed.

"I'd love to go," you sighed, dramatic, "but I know you can't handle spicy food." Kento's eyes narrowed.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I never see you eat it."

"Because most extra spicy food relies on it being hot as its main point of attraction. I prefer my flavour palate to be a bit more sophisticated." Kento's eyes narrowed again, swiping over you. "Like my women."

"Ouch, Kento."

Kento reached into his pocket, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. "Silly games win silly prizes." He tapped on his phone. He was silent for a moment.

"Table's booked for 7pm. So you can eat spicy food, to your heart's desire...my love."

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Pushing through the chest-level curtain, you and Kento were greeted by a bustling restaurant, vibrant, and enjoying its early success. Your mouth watered as a hot, umami rush of air hit your nose. You smiled, excited, not noticing how Kento read your every move, fizzing with your joy.

Perusing the menu in your intimate corner booth, you noticed the dishes were arranged in order of spice. You leaned over, pointing to Kento's menu.

"This is your side of the menu, darling..." You gestured to one side of the booklet, "...and this is mine." Kento pinched the sides of your knee under the table, smiling lightly, ungoadable.

When the waiter arrived, you requested a bowl of the spiciest ramen listed.

"We have extra hot sauces, too," offered the waiter, "if you like a challenge."

"Perhaps your top five hottest?" You requested, handing the menu back to the waiter, teasing Kento. "And a big glass of milk for my boyfriend."

"That won't be necessary." Kento replied, clipped. "I'll have the same as her, thank you." Your nose flared; a competitive edge.

"You don't have to buy it just because I do, Kento."

"I know that." He hummed, leaning back into his chair, his hands clasped over crossed legs. "But it seems we have some...misunderstandings to address."

Your ramen arrived. Its colour cried Danger. Tree frogs of its exact hue were known to cause certain death, and the hot sauces arrived in a rainbow most often seen in government-approved public warning announcements. Kento gave you a warm smile, chuckling as you snapped and rolled your chopsticks with gusto.

You took a noisy slurp of your noodles, Kento following suit. The heat was slow to build, but by your third slurp of noodles, your mouth thrummed with fire, climbing up your nose and filling your sinuses. You sniffled, laughing and dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

"Wow, they really weren't joking," you laughed, burning from the inside, in a way that was almost too much, "that really is spicy." Kento raised his eyebrows, seemingly unaffected. He reached for the first hot sauce.

"Is it?" He asked, mildly. "I think it could use a little something, actually." Kento splashed his ramen with hot sauce, enthusiastic, and offered you some. With a smile, and a nod, he did the same to your ramen.

"I don't see much difference, to be honest," you lied, the ramen now significantly spicier. You blinked the tears from your eyes as Kento patted your hand sympathetically. With a wan little smile, Kento reached immediately for the third hottest sauce, splashing it onto his ramen.

"Let's cut out the middle man, shall we?" Kento joked, squeezing your thigh affectionately under the table. You were starting to consider that you may have fucked up your last upfuck. You didn't stop Kento as he offered you the hot sauce, splashing a thin, acrid red glaze into your ramen.

The fumes hit you as you leaned over your bowl, and you coughed involuntarily. Kento shook more hot sauce onto his egg, slurping it up with a delighted hum.

"Eat up." He pressed. "It'll get cold." You took a hesitant bite of pork that didn't seem to have too much hot sauce on it. You were wrong. You must have swallowed lava, you thought, your eyes flickering over the restaurant as you chewed, as if someone could help you. Spluttering and praying for escape, you knew you would never live this down with your new lover if you threw in the towel.

"In fact, mine does seem to have cooled down a bit." Kento reached for the hottest of the hot sauces, in an unassuming little bottle with a skull and crossbones on the front. You were on fire, and nodded with tears flowing down your face, sweating, red, and coughing, when Kento offered you some. He was ever the gentleman, never pouring the sauce on your food until you accepted.

Kento was exceptionally uncrumpled, his navy dress shirt still just as pressed as it had been in the morning, his hair still neatly parted. Strands of yours stuck to the sweat in your forehead, and in a delirious haze, you lifted your bowl to slurp the broth, desperate to end this hellish ordeal.

You briefly saw God, before plummeting to the deepest circle of hell. There was no heaven. Life was a lie. Existence was meaningless. You felt the flesh melt off your bones, knowing death was nigh. Your hands shook, your smouldering lips puffy, mascara on your cheeks. You sat with your head in your hands, having just drunk acid. You dared one look up towards Kento.

...who seemed delighted by his meal, paying the waiter, and rubbing your thigh with those warm, gentle hands.

"There are people waiting for our table, darling. We'll go, hmm? My place, or yours?"

Your mouth numb, slurring, you babbled; "Me at, er-- mine...you at-- at-- yours--" You would surely be spending the evening in a bath of milk, retching into the sink. Kento pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

"You're right. I'm always tired after a good meal, too."

After being driven home, you spent the night in an oven, wondering if you would ever get over challenging Nanami Kento to such a stupid, unwinnable fight.

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"How's that new girl of yours, huh, Nanamin? Managed to impress her yet?" Gojo called from outside the toilet stall, tapping away in his phone with that everfixed smile. A low, nauseated groan rumbled out from the stall.

"--I...think she might dump me actually." More groans of agony sounded from the toilet stall, with Kento within, trapped in Satan's grasp.

Gojo had your number, of course. You and he had been chatting for weeks. Gojo held down the Record button outside Kento's toilet stall, ready to send you Kento's anguished moans.

Nanami Kento couldn't stand spicy food. He'd never let you know that. Thankfully, he had a friend who would sell him out at any given opportunity.

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mikaylathenerd5 · 4 months ago

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Spice & Surrender | Roman Reigns

Summary: When hairstylist Zaria crashes in Roman Reigns’ hotel suite, craving ramen, a playful cook-off with her longtime flirt ignites years of buried tension. What starts with sizzling broth and spicy taunts boils over into a kitchen counter conquest—Roman’s got a hunger no noodle can satisfy, and Zaria’s defiance is no match for his relentless heat. High stakes, filthy dares, and a mess neither saw coming.

Content Warning: This one-shot contains explicit adult content intended for readers 18+ only. Includes: strong language, graphic sexual scenes (oral sex, penetrative sex, face-fucking), food play (non-insertion), light dominance and submission themes (wrist-pinning, possessive behavior), messy bodily fluids (cum play), and mild overstimulation. Reader discretion is advised—proceed if you’re ready for a spicy, unapologetic ride!

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: Been working on this for a couple of days while on my lunch breaks 🖤 Hope you enjoy! Like, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated ✨

Zaria flopped onto the leather couch in Roman Reigns’ hotel suite, her straight, glossy black hair spilling over the cushions like ink as she kicked off her scuffed white sneakers. The night had been relentless—hours sculpting WWE superstars’ hair into ring-ready perfection, her nimble fingers commanding shears and gel like a pro. Roman was her constant, though—since her first gig with the crew in his Shield days, she’d been the one taming his thick, dark mane backstage. Their history was a slow simmer of sharp jabs, lingering stares, and that one reckless, tequila-soaked kiss in Tampa two summers ago they’d buried under layers of denial. Every snip of her scissors since had felt like foreplay, every brush of her fingers against his scalp a dare neither would name. Now, in March 2025, crashing in his suite after a show was their unspoken norm, the air thick with what they wouldn’t say—but tonight, Zaria felt it heavier, a coil tightening in her gut she couldn’t ignore.

The TV droned with a late-night talk show, the host’s voice a dull hum as Zaria groaned, pressing a hand to her growling stomach. “God, I’m starving. I’d kill for some ramen right now.”

Roman, sprawled beside her in a tight short-sleeve black shirt that hugged his sculpted biceps, flashed that slow, dangerous smirk that always hit her like a freight train. “Ramen, huh? You’re in luck, Z—I can make that happen.” He grabbed his phone, thumbs tapping fast as he texted his personal assistant. “Fresh shit, none of that instant garbage. Bet I can cook it better than you, though.” His deep voice rolled over her like a challenge, those dark brown eyes glinting under the suite’s soft glow, and for a second, she swore she saw his cool facade flicker—something hungry breaking through.

She sat up, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the strands shimmering in the lamplight. “Oh, you’re on, Reigns. Cook-off, right now—loser owes a dare. And I’m not talking some weak-ass ‘sing karaoke’ bullshit. Winner picks something real.” Her pulse kicked up as she said it, wondering how far he’d push her if she lost—or how far she’d push him.

“Big talk for a little thing,” he shot back, smirking wider as he stood, towering over her, his broad frame casting a shadow that made her stomach flip. “Better bring your A-game, Zaria, ‘cause if I win, you’re mine for the whole damn night—whatever I say, you do.” His voice dipped, dark and deliberate, and her breath caught, the stakes sinking in.

“Fine,” she said, chin high, hiding the shiver racing down her spine. “And if I win, you’re my personal bitch ‘til sunrise—fetching, carrying, whatever I damn well please. Deal?” Inside, her mind raced—He’s bluffing, right? Or is he finally calling my bluff from Tampa?

“Deal,” he growled, eyes locked on hers, and the air shifted, electric and heavy.

Thirty minutes later, the assistant had delivered—fresh ramen noodles, crisp green onions, a jar of dark soy sauce, a tin of fiery chili paste, and two gleaming stainless-steel pots, all dumped on the counter with a discreet nod before vanishing. Now, they stood hip-to-hip in the suite’s sleek kitchenette, the air thick with sizzling aromas and a tension that’d been brewing since that unmentioned kiss. Roman’s six-foot-three frame loomed beside her, his broad shoulders brushing hers as he chopped onions with a gleaming chef’s knife, the black ink of his tribal tattoos flexing across his forearms, the short sleeves stretched taut over his muscles. Zaria stirred her pot, swirling in chili paste with a defiant flick of her wrist, her straight hair swaying as she leaned over the bubbling broth, steam curling around her face. Her broth glowed a fiery red, while Roman’s simmered a deep, golden-brown, rich and controlled—just like him, though she caught his hand twitch slightly, a crack in his usual steel.

“Yours smells like a damn biohazard,” he teased, leaning over her pot, his chest grazing her shoulder, the heat of him seeping through her thin crop top. “You tryna poison me, Z, or just scare me off?” His voice was playful, but his breath hitched as he lingered, and she smirked inside—He’s slipping already.

“And yours looks like it’s too chickenshit to fight back,” she fired back, stirring with a sassy twist of her hips, her denim shorts riding up slightly. “What’s the matter, Reigns—afraid of a little fire, or just afraid I’ll burn you down?”

He chuckled, that low, rumbling sound sinking into her bones, and nudged her with his hip, nearly knocking her into the counter’s edge. “Oh, I can handle fire, baby girl—been burnin’ for you too long to back off now. Question is, can you take the heat when I turn it up?” His eyes flicked to hers, dark and unguarded for a split second, and her heart thudded—He’s not just playing anymore.

The chaos erupted—Zaria flicked a dollop of chili paste at him, splattering his cheek; he splashed warm broth onto her bare arm with a grin. “You little shit,” she laughed, swiping a streak of soy sauce across his jaw, the dark liquid glistening against his tanned skin, and he caught her wrist mid-move, spinning her so her back slammed against the cool granite counter. “You’re testin’ me, Zaria,” he growled, caging her in with his arms, his dark eyes blazing with years of pent-up heat, pupils blown wide under the kitchen’s dim recessed lights. “You know I can’t let that slide.”

“Me?” she breathed, her pulse hammering as she tilted her head, straight hair sliding against her neck, brushing her shoulders. “You’ve been begging for this since Tampa, Reigns. Don’t pretend that kiss didn’t keep you up nights.” Her mind screamed—Why’d I say that? Oh God, he’s gonna snap.

His smirk was pure fire, lips curling as he leaned in, his full mouth brushing hers, soft then firm. “Didn’t forget a damn thing, Z—been replayin’ that night in my head, wonderin’ when you’d finally give me an excuse to finish it.” His voice dropped, husky and raw, restraint cracking as his hands tightened on her hips. “Now let’s settle it, baby girl—right fuckin’ now.”

The kiss exploded—hot, messy, tasting of salty soy and the sharp chili lingering on her fingers, reigniting Tampa in vivid, sweaty detail. Roman pressed himself closer, his hard chest flush against her softer curves, hands gripping her hips, thick fingers sinking into the flesh above her shorts as she melted into him, years of tension snapping like a frayed rope. “You taste too fuckin’ good,” he muttered against her lips, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a slow, masterful tease—wet, deliberate, curling in a way that sent a shiver racing down her spine, her knees buckling slightly. She tugged at his shirt, nails scraping his pecs through the fabric, and he growled, “Keep that up, Z, and I’m losin’ it—you’re pushin’ me too damn far.”

“Then lose it,” she challenged, voice breathy, nipping his bottom lip, her mind a blur of He’s breaking, I’ve got him. “I dare you, Roman—show me you’re not all talk.” The pots bubbled behind them, steam swirling up, but the heat between them was a roaring furnace, sweat already beading at her hairline.

He pulled back, snagging a single, glossy noodle from her pot with his fingers, holding it up between them, the strand dangling slick and steaming. “Taste test,” he rasped, voice thick with intent, his breath hot against her cheek. “Open that pretty mouth for me—let’s see if you can handle this first.” She parted her lips, letting him slip the warm, slippery noodle inside, the spicy burst blooming across her tongue as he watched, unblinking, his gaze locked on her lips, her throat, the way her eyes fluttered half-shut. “Good?” he asked, but he didn’t wait—his mouth crashed back onto hers, chasing the flavor. “Fuck, you make it better—too damn good,” he growled, licking into her with a hunger that made her core clench, his teeth grazing her bottom lip as he sucked it lightly, drawing a soft whimper from her.

“Roman,” she gasped, and he smirked against her mouth. “Say my name again, Z—I fuckin’ live for that sound.” His hands slid under her crop top, rough palms gliding up her sides, calluses brushing her smooth, warm skin, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs as she arched into him, her back bowing off the counter. “You’re so damn soft—been wantin’ to touch you like this forever,” he muttered, voice low and reverent, lifting her onto the counter with one effortless hoist, the muscles in his arms bunching under his ink as her thighs parted, denim shorts riding up. He stepped between them, hips pressing flush against hers, the hard line of him grinding through his pants. “Feel what you do to me, Z?” he growled, rocking slightly so she could feel every thick inch. “This is all you—been hard for you since you walked in.”

“Fuck, Zaria,” he muttered, yanking his shirt off in one fluid motion to reveal that sculpted, inked torso—broad pecs, tight abs, the tribal lines snaking over his shoulder and down his arm, glistening faintly with sweat under the kitchen’s warm light. She reached for him, fingertips tracing the sharp edges of his tattoos, but he caught her wrists, pinning them to the counter with one massive hand. “Not yet,” he said, his free hand sliding up her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh. “I’ve waited too damn long for this—been dreamin’ about you wrigglin’ under me, losin’ that attitude. I’m takin’ my time, Z—gonna make you beg ‘til your voice breaks.”

“Big talk for a man who’s already shakin’,” she shot back, voice shaky but defiant, squirming under his grip, catching the faint tremor in his hand. He’s close to cracking—God, I want him to. “Prove it, Reigns—make me.”

“Oh, I will, baby,” he promised, dark eyes flashing as he grabbed a spoonful of his broth, the rich, golden liquid steaming as he held it up, blowing on it slow and deliberate, his full lips pursing in a way that made her hips shift on the counter. “Open for me,” he commanded, voice a low rumble, and she obeyed, parting her lips as he tipped the spoon, the savory warmth sliding down her throat, coating her tongue with umami depth. A drop escaped, trailing down her chin, dripping onto her chest, and he darted forward, licking it off with a lazy, lingering swipe—starting at the hollow of her throat, dragging his tongue up her jaw, then sucking lightly at the spot just below her ear. “Taste better on you—fuck, I could drown in this,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, sending goosebumps racing down her arms. “Gonna mark you up, Z—every inch.”

“Roman—fuck,” she whined, and he chuckled, dark and low. “That’s it, Z—keep sayin’ my name like a prayer.” His mouth moved lower, kissing the curve of her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point as his hands shoved her crop top up to bunch above her breasts. “Let’s get this off you—need to see all of you,” he muttered, tugging it over her head and tossing it to the floor, revealing her lacy black bra, the fabric straining over her curves. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, unhooking it with one deft flick, letting it fall away. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tightening in the cool air, and he groaned, dipping his head to kiss the swell of her chest. “Been thinkin’ about these every damn night,” he said, his tongue flicking out to trace slow, wet circles around one peak, then the other, until they hardened under his touch.

“Goddamn, Roman,” she moaned, arching into him, and he sucked harder, his teeth grazing just enough to sting before soothing with his tongue. “You like that, huh? Knew you would,” he teased, his free hand palming her other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger with a precision that made her thighs clench around his hips. “Gonna make you scream it ‘til the neighbors complain, Z.” She tugged at his hair, pulling lightly, and he growled, “Keep pullin’—you’re lightin’ a fuse, baby, and I’m gonna blow.”

He pulled back, grabbing another noodle from her pot, slick with chili oil, holding it up to her lips. “More—open up, baby,” he said, voice rough. “Let me feed you ‘til you’re mine.” She did, letting him slip it in, the heat bursting on her tongue as he watched, his thumb brushing her bottom lip after, smearing the oil slightly. “Messy girl—look at you, all fucked up already,” he murmured, leaning in to lick it off, his tongue slow and deliberate, then kissed her again—deep, hungry, his hands sliding down her sides. “Need these off now—can’t wait anymore,” he growled, hooking his fingers into her denim shorts, tugging them down with a slow, torturous drag, the fabric scraping her thighs as he peeled them off, leaving her in black lace panties that clung to her damp skin.

“Look at you, Z,” he said, stepping back, eyes raking over her—her long legs spread wide on the counter, the curve of her hips, the way her straight hair stuck to her sweaty neck. “Spread out like a goddamn gift—been waitin’ for me to unwrap you, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” she panted, smirking despite the heat pooling low, her mind spinning—He’s too good at this, I’m fucked. “You gonna keep yapping or make good on all that noise?”

“Oh, I’m makin’ good, baby—watch me,” he shot back, kneeling between her thighs, his broad shoulders flexing as he pushed her knees wider, the counter cold against her bare ass. “Gonna make you shake ‘til you can’t stand it.” He kissed her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, his beard scraping her sensitive skin, leaving a faint burn as he worked his way up—nipping at the soft flesh, then soothing with his tongue. “So fuckin’ soft—could stay here all night,” he muttered, his breath hot and teasing as he inched closer. He hooked a finger under her panties, tugging them aside. “Look at this pretty pussy—drippin’ for me already,” he growled, blowing a cool breath against her slick heat, making her hips buck. “You’re soaked, Z—been wantin’ this as bad as I have, huh?”

“Roman—please,” she whined, and he smirked up at her. “Love hearin’ you beg—say it again.” “Please,” she repeated, desperate, and he grinned. “That’s my girl.” He licked—slow, thorough, his tongue dragging over her with a skill that had her head tipping back, a loud moan bouncing off the walls. “Taste so fuckin’ good—better than any damn ramen,” he groaned, flattening his tongue to lap at her fully, then flicking her clit with tight, teasing circles. “Been dreamin’ about this since Tampa—should’ve had you then,” he muttered, sucking her clit between his lips with just the right pressure, making her thighs tremble. His hands slid up, one gripping her hip to hold her still, the other slipping under her ass, lifting her slightly so he could bury his face deeper, his nose brushing her as he hummed. “You like that, Z? Like me eatin’ you out ‘til you can’t think?”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” she gasped, rocking against his mouth, and he chuckled, the vibration sending a jolt through her. “Good girl—ride my face, let me have it,” he growled, sucking harder, his tongue dipping inside her before swirling back up, pushing her closer to the edge. “Gonna come for me already, huh? I can feel it.”

“Not yet,” she panted, defiant, clinging to control, and he pulled back, lips shiny with her, beard glistening. “Oh, you will—gonna break you down, Z,” he promised, standing and tugging her off the counter. “On your knees—now. Time to taste me.” She dropped, her straight hair brushing her shoulders as she looked up at him, heat roaring in her belly.

He shoved his pants down, and her breath caught—Roman was huge, bigger than average, thick and long, veins pulsing as he gripped himself, stroking once with a slow, confident pull, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. “Open up, baby—show me that mouth’s good for more than sass,” he murmured, stepping closer. She wrapped her lips around him, taking him slow, the salty taste bursting on her tongue as she savored his weight. “Fuck, that’s it—knew you’d be perfect,” he rasped, one hand tangling in her hair as she sucked the head, swirling her tongue around the ridge, then took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing. “Look at you, takin’ me so good—fuckin’ made for this,” he groaned, his hips twitching as she moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs flex.

“Deeper, Z—know you can take it all,” he growled, gripping her hair tighter, thrusting into her mouth with a slow, deliberate pace that turned rougher, fucking her face like he’d been fantasizing about it for years. His cock hit the back of her throat, thick and unyielding, and she gagged, eyes watering, but kept her gaze locked on his—his dark eyes hooded, lips parted, a flush creeping up his neck. “So fuckin’ good for me—look at those eyes, beggin’ me,” he growled, pulling out just as she choked, a slick string of spit connecting her swollen lips to his tip. “Get up here—gonna finish this right,” he said, hauling her up, her knees wobbly as he spun her back to the counter.

He yanked her panties down fully, the lace pooling at her ankles as he lifted her again, perching her on the edge, thighs spread wide, her slick heat glistening under the lights. “Gonna ruin you now—been holdin’ back too long,” he promised, gripping himself to tease her, sliding his thick tip against her—up and down, slow and deliberate, coating himself in her wetness. “You want this, Z? Tell me—loud.”

“Yes—fuck, Roman, please,” she begged, voice hoarse, and he smirked, dark and triumphant. “That’s my girl—knew you’d break for me.” He thrust in, slow at first, stretching her with a delicious burn that made her cry out, her head tipping back, straight hair sticking to her sweaty neck. “Fuck, you’re tight—grippin’ me like a vice,” he groaned, pausing to let her adjust, his hands gripping her thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he spread her wider. “Look at that—takin’ me so perfect, like you were built for this,” he muttered, watching himself sink into her, his abs flexing, sweat beading on his brow.

“Move, Roman—give it to me,” she demanded, breathless, her mind a haze of He’s too much, I’m done for. He chuckled, low and dark. “Bossy as hell—love that shit.” He started slow—controlled thrusts that hit deep, his hips rolling with a rhythm that was pure artistry, the muscles in his thighs and ass flexing under his tanned skin as he dragged himself out, then pushed back in, every inch deliberate. “Feel that, Z? That’s me ownin’ you,” he growled, angling himself to hit that spot inside her that made her scream, her voice raw and desperate. “All mine now.”

“Harder—c’mon, Reigns,” she gasped, and he grinned, wicked and wild. “You asked for it—hold on tight.” He thrust harder, deeper, his size stretching her to the limit, the wet slap of their bodies loud as the counter shook, broth spilling over the pot edges, noodles scattering across the granite. “Fuck, you’re so wet—drippin’ for me,” he groaned, one hand sliding to her lower back, tilting her pelvis just right. “Gonna make you feel this ‘til you can’t walk, Zaria.”

He shifted her legs, hooking them over his shoulders, her calves brushing his traps, and the new angle let him go impossibly deep—his cock plunging into her, the head brushing her cervix with a pressure that made her whimper, his balls slapping against her ass. “That’s it—scream for me,” he growled, his free hand slipping between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, expert circles. “Come on, Z—let the whole damn hotel know who’s fuckin’ you.”

“Roman—fuck, don’t stop,” she moaned, clawing at his shoulders, nails leaving red crescent marks as he pounded into her, sweat gleaming on his inked skin, the tribal lines shifting with every flex. “Right there—God, yes!”

“Love hearin’ you lose it—sounds like fuckin’ music,” he rasped, kissing her sloppy and desperate, teeth clashing, his tongue mimicking his thrusts as he drove her higher. “You’re mine tonight, Z—say it, loud.”

“Yours—fuck, yours,” she panted, and he growled, triumphant, slowing to tease her with long, deep strokes, then speeding up, hammering into her with a force that shook her core. “Gonna come for me, baby? Let me feel it,” he murmured, his fingers circling faster, relentless. “Do it—now, Zaria.” She shattered, clenching tight around him, her scream echoing as waves of ecstasy crashed through her, her vision blurring, her body trembling uncontrollably, slick heat gushing around him, soaking his cock and thighs. “Fuck, that’s it—give me all of it,” he groaned, slowing to let her ride it out, then picking up again, chasing his own edge.

“Roman—too much,” she whimpered, still trembling, and he smirked, voice rough. “Nah, you can take it—know you’re my tough girl.” His rhythm faltered, a rough “Zaria, shit—here it comes” spilling from his lips as he thrust deep one last time—his hips slamming into hers, spilling into her with a hot, thick flood, his groan primal as he gripped her thighs, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. His cock pulsed inside her, unloading more with every shudder, mixing with her own release until she felt it—warm, wet, trickling out around him, down her thighs, pooling on the counter beneath her ass in a sticky, glistening mess.

They stayed locked like that, panting, tangled in sweat and chaos, her straight hair plastered to her neck, his broad chest heaving as he caught his breath. Roman pulled out slowly, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he watched their combined mess spill out—thick, creamy strands of his cum mixed with her slick, glistening on her inner thighs, dripping onto the counter in a filthy puddle that streaked the granite with white and clear, mingling with spilled broth and scattered noodles. “Look at this fuckin’ mess we made—holy shit, Z,” he said, voice low and smug, his dark eyes glinting as he took it in, the kitchen a warzone of sex and cooking gone wrong. “That’s us—messy as hell and fuckin’ perfect.”

“Jesus, Roman—you’re an animal,” Zaria muttered, still dazed, her voice hoarse as she followed his gaze, her thighs trembling from the stretch and the intensity, her mind reeling—We really did that, and I’m still shaking. The sight was obscene—her legs splayed wide, their cum smeared across her skin, pooling beneath her, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex, soy, and chili.

“Not done yet,” he growled, smirking as he scooped some of their mixed release with two thick fingers—his cum still warm, her slick glistening on his skin—and pushed it back into her, slow and deliberate. She gasped, a sharp “Fuck, Roman!” slipping from her lips as he thrust his fingers deep, curling them inside her, his knuckles brushing her oversensitive walls, the wet squelch loud and lewd. “Gonna keep it all in there, Z—where it belongs,” he murmured, voice dark and possessive, his thumb brushing her clit lightly as he worked it back in, more dripping out even as he tried. “You’re mine, baby—this stays with you ‘til I say otherwise.”

“Roman—shit, you’re nasty,” she whimpered, her hips bucking involuntarily, still raw from her orgasm, and he chuckled, leaning in to kiss her temple, his lips lingering as he slid his fingers out, leaving her full and dripping again. “And you love it—don’t lie to me, Z,” he teased, licking his fingers clean with a slow swipe of his tongue, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Guess we’re ordering takeout,” she mumbled, throat raw from screaming, her body buzzing as she slumped against him, the counter sticky beneath her, her mind still spinning—He won, didn’t he? Whole damn night’s his now.

He laughed, deep and satisfied, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “Worth it—every fuckin’ second,” he said, that smug, victorious grin spreading wide. “Told you I’m the best, Z—kitchen, bed, all of it. You still doubtin’ me, or you ready to admit I own you tonight?”

“Shut up—you’re insufferable,” she muttered, smirking weakly despite the exhaustion, and he grinned wider, triumphant. “That’s what I thought—my girl knows who’s boss. Now, what’s my first order, huh? You’re on the clock.”

She groaned, laughing despite herself, the dare settling in as reality hit—He’s not letting this go, and I’m screwed. “You’re lucky I’m too wrecked to fight back,” she said, and he winked, already reaching for his phone. “Good—means I did my job right.”

Loved Roman and Zaria getting messy? There’s more heat where that came from—dive into my masterlist for "Open Arms" (a slow-burn that’ll melt you) and "Everything I Wanted" (angst and smut collide). Click below to feast on the full spread! Want in on future one-shots and stories? Drop a comment to join the tag crew—let’s keep the spice flowing!

I want to make a big shoutout to the wonderful and amazing people on my taglist from "Open Arms" and "Everything I Wanted" for support—your support keeps me writing. Thank you loves for being the ultimate MVPs ❤️✨ - @trippinsorrows @melalsworld @jaded-human @beccalynns-world @cry1nwhileimcumm1n

@pittieprincess22 @zoeroxiie @duhitzkay380 @keyera-jackson @li-da-savage

@sharmelasworld @trentybenty @lov3rla03 @transparentphantomface @skyesthebomb

@heerah34 @pittieprincess22 @isabella-2025 @justazzi @fairy-cores-world

@ashykneee @scarlettnoir01

I hope I am not forgetting anyone to thank, as you guys don't know how much it means to have your support 🥹❤️

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777bae · 6 months ago

Text

SPICY MACKLIN CELEBRINI

Summary :: A spicy noodle challenge goes horribly wrong when you and Macklin underestimate the heat. He laughs at your suffering—until karma quickly hits. Cue panicked water chugging, ice cube hoarding, and a fiery regret neither of you will forget.

Notes :: Came up with this idea after trying some spicy pot noodles with my friends and all of us literally DYING

Warnings :: reactions to extreme spice

Word count :: 1.2k

The moment you placed the ominous, bright red packet of Buldak noodles onto the kitchen counter, Macklin eyed it with the mix of amusement and apprehension usually reserved for people watching a horror movie, knowing something bad was about to happen but unable to look away.

“You sure you can handle this?” he asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His lips curled into a teasing smirk, his dark eyes filled with mischief.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you reached up to grab a pot from the cabinet. “It’s just noodles. How bad can it be?”

Macklin let out a skeptical hum, shaking his head. “I don’t know… I’ve seen some people lose their minds over this stuff.”

You shot him a look as you filled the pot with water and placed it on the stove. “I’m not ‘some people.’ I have a respectable spice tolerance, okay?”

Macklin didn’t even bother hiding his grin as he grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe before positioning it against a stack of cookbooks on the table. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But if—and I mean when—you start crying, I wanna make sure we capture it in 4K.”

You glared at him playfully as he adjusted the angle, making sure the camera had both of you fully in frame.

“If we’re gonna do this, we might as well document it,” he said with a grin, pressing record.

The water in the pot reached a rolling boil, and you tore open the noodle packet, dumping the tightly wound coils into the bubbling water. As they softened and unraveled, you pulled out the sauce packet—thick, dark red, and positively menacing.

Macklin whistled low under his breath. “That looks like something a cartoon villain would drink for breakfast.”

You ignored him as you cut open the packet and squeezed every last drop into the pot, stirring the noodles until they were thoroughly coated in the fiery liquid. Almost immediately, the spicy fumes hit your nose, making your eyes sting slightly.

You blinked. “Okay, wow, this smells kinda… dangerous.”

Macklin leaned in for a whiff and recoiled so fast he nearly knocked over the phone. “That is not normal.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him, waving off his concern as you grabbed two bowls. “We got this.”

Famous last words.

Once the noodles were plated, you both took a seat at the table, chopsticks in hand, bowls still steaming like they had been cooked in the depths of hell. The little red light on the camera blinked steadily, recording every moment for posterity—and, more likely, for your eventual humiliation.

“Alright,” Macklin said, lifting his chopsticks and pointing them at you. “No wimping out. We eat at the same time.”

“Deal,” you agreed, mirroring his stance.

With synchronized determination, you both lifted a hefty bite to your mouths, the glossy red noodles glistening under the kitchen lights.

At first, it was fine. More than fine, actually.

The sauce was rich, packed with flavor—a little smoky, a little sweet, and pleasantly warm on your tongue. The noodles had a great texture, chewy and satisfying.

“Oh, this is actually really good,” you said, chewing happily.

Macklin nodded, swallowing his bite with ease. “Yeah, I don’t know why people freak out so much about—”

And then it hit.

It started as a slow burn, like a tiny ember sparking to life at the back of your throat. Then, within seconds, that ember grew into an uncontrollable wildfire, spreading rapidly across your tongue, up your sinuses, and down your throat.

Your breath caught instantly. Your eyes widened. Your lips tingled.

It was as if you had swallowed molten lava, and it was now making itself at home in every corner of your mouth.

Your fingers twitched.

Your whole body suddenly felt too warm.

You dropped your chopsticks onto the table with a clatter. “Oh my God.”

Across from you, Macklin let out a loud, exaggerated cackle, his whole face lighting up with amusement. “Oh, come on! No way! You’re already struggling?”

You frantically flapped your hands in front of your face, as if that would somehow cool down the inferno inside your mouth. Your tongue felt like it was pulsing. Was that normal? Probably not.

“This is—this is a mistake—” you wheezed.

Macklin leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. Look at you! You’re literally sweating.”

“I am not sweating,” you shot back, even though, yes, your forehead was beginning to glisten suspiciously. “It’s just—you wouldn’t understand, your taste buds are probably dead from all the disgusting hockey locker room food you eat.”

Macklin let out an obnoxiously loud, exaggerated laugh, the kind that made you want to reach across the table and shove his noodles straight into his smug mouth. “Excuses, excuses. Face it, babe, you’re weak.”

But then—mid-laugh—his face changed.

The amusement in his eyes flickered out like a candle in the wind. His expression twisted from smug satisfaction into pure, unfiltered panic.

Midway through inhaling, he suddenly jerked forward, his chest convulsing as his air supply betrayed him.

“Oh—oh no—”

You barely had time to register his distress before he made a strangled noise, his mouth falling open in sheer horror. His hands flew to his throat as if he were physically trying to claw the heat out of his body.

“IH-HOH MY GOD—”

You wheezed out a laugh, though it immediately turned into a violent cough as the spice continued to set your throat ablaze. Macklin, meanwhile, had fully lost control. He shoved his chair back so suddenly that it nearly toppled over, his hands flying to his temples as he began pacing around the kitchen like a man who had just seen his life flash before his eyes.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” he choked out, his voice an entire three octaves higher than normal.

You weakly slapped the table, struggling to breathe through the pain and laughter. “I—it’s—” You couldn’t even get words out.

Macklin stumbled towards the table edge like a man seeking salvation. “WATER.”

“WATER,” you echoed desperately.

At the exact same moment, you both lunged forward, snatching your glasses off the table and chugging the water down like it was the only thing keeping you from ascending into another plane of existence. The cold liquid hit your tongue, soothing it for one glorious second—

And then the fire came back angrier.

Macklin gasped so loudly you were pretty sure the neighbors would be concerned. “WHY IS IT GETTING WORSE?!”

“I—I think it’s—” You coughed, voice hoarse. “The water spreads the spice—”

Macklin looked at you with the purest expression of betrayal. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Still gasping, you both staggered to the fridge, yanking it open like a pair of starving survivors raiding a supply drop. Macklin grabbed an ice cube tray and immediately shoved a cube into his mouth. You followed suit, sighing in relief as the cold numbed the burning.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, Macklin started laughing—a deep, breathless, borderline unhinged kind of laugh.

“I can’t believe we did that,” he wheezed.

You let out a strangled chuckle. “We’re idiots.”

He nodded. “Biggest idiots.”

Your eyes flickered to the phone still recording on the table.

Macklin narrowed his eyes. “We are never showing this to anyone.”

You grinned. “Oh, I don’t know… your teammates might get a kick out of it.”

He pointed at you. “If this ends up in the group chat, I will get revenge.”

You simply smirked, already planning your next move.

But for now? You were just happy to be alive.

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